Manny catches me leaving for school. He says he’ll do the conference.
When evening comes and it’s time to head out, I tell Mami and Papi I’m stealing Manny for a brothers’ night out.
He’s been in his room all afternoon. I knock. No answer, but the TV’s going, so I push the door open a bit.
Manny’s sitting on the bed staring at the wall mirror—lapels up on a crisp white shirt—superfocused on tying a tie.
I say, “Hey, GQ!”
He looks up from his knot. His hair is gelled up. He’s got pressed pants. Shined shoes. That nice shirt. Manny went shopping for this. He smiles and says, “You ready?”
“Heck yeah,” I say.
He goes back at the tie, but those shakes. He asks if I can help.
I go over and loop the tie around his neck like I know what I’m doing. “This goes under here. Then it wraps around again. One more tug and…” I whip the thing off and throw it across the room. I step back, check him out, and say, “Whattaya think?”
He cranes his neck to look in the mirror. “I think you nailed it. Thanks, bro.”
That’s what I mean about quirks. Yes, Manny shakes. Yes, he’s, like, wired and anxious and up at night. But when he’s with you, he’s with you. And he’s funny like he’s always been. And that’s what really matters.
* * *
The conferences take place at the Puget High gymnasium. It takes a while to get in there because Manny reapplies hair gel and tweaks and re-tweaks his collar in the car mirror. Then he takes forever getting himself, like, pumped to walk through the gym door.
Inside, the teachers are at tables set up around the periphery of the basketball court. Parents and anxious students wait in chairs in the center of the court. By the time it’s our turn, I’m freaking out.
Manny stands and buttons his jacket. He looks nervous but he gives me a wink and says, “Let’s do this.”
“If you say so, Man.”
At each conference, Manny asks my teachers how I’m doing. He doesn’t let them get away with Teodoro is doing great. He asks what great means. He tells them to Stay on T’s case. Let him know when his work is not college material. Improved isn’t good enough. Good isn’t good enough. He gives them his number in case you can’t reach our parents. And I know my teachers see me different because of how Manny carries himself and his expectations of me.
We start walking out and Mr. Hart—this young biology teacher who actually went to school with Manny—walks up and says, “Avila! Welcome home! You look great, buddy. You remember? You remember the play?”
“Hey, Rick,” Manny says. “Of course I remember.”
Manny and Rick Hart were team captains and they hooked up on a last-second shot that won a big Vikings playoff game way back when.
Mr. Hart drapes an arm over Manny’s shoulders. He looks concerned for Manny and talks like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. “How are you, really? I mean, how was it over there?”
Manny looks toward the exit. “Ah, geez, Rick—”
“Did you, uh, have to … ya know … put a stop to anyone? Did you have to? Over there?”
Manny freezes. His face turns red. And for a second he’s someplace else.
He snaps to when he spots some old teachers walking our way. They’re waving at him and smiling, wanting to talk.
Manny brushes Mr. Hart off hard and grabs me by the arm. He doesn’t say a word to Rick or the teachers. He just races for the door, dragging me behind.
We get in the car and I thank him a bunch of times, but he’s got his head on the steering wheel. He breathes deep and hard. Runs trembling fingers through his hair. Then reaches both hands out and grips the dash, like he’s trying to steady himself.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Man,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”
He opens the car door. Steps out. Comes to my side, opens the door, and motions for me to scoot over. He wants me to drive.
He has me stop at the 7-Eleven on Pac Highway. I wait in the car. He comes back with a twenty-four-pack of Budweiser cans.
We get to the rental. Before we head inside, I thank Manny again and wish him good night.
He bites a lip and takes in a breath and tries to force a smile. It’s like he’s telling me he failed. And he’s sorry.
“You’re good, Man,” I say. “It’s all good.”
He opens the door and walks straight to his room.
I try to study. Try to sleep. But it’s impossible with the TV and the lamp switch clicking and can tops popping.
And the horrible feeling I made Manny do something he couldn’t handle.