When Ernesto was working at the pizzeria the next afternoon, Clay Aguirre came in alone. Naomi and Clay had been friends since middle school and dated for a couple of years at Chavez. Naomi had been with Ernesto only in the last few months. Clay and Naomi might never have split if they hadn’t gotten into an argument. It ended with Clay punching Naomi in the face. Naomi had put up with Clay’s rudeness for a long time because she cared for him. But hitting her was a deal breaker. Still, Ernesto noticed Clay often staring at Naomi, a longing in his eyes. In classes at Chavez High, Clay spent more time looking at Naomi than he did looking at the teachers.
Since Naomi had broken up with him, Clay’d been hanging with Mira Nuñez. But, when Clay came into the pizza store, she was nowhere to be seen. Ernesto had an uncomfortable feeling about Clay. He suspected that Clay hadn’t given up on getting Naomi back. Poor Mira was just a ploy to make Naomi jealous. The trick didn’t work on Naomi, of course.
Clay seemed to know that Naomi came into the shop every Wednesday night. When Ernesto went off his shift, he and Naomi would leave together. He’d drop her at her house before going home himself.
Shortly after Clay sat down with a pizza slice and cola, Naomi walked in. Clay hailed her. “Hey Naomi,” Clay called to the girl. “I want to tell you something.”
Naomi looked tense. Right after she’d broken up with Clay, he had followed her constantly to see what she was doing and who was with her. He was almost a stalker. One day Naomi warned Clay to stop it or she’d call the police. He did stop.
“Hello Clay,” she responded now. “What do you want to tell me?”
“Me and my friends at Chavez are big supporters of Monte Esposito,” Clay announced. “I just wanted you to know that Carmen thinks everybody at school is a Zapatista, but that’s a crock. Lot of us are gonna work for your dad’s cousin.”
“Oh,” Naomi replied. “Well, thanks for telling me.”
“Yeah, well,” Clay went on, “we think Emilio Ibarra is kind of a clown with his fake sheriff’s badge and stuff. Lotta people see him as a big fool. Councilman Esposito, he’s got the experience, and he’s good for the job.” Clay was hoping that supporting Esposito would be a wedge for him to get back into her life.
“I like Carmen,” Naomi told him. “She’s my friend. Her father’s a good man. I just don’t get into politics, but thanks anyway for telling me how you feel, Clay.”
“Yeah, anytime,” Clay said, returning to his pizza.
Naomi went to the counter and sat on one of the stools. “I’ll just have a little salad, Ernie,” she said. She seemed shaken by the encounter with Clay. For a long time she had thought she was in love with Clay Aguirre. Breaking up with him was very hard for her, and she was just recently getting comfortable in her new relationship with Ernie. But she remained polite to Clay. She could never completely forget their history, what they had once meant to each other.
Ernesto smiled at Naomi and asked her, “You pick a writer to do a report on yet for Ms. Hunt?” Ms. Hunt wanted each student to do a big multimedia presentation on a writer.
“Yeah, I’m doing mine on Eudora Welty,” Naomi answered. “She made a lot of appearances on television talking about her books and her writing style. And I can use all that. I liked her stories, and she was such a down-to-earth lady.”
“Yeah,” Ernesto agreed, “I remember reading that one story about the little girl visiting the nursing home. It was realistic. No sugar coating there.”
“‘A Visit of Charity,’ yeah,” Naomi replied. “The story was disturbing, but that’s what good writing should be. We need to be disturbed sometimes. It’s nice to imagine a sweet little girl visiting some sweet old ladies. But the kid was cold, and the old ladies were anything but sweet. Life isn’t always nice and sweet.”
Clay continued to stare at Naomi as he sat at the corner table, nursing his cola. He never took his eyes off Naomi. He was making Ernesto angry and worried. Ernesto cared a lot about Naomi, but their relationship was new. Ernesto didn’t feel totally confident about it yet.
“I’m probably gonna do my report on F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Ernesto said. “He was such an interesting guy, and he died so young. I can use clips from that movie they made from his book, The Great Gatsby.”
“That’ll be terrific,” Naomi responded. “When’s your mom’s book coming out?”
Ernesto smiled while he spoke. “Any day now. Believe me, since the pit bull in the story is based on your dog, Brutus, you guys’ll get your copy right away. Mom is so excited about it.”
“She should be,” Naomi affirmed. “It’s a big deal getting a book published.” Naomi glanced back to where Clay was sitting. “I’d hoped he’d gone,” she sighed wistfully.
Ernesto didn’t know what to say. Did Clay’s presence stir old memories that were painful to remember? Or was she anxious about his continued obsession with her?
Then Naomi confided, “The other day he sent me a card, a pretty, flowery card. It was for the anniversary of the first real date we had. We were freshmen at Chavez, and he took me to the movies. His father drove us. I had forgotten the date. And here comes this card, and I checked, and yes, he had the date right. It made me feel bad. I so wish he was over me, Ernie. I hate for him to continue to feel bad that we’re not together.”
Ernesto wanted to say all kinds of nasty things, but he thought he better not. He wanted to tell her that a power thing—a pride thing—had Clay mired in the past. He was a big, handsome, muscular guy. He always thought that he could have any chick he wanted and that she’d be glad to have him. That’s why he took Naomi for granted and didn’t treat her with respect. She had actually dumped him; she didn’t want him anymore. That flew in the face of everything he believed about himself. He couldn’t get over it. He couldn’t come to terms with it. Ernesto knew that Naomi didn’t see it that way. She thought he still loved her so much that he was hurting. That idea bothered her compassionate heart. She didn’t see the ego part of it. And Ernesto did not want to go there for fear of offending her.
“Clay hangs with Mira Nuñez some-times,” Ernesto told her. The truth was that Clay and Mira were together very little. Once Clay realized the jealousy ploy wasn’t working, he lost interest in Mira.
“No,” Naomi said regretfully. “I don’t think they’re that into each other. I shouldn’t care, but it bothers me that he can’t get past this.”
Soon it was time for Ernesto to go off his shift, and he pulled on his jacket. Clay was still sitting at the table, with an empty bottle of cola. Ernesto and Naomi had to walk past him on their way out. As they did, he looked up and said, “Goodnight, Naomi.”
“Oh, goodnight, Clay,” Naomi responded.
“Naomi,” Clay said, “say ‘Hi’ to your dad for me. He’s a great guy. I always enjoyed talking to him when I came to your house. He’s a real man. A tough, no-nonsense kind of guy. Be sure to tell him that a lot of us’ll be working for Monte Esposito. Tell him we’ll get his cousin reelected. We won’t let some upstart knock off a good man like him.”
“I’ll tell him, Clay,” Naomi answered. She walked a little faster with Ernesto.
As they approached the Volvo, Naomi spoke. “Clay and my dad always got along good. They’re sorta alike. Dad liked him.” A pained look clouded Naomi’s eyes.
“Even after . . . I mean, after Clay, you know, hurt me. I thought my dad would be furious with him, but he wasn’t. Dad took me aside. He said that sometimes a man has to prove his love in harsh ways. I didn’t understand that. I didn’t accept it. I came close to being very angry with my dad at the time. I mean, he tried to say that Clay must love me very much. He got so angry at the thought that I was admiring another guy . . . he must love me so much that he hit me.”
“That’s crazy,” Ernesto commented, as he opened the car door for her.
As the Volvo turned into the street, Naomi asked a question that was on her mind. “You think that if someone loves you, they can’t hurt you, Ernie?”
“Oh no, I’m not saying that,” Ernesto responded. “We hurt people we love all the time. We say mean things, and we get impatient. I mean, I love my little sister, Katalina,
a lot. But the other day she got into my research on Fitzgerald, and I yelled at her. She felt bad, and I felt bad. But hitting somebody, that’s you know, unacceptable.”
“I don’t know,” Naomi objected. “I’m taking that class in California history, and we’re talking about the Spanish era. The ranchos. The father in the family, the ranchero, he used physical punishment against his grown sons. The son could be fifty, and the father could beat him. And that was all right. Nobody thought anything of it.”
“Luckily, we’ve learned a lot since then, Naomi,” Ernesto replied. “You aren’t supposed to beat on other people, even family. You sure aren’t supposed to hit a girl you love. Besides, this ranchero dude, he probably was punishing his kid for some misdeed or something. And he probably kept a tight rein on his emotions. But a boyfriend hitting his girlfriend in red hot anger, that could be really awful.”
“Yeah, I hear you, Ernie,” Naomi acceded.
Ernesto pulled into the driveway of the Martinez house on Bluebird Street. Felix Martinez was outside with the dog, Brutus. The dog followed him everywhere, its tail wagging. Everyone in the family loved Brutus, but he seemed to know who his best friend was—Dad. When Martinez went out in his pickup truck, he just whistled. Brutus jumped in beside him, sitting in the passenger seat. You’d see the pickup truck going down the street, Brutus poking his head out the window, looking around.
“Hey Ernie, how’s it goin’?” Mr. Martinez called out cheerfully.
“Pretty good. I’m running in the track meet Wednesday,” Ernesto answered, as he and Naomi got out of the car.
“Hey Ernie, you’re looking bigger, more muscle. You oughta go out for football. Runnin’ around in little short pants, that’s not a sport for a guy,” Felix chided, laughing.
“Well,” Ernesto thought, “he insulted me again. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.” Ernesto knew what he had to do out of respect for the girl he loved. Suck it up. He couldn’t respond by saying what he was thinking. “Hey man, why don’t you mind your own business? A lot of really great guys are on the track team. Some of the football players are jerks. It doesn’t matter what sport you choose. It’s not important man, so give it a rest.”
“Well, to each his own,” Ernesto replied out loud, blandly.
“Ernie,” Mr. Martinez declared, “some kids down at your school’re working for that idiot, Ibarra. They call themselves the Zapatistas if you can believe it. They want to get my cousin off the council. There never was a better man in there than Monte. He practically runs the whole town. The mayor, he don’t do nothin’ without consulting Monte.”
“Uh-oh,” Ernesto said inside his head, “then the mayor’s a fool too. Or a crook.” But aloud, Ernesto just said, “Yeah?”
“My boy Zack,” the man went on, “he and some of his friends are working for Monte. I’m trying to get Naomi on board, but she says she don’t like politics. You need to start working for Monte, Ernie. We need kids like you to pass out absentee ballots to the old fogies who can’t get to the polls.”
“Oh, gotta get home,” Ernesto said abruptly.
He waved good-bye and got back into the car. Naomi rushed into the house without saying anything to her father. Ernesto felt sorry for her. This election was harder on her than on him. He didn’t have to live with Felix Martinez.
“Always nice seein’ you, Ernie,” Felix Martinez responded amiably. He was still in a pretty good mood. Naomi always said two beers made him sociable, and the third made him nasty.
As Ernesto backed out of the driveway, he almost hit a wooden sign on the lawn. He hadn’t noticed it when he drove in. It was a red, white, and blue sign that bore the name “Esposito.”
At Chavez High the next day, Ernesto was hurrying toward English class. Ms. Hunt had promised to come early so that students could get her approval of the authors they had chosen for their reports. Ernesto was really excited about F. Scott Fitzgerald, and he wanted to make sure she’d accept his selection.
As Ernesto walked toward English, Abel Ruiz fell in step beside him. “Well, I did it man. I joined the group working for Carmen’s dad. The Zapatistas. I swore I wouldn’t get involved, but it just got to me, Ernie. I’m dating Claudia now. She talked to me and convinced me. If we don’t work for Ibarra, all the bad stuff this dude we got is doing will be our fault too.”
“Well, good for you, Abel,” Ernesto responded. “I’m staying out of the whole thing, though.”
“I know you’re in a bind because of Naomi man,” Abel acknowledged. “But something Claudia said got me. Esposito’s backing the mayor’s plan to cut the police department by five percent and take some cops off the street. Dude, we had only three gang killings in the barrio last year. And the only reason it’s better now is we got more cops.” Abel was speaking passionately.
“Abel, I can’t get mixed up in this, man,” Ernesto protested, frustration coming into his voice.
Just then Julio Avila caught up with them. He heard the last part of the conversation between Ernesto and Abel.
“Mixed up in what, Ernie?” he asked.
“This city council election business,” Ernesto answered. “I’m too busy with my classes and working at the pizza place. I’m already stressed,” He didn’t want to come right out with his real reason for not carrying water for Ibarra even though he believed in the cause.
Julio looked right at Ernesto and nodded toward the science building. “Good thing that guy didn’t feel that way,” he said.
“What guy?” Ernesto demanded, wanting to get to English so Ms. Hunt could approve Fitzgerald. He was annoyed at Julio for slowing him down.
“The guy the school is named for, man,” Julio answered. “Look at the mural on the side of the science building, dude. The mural Dom and Carlos and the other kids made.”
Ernesto knew the mural well. His father arranged for the kids to paint it.
“Look at old Cesar standing there with all those weary-looking men, women, and kids,” Julio continued. “Those people labored in the fields for chump change and got sprayed with insecticide. Cesar stood up for them. He was sometimes so tired he could hardly stand up, but he knew what he was doing was important. So he worked and he marched and he fasted.”
Julio paused for a second to see whether he was getting through to Ernesto. “He cared about the people man. We should all care about the people. We should care about the teenagers in the barrio who’d maybe go to college and have a life if the scholarship program came back. We all should care man.”
“Come on Julio,” Ernesto snapped. “This isn’t some great cause like a farm workers strike or something. This is just a city council race, you know? I mean, these guys are just pencil pushers anyway.”
“Yeah?” Julio prodded. “Your old man, Mr. Sandoval, he told us something in class the other day. He said he got one of those Sena scholarships when he was a kid. That’s the scholarship that old-time councilman Maynard put in place. Maynard pounded the pavements around here getting the businesspeople to contribute money. He got it done. He wasn’t pushing no pencils man. He was working for the people. Emilio Ibarra promised to bring that back. Listen up, Ernie. Your own father got a helpin’ hand when he needed it. There are kids out there right now who need a hand up too from a councilman who cares.”
“I gotta get to English so Ms. Hunt can approve my paper,” Ernesto blurted. He rushed ahead of Julio and Abel.
Ernesto was feeling really frustrated. He knew all about Mr. Maynard. He was an icon in the Sandoval family. A photograph of the smiling white-haired man hung on the wall in the den. The picture was there in Los Angeles when the Sandovals lived there. When they moved back to the barrio, it came too. Now it hung on the wall in the den in the little house on Wren Street.
“Think about it man,” Julio yelled after Ernesto. “You’re better than you’re lookin’ right now, dude. You’re way better than you’re lookin’ right now.”
Ernesto rushed into Ms. Hunt’s classroom only minutes before class was due to begin. He was still a little winded from his sprint.
“Ms. Hunt,” Ernesto told her, “I’d like to do my report on F. Scott Fitzgerald. He was an interesting guy. And he kind of represented the era he lived in, the Roaring Twenties. I’m really fascinated by that.”
“Good choice, Ernesto,” Ms. Hunt said. “I’ll write you down for it. I’m looking forward to seeing your report.”
Ernesto went to his desk and sat down. Clay Aguirre came in and took his usual place in the back of the classroom. Ernesto glanced back once before class began. Clay aimed his index finger at Ernesto and spoke in a soft voice. “She’s wavering, dude. I think you’re losing the battle man.” Ernesto ignored Clay but knew what he meant. Ernesto took a long, deep breath.