That’s going to be a sick scar, Pablo said. I wish I could get a scar like that.
They had paused on their walk to school to look at Gabriel’s palm, at the extra lifeline that had been seared into it.
Find a stove, Gabriel said, wrapping his hand back up with the paper towels and rubber band he’d been using all weekend. Stick your whole face on it.
Pablo shook his head. It needs to be un accidente, like yours, he said. Like, maybe I don’t let go of a cuete on time and it blows up in my hand.
Gabriel rolled his eyes but didn’t say nothing. He turned to look at his little brother, Emmanuel, lagging behind them. Keep up, he said, and watched as Emmanuel readjusted his backpack and jogged after them. His breath making clouds in the morning air.
The walk to school was mostly uphill, past the Harvest Foods and Dollar General. Up by the neighborhoods with real houses, fire hydrants, well-fed dogs. The complete opposite of the trailer park. In the distance, the school bell rang and the three picked up their pace. They were halfway across the street, when a car, speeding down the hill, honked its horn at them. They ran to the sidewalk. This was a normal thing. People late to work would almost run them over or yell at them through open windows. Some would pull up beside them and ask them if they wanted a ride, but they knew better. Were constantly reminded by the milk cartons.
In the hallways, Pablo told anyone who would listen about Gabriel’s burn, having him unwrap his hand for proof. Gabriel only let the girls touch it and pretended it didn’t hurt when they did. He hadn’t known a burn would get him so much attention, but when Pablo told the stories of the accident, everyone listened. Pablo said Gabriel had gotten it after touching a machete that had been sitting in a fireplace, or from fighting off a home intruder with knives for fingers. At lunch, Pablo said the scar had come from rope burn, when Gabriel had kept Emmanuel from falling off one of the local bridges.
The tales got so outrageous, that during science class, Mrs. Alverado asked Gabriel to show her his hand. She must have not believed there was a scar to begin with, because when she saw it, she gasped and held her hand to her mouth.
What happened, Gabriel?
Gabriel looked at the ground. I didn’t realize the stove was still hot, he lied.
Mrs. Alverado shook her head. I see, she said. Gabriel knew she was used to his injuries by then. How he constantly fell off his bike and busted his lip, or ran into street poles and gave himself black eyes. Mrs. Alverado sighed. She walked to one of the windowsills in her classroom and came back holding part of a plant. It’s Aloe Vera, she said. The clear gel oozed out of the broken end. Let me see, she said, and held out her hand for Gabriel to place his on top of hers. She rubbed the edge of the plant on his palm and Gabriel took in a sharp intake of air. It’s okay, Mrs. Alverado said. She used her thumb to rub the salve into his palm, then got a sterile, non-adhesive bandage from the first aid kit. All better now, she said, and Gabriel wished she was right.
That weekend, Gabriel’s mother had found the eggs he had tried to hide behind their trailer. He remembered how his younger brother, Emmanuel, ate without qualms that morning while Gabriel used one of their Dollar Store forks to gut the yolk and watch the yellow blood cover his styrofoam plate. Gabriel attributed this to his brother’s inability to understand the significance of eating eggs that had expired almost two weeks earlier, from a fridge barely cooler than the cupboards. Only two years younger, but six years dumber. Gabriel opened the door as quietly as possible, leaned out, careful not to rock their trailer and tossed them. He figured a stray dog would eat the evidence before his mother ever noticed, but she’d gone out back and seen them on the cinder block. Gabriel was running barefoot on the dirt and gravel, kicking a deflated soccer ball back and forth with Emmanuel, when she stomped by, her eyebrows drawn so far down they almost touched the bridge of her nose. She pulled open the door to their trailer with such force, that Gabriel thought she’d put a hole through the wall. Gabriel and Emmanuel remained silent, waiting. It seemed as though even the birds, the grasshoppers, were holding their breaths.
Seconds later Gabriel heard what sounded like Velcro being pulled apart, followed by a rapid succession of clicks, then a whoosh of air. Gabriel, his mother called. He looked at his brother, who looked down at the soccer ball near his feet and kicked some dirt around. Coward, Gabriel said, then walked to the cinder blocks in front of the entrance and took a deep breath before taking the two steps into the trailer, cold beads of sweat rolling down his back in zigzags.
Inside, his mother stood waiting in the kitchen. The air smelled of sulfur, of smoke. It was then he realized the Velcro sound was a match stick against match box, the clicks had come from their gas stove, and the whoosh was one of the burners coming to life. His mother stood next to the stove, a hand on each hip. Ven aca, she said, signaling for him to come to her with a slight tilt of her head. He did as he was told, keeping his head down, eyes on the floor as it turned from the stained carpet in the living/dining room to the tacky, patterned linoleum in the kitchen. He thought of his father safely belching in the seat of his eighteen-wheeler somewhere across country.
Right or left? She asked, reaching over to turn off the stove.
What?
Which hand? She said.
Gabriel looked at the red glow of the front, right burner. Mamá, he said.
Right or left?
Snot flowed from his nose into his mouth, mixing with the bile that had made its way from his stomach. He begged for forgiveness, promised to always eat his breakfast, begged for forgiveness some more. The moment she grabbed his wrist, his screaming grew louder. She pulled his hand toward the burner, closer and closer, so close he could feel the heat start to burn his skin. She pulled until he shouted, Stop! She loosened her grip but didn’t let go. She looked distorted through his tears, the way heat waves will make things blur and pixelate. Not that hand, he managed.
His mother nodded. Okay, she said, and let go of his wrist. She held her hand in front of him, palm up. The palm telling him to extend his left hand. He did. It gripped his wrist and pulled his hand toward the stove as he pulled back, using all of his weight. He pulled back so hard that a second hand had to wrap itself around his wrist. With his fingers pulled back as far as he could get them, the palm of his hand reached the burner.
His mother finally let go, and Gabriel flew backwards, unable to catch himself. He cradled his hand to his chest and looked up at his mother, who quickly turned on the sink. She yanked him up by his elbow and held his hand under the cold water. Keep it there, she said, then ran to the bathroom for the toothpaste. She squeezed the flat tube, tapping the last bit of toothpaste onto his palm as though it would help with the pain.
After school, when the Aloe Vera had mostly dried, Donesha, a fifth grader, walked up to Gabriel asking to see the burn. She said she’d heard he’d pulled a live wire off a baby goat and saved its life. She was running her hand around the outer edge of the burn, when Gabriel felt something hit the back of his head so hard, he almost fell forward. He turned to see Alejandro, his fist cocked back, ready to strike again. They were just around the corner of the school, no teachers in sight, only Pablo and Emmanuel, and they weren’t going to do shit to help him.
¿Que onda, pendejo? he said. Alejandro was in fifth grade, but he looked like he should have been in seventh. He stood about six inches taller than Gabriel, and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. Gabriel had done everything possible to stay under his radar, but now he had Pablo to thank for Alejandro’s undivided attention.
I’ve gotta go, Donesha said. She gave Gabriel a sympathetic look, as if to say “I hope he doesn’t hurt you too badly,” then she walked away as quickly as she could.
Gabriel turned to leave, but Alejandro shoved his backpack. Gabriel stumbled, barely catching himself. He turned to face Alejandro. ¿Cuál es tu problema?
People sayin’ you feelin’ tough, homie. Alejandro talked like the Hispanic gangsters on TV.
What?
I heard Nico sayin’ you think we can go toe to toe now that you squeezed that electric eel to death. What’s up with it?
Gabriel turned to look at Pablo, who refused to make eye contact with him now that he’d heard one of the ridiculous stories he’d been telling. This beat down was his fault. I don’t know anything about that, Gabriel said. In the time it took Gabriel to blink, Alejandro’s fist had found its way to Gabriel’s mouth.
Gabriel dodged as many punches as he could, but one still caught the left side of his head and another landed right below his left eye. Pablo and Emmanuel cheered Gabriel on and booed at Alejandro, whose face was red and sweaty. Before he caught another blow to his nose, Gabriel had enough time to briefly think of his father watching Cops on TV while Gabriel’s mom beat the shit out of him for the smallest misstep. Didn’t lift a finger for anything but to turn the volume with the remote to drown out Gabriel’s cries.
Real men, hombres, machos, we don’t cry, his father would say.
Gabriel uppercut as hard as he could. Alejandro fell to the ground and Gabriel straddled his chest, landing blow after blow on Alejandro’s face and upper body. By the time Pablo and Emmanuel managed to pull Gabriel off of him, Alejandro’s face looked like it had been put through a meat grinder. Gabriel watched Alejandro struggle to get up, stumble, then stagger down the street. I’m sorry, he called after him.
On the walk back, Emmanuel suggested they stop by Harvest Foods before returning home to wipe the blood off of Gabriel’s hands and face. The bathrooms were at the front of the store, next to the pictures of the missing children, the same ones as the ones on the milk cartons. They snuck into the bathroom pretty easily without anyone seeing Gabriel. He’d never been in a fight before. Gabriel’s hands shook and his knuckles hurt, but aside from that, his busted lip, and the slight swelling under his left eye, he didn’t look like he’d just been in a fight. At least not the way the characters in the movies like Desperado or Assassins looked after a fight scene. Let’s go, he said.
Pablo lived six trailers down from Gabriel’s, so they usually went over there to play after school. Gabriel and Emmanuel tried to drop their backpacks at the trailer, where their mother sat watching her afternoon telenovelas. Take them with you, their mother said the moment they set them down. Do your homework. And even though dinner was usually Hamburger Helper and Tang or Ramen Noodles and Kool-Aid, their mother told them to be back before dark. They took their backpacks with them to appease her, but had no intention of doing their homework.
They hung around Pablo’s house while his mother was at work, making Gabriel’s mother the only woman in the trailer park who couldn’t hold down a job. They played Mario 64 while snacking on Twinkies and drinking Hug Fruit Barrels. Pablo’s mother worked as a house maid, so sometimes she’d take home some name-brand candy bars or sodas, but they weren’t allowed to have those. Around 6:30, there was a knock at the door, which was weird, because normally Ms. Costanza would just walk in to her trailer. Pablo opened the door, and after a moment, he called out, Your mom’s here. Gabriel looked out the door, and sure enough, there was his mother. She had on that smile that only used the muscles in her mouth, nothing around the eyes. The type of smile that made her look crazy.
Gabriel and Emmanuel gathered their things and walked on either side of their mother to their trailer. Halfway there, their mother put her hand on the soft spot between Gabriel’s neck and shoulder and dug her fingernails in until she drew blood. She did this when they were in public and had no other way to let out her anger for fear of the police being called, Gabriel assumed. And he had long before learned not to flinch or make a face, to smile as though the white-knuckled hand on his shoulder were a sign of affection. You are in so much trouble, she said through gritted teeth.
The moment the door closed behind them, she sent Emmanuel to their room. Alejandro’s mom called, she said. So, not only was Alejandro a bully, he was also a snitch, Gabriel thought. Do you know how much dinero una visita al hospital costs? Hmm? Stitches?
Gabriel didn’t get a chance to answer before his mother let out a guttural scream and clawed his face with her nails. Gabriel retreated, trying to cover his face. Do you know who has to pay that bill? she yelled. She lunged at him, but he moved out of the way and ran to the kitchen, too scared to realize that outside or the room he shared with his brother were better options. He was trapped. She lunged again, and Gabriel managed to avoid her, but tripped. He got up, but his mother grabbed the back of his shirt collar. She pulled him to her and grabbed him by the ear. I have to pay for that bill, she yelled. Her other hand made its way around the back of his neck, where it squeezed as though it were trying to get to his spinal column. And you’re going to pay me back every cent.
Gabriel was scared, but this time his anger outweighed his fear. You mean I’m going to pay Dad back every cent, he said.
¿Qué dijiste? his mother asked, turning him to face her.
You don’t have any money, he said. That’s Dad’s money.
¿Y tu? How much money do you have, huh? How much?
The same as you, Gabriel said. None.
It was true. His mom had been fired from every job she’d ever had. She would come home from work and say she’d been fired. That she’d been plotted against, that none of her coworkers liked her and had made the manager fire her. This happened at the Mexican restaurant up the street last week. She’d come home saying her coworker had been stealing her tips and that she’d flipped a few tables in protest.
Gabriel’s father would only nod. Or else, he’d be on the other end of the phone, reassuring that she was doing the best she could. Was the best mother, employee, and human being anyone could ask for, especially with what she had to deal with once she got home to Gabriel and Emmanuel. How ungrateful they were, always asking for things, and how sorry he was he couldn’t be there, but at least one of them had to keep a job.
Gabriel’s mother stared at him, trying to bore a hole through his skull. And where he would normally be unable to meet her gaze, he refused to back down. There was nowhere to turn. It would never stop. It worked its way from parents to children and those children to their children.
When I come back, his mother said, I want you in nothing but your underwear.
With that, she went into her room, where Gabriel could hear her rummaging around looking for something. Emmanuel opened the door to their room and peeked out. Gabriel motioned for him to close the door and go back inside.
Gabriel’s mother emerged from her room holding the keys to the minivan Gabriel’s dad had bought used four years ago—wood paneling on both sides. Gabriel was still fully clothed, so his mother set to removing his shirt, his socks, his shoes. Los pantalones, she said, signaling for him to hand them over. He took them off and gave them to her. She yelled Emmanuel’s name. Emmanuel stepped out of the room. Come say goodbye to your brother, she said. He’s no longer a part of this family.
What do you mean? Emmanuel asked.
He thinks he’s an adult who can earn his own money. I’ll go drop him off somewhere so he can see how hard it is to find a job, pay for food, clothes. Go on, say goodbye to your brother. This is la ultima ves you’ll ever see him.
Gabriel never really thought much of Emmanuel, but the idea that it would be the last time he ever saw him made him feel weird. It took him a few seconds, but he finally realized that feeling was fear. He was scared, but not for himself that time. He was scared that everything his mother did to him would now be inflicted upon his brother instead. Emmanuel was soft. He wouldn’t survive. Come with me, Gabriel said. His mother slapped him. Gabriel put his hand up to his cheek. The hand with the scar. His cheek, almost as hot as the stove had been on Saturday. Emmanuel started to say something, but Gabriel shook his head, signaling him to stop. You can be Yoshi on Mario Kart from now on, he said, then he walked to the door and stepped outside.
The ride in the van was quiet except for the sound of the fan belt. Gabriel’s mother drove for about ten minutes looking for a place to dump him and finally decided on a Jiffy Lube with a “Sorry we’re closed” sign on the door. She parked the car, then sat looking straight ahead. Gabriel knew she was waiting for him to get out, and after a few moments, he did. He hadn’t even closed the door before she was speeding off, back the way they’d come. Gabriel wasn’t sure where he was, so he sat down on the curb and waited, hoping his mother would come back. After about fifteen minutes, he started to cry, realizing she wasn’t going to turn around. It wasn’t cold, but he had goosebumps, so he rubbed his arms as he started to walk in the opposite direction he’d seen her go, not sure where to head or what to do.
The streetlights helped, but it was still dark enough for him to miss the broken glass on the sidewalk. He stepped on it, and his feet bled for the next two blocks. Only a few cars drove by, and none of them seemed to notice him walking down the street in his underwear. After another block, head lights illuminated his path and a horn broke the silence. Gabriel turned but couldn’t make out the car. The high beams were on.
Do you need a ride?
It sounded like his dad. Maybe. He couldn’t tell.
I saw what happened back there, the voice said. You were real tough.
It was exactly what his father would say, exactly what his father would want.
Dad?
The voice laughed. Come on, it said.
Milk cartons.
Gabriel looked at the man and then in the direction of his home. There, cresting the hill was his mother’s minivan.
The man looked in his rearview mirror. What are you gonna do, Junior?
It might have taken months, years, millenniums, but Gabriel did eventually pull on one of the door handles and got in. Clicked his seatbelt for safety.
Contributor Notes
Jared Lemus is a Latinx writer, Tin House Scholar, and recipient of the Nordan-Kinder Award in fiction. His work has appeared in Story, The Pinch, The Kenyon Review Online, PANK, Cleaver, and Joyland, among others, and is forthcoming in The Porter House Review and The Cimarron Review. He is an MFA graduate from the University of Pittsburgh, where he currently works as an adjunct professor in fiction and creative writing. You can find him at JaredLemus.com
