WWCCD?

Between waiting for Triple A to come, then waiting for their flatbed truck to come, and for the car to get loaded onto the truck and taken to the tire place, then filling out the paperwork, etc., etc., it’s nearly nine o’clock by the time we get home. Buddy runs a circle around me, then around Max, then around me again. It’s his happy greeting.

“Hey, Buddy,” I say, leaning down to ruffle his big, grey-flecked, yellow head.

“There’s leftover pizza in the fridge,” William calls to us from the living room where he and Imani are watching “Frozen” for about the thousandth time. “And salad.”

When William and Imani moved in, Max said with more people in the house, we had to be better organized. Max and William both work full time, sometimes more, and, according to Max, it’s easy to get sloppy with home stuff—food, cleaning, clutter. So, she and William share the cooking—Max cooks Monday and Tuesday, William, Wednesday and Thursday. Friday’s usually takeout, which is why I’m eating pizza right now. Saturday and Sunday? Depends on what else is going on.

Before William and Imani moved in, we had a family meeting. It wasn’t like all of a sudden Imani and I would have two parents to deal with. If I needed permission to do something, or if I got in trouble at school, that would be between me and Max, like always. And William would be doing all of the parent stuff with Imani, like always. I was happy to hear that ‘cause I had this friend up in Redville whose mom’s boyfriend moved in with them, and all of a sudden the guy was telling the kid what he could and couldn’t do and acting like the big boss. That’s not how it is here, though.

Imani started calling Max “Mommy” about half-an-hour after they moved in, but William’s still the guy who’s in charge of all things Imani. Max takes Imani shopping for clothes sometimes, and once in a while, they bake cookies together, but that’s about it for the mom stuff.

On the chest in Imani’s room there’s a framed picture of her and her mom and William. She’s probably about two in the picture, in a white frilly dress with a sparkly silver headband holding back her thick, black, frizzy hair.  They’re probably at some park. The mom and William are sitting close together on the grass, with trees in the background. William’s got his arm around the mom. Imani’s standing between them leaning into William. She and her mom are a Bristol Chocolate color. William’s a darker Natural Bark. They look happy in the picture. Imani says her mom went to heaven a long time ago, but I don’t know any of the details.

When I hear “Some People Are Worth Melting For,” I know “Frozen’s” nearly over. Moments later, William comes into the kitchen and kisses Max on the forehead. He’s about six inches taller than Max, so her forehead is an easy reach.

“We tried to wait for you, but Imani was starving.”

Max reaches into the refrigerator to get the leftovers. I reach past her, snag the O.J., and take a long swig from the bottle.

She gives me the look.

“C’mon, Max. I’m the only one who ever drinks out of this.”

“Because everyone else in the house is afraid they’ll get your cooties,” she says.

William hands me a glass. I pour juice into it for the sake of domestic tranquility.

My dad split before I was even born, and I got over wanting a replacement dad a long time ago. But I like that there’s another guy in the house. And that he’s teaching me the painting business. Also, that he treats Max good.

Max and I finish the pizza and salad while William sits at the table with us, nursing a beer. Between bites, Max fills him in on the tire mess.

“Who would do that?” he says to me.

I give the same answer I gave Max. A shrug.

“You’re telling me someone wandered into that jam-packed student parking lot, carrying what had to be a pretty heavy-duty knife, and happened to get the urge to slash four tires as they just happened to be near your car? I don’t think so, Eddie. There was a reason. What was it?”

I focus on the last three crumbs of pizza crust.

“Eddie?” Max says.

I don’t want to go into it, have it turn into a bigger deal than it already is.

“We need to file a police report,” Max says.

“No way. I’m not filing a police report!”

“Well then, I am,” Max says.

“Max! No! It’s my car. No police report.”

There’s another one of those long looks. “Eddie. I don’t want to fight you on this, but you know, officially that’s my car, and I’m filing a report.”

“That sucks! I paid for the car with my own work money. Insurance, too. It’s not your car!”

“Whose name is on the registration?”

So, we go to the computer and file a police report.

*  *  *  *  *

IT’S NEARLY MIDNIGHT. I’m in bed, leaning back against the headboard, playing Fortnite, when Max, in her funky clown pajamas and her beat-up slippers, comes in and sits on the bed next to me.

“Eddie...stop for a minute. Look at me.”

I look up.

“I hate fighting with you, pulling rank so to speak, but...”

“I hate it, too,” I tell her.

“Remember when I was in Iraq, in the hospital, and I didn’t even tell you and Mario my leg was all torn apart—kept emailing that everything was fine—loved the macaroni and cheese you guys sent? And you and Mario had run away to Redville, and Mario was trying to save you from that awful mess with Denton, and Carmen was trying to get Mario arrested, and you guys kept emailing me that everything was fine? Remember?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We didn’t want to worry each other? Remember?”

I nod.

“And we decided we had to level with each other, no matter what. That we didn’t want to have that kind of meaningless everything-is-fine relationship?

“Yeah.”

“And we worked everything out together?”

“Yeah.”

“And part of working it out was that you started to talk again?”

“Yeah.”

“Talk to me, Eddie.”

“I don’t want it to be a big deal.”

“Well, it is. Somebody slashed all four of your tires. That’s a big deal!”

Max is propped up on her elbow, watching, waiting, the frown marks she brought home from Iraq deepening, like they always do when she’s worried.

I do five deep centering breaths, like I learned in yoga a long time ago. Five more. “So. Okay. I don’t know for sure who did it, but I think it’s because I covered over something someone had written on a wall at school.”

“Like what?”

So, I tell her the whole story, the hate sign, the black spray paint I had with me, how I wiped out that Nazi anti-Muslim, Mexican, Jew, nigger shit before hardly anyone got to school.

“And...?”

“And that’s it.”

“Who wrote it in the first place?”

“I don’t know.”

Which is true. I don’t exactly know, even though I’m like 99.99% sure it was those Patriot guys.

“You must have some idea.”

I shrug. The last thing I want is for Max to go all law and order again and fill in more blanks on the police report.

“Well...okay,” she says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Stop with the games and get some sleep.” She stands up, stretches and walks toward the door, then stops and looks back at me. “I’m proud of you, Eddie. Worried, but proud.”

“Well...you know. What would Cesar Chavez do?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Sometimes I’m almost sorry we ever taught you to ask that question.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say. “But it’s too late now.”

I hear Max telling William about the history of my WWCCD bracelet, and it takes me back to that little kid time, back when I was ten or so, during our Redville years.

A lot of the kids in my class wore these bracelets with the letters “WWJD” on them: “What Would Jesus Do?” I wanted one. I mean I really wanted one. It was a time I was looking for answers and it seemed like the WWJD kids had a lot of answers.  I begged Max to get one for me but she wouldn’t—said I didn’t know anything about what Jesus would do so the bracelet would be like a lie.  I complained to Mario that I needed a WWJD bracelet and that Max was being unreasonable. I complained to my cousin Vincent, and his daughter, Hannah, and his wife, Jordan, and my aunt and uncle, and I guess to everyone else in Redville because I really, really wanted one of those bracelets.

Then, one evening, Vincent came over to help Max fill out a complicated Army disability request form. He’s a lawyer so Vincent is the go-to guy for stuff like that. Max’s leg had healed by then, but her right leg ended up being about an inch shorter than the left and that was messing her back up.

Anyways, Mario and I were in the living room watching “The Simpsons” when Victor came in. He held up one of those bracelets, dangled it in the air. He gave me a big smile. “Want it?” he said.

I jumped up and grabbed it, threw my arms around his waist, and gave him a giant hug. He tied the bracelet on my wrist and it was then that I noticed it wasn’t WWJD. It was WWCCD. What?? I just stared at it, fighting tears.

Vincent took hold of my wrist and pointed to each letter. “What. Would. Cesar. Chavez. Do. That’s the question.”

I knew who Cesar Chavez was. Everybody in Redville knew who Cesar Chavez was. He’s the guy who started the farmworkers union. Tio Hector and Tia Josie marched with him when Vincent was still a baby in a stroller. They laugh that Vincent’s first sentence was “Si Se Puede.” (Yes, it can be done). That’s what the farmworkers chanted when they marched and demonstrated for fair pay and better working conditions. So yeah, I knew who the guy was, but I wanted to know what Jesus would do, like those kids at my school with the real bracelets. I untied the bracelet and handed it back to Vincent.  Max jumped up from her chair and practically flew across the room, bad leg and all. She took the bracelet from Vincent and tied it to my wrist so tight I thought my hand would drop off, my good hand, and she marched me into the bedroom for one of her “let’s get this straight” talks.

After that, our bedtime reading turned from Harry Potter to Cesar Chavez biographies and stories about “the movement.”  And Max started taking us to church every Sunday so we’d learn something about Jesus. Whenever Mario or I had a problem or a complaint, the question would be WWCCD? WWJD? After months of what Max and Vincent referred to as my education in the real world, I stopped always wearing shirts with sleeves long enough to hide the WWCCD bracelet. I guess you could say I chose CC over Jesus. I mean Jesus is holy and all that, but it’s clearer to me what CC would do than what J would do.

I wonder, what would CC have done about the hate graffiti? Organize a group? Lead a strike? March? Boycott? That’s what he led the farmworkers to do back in the day. I don’t have a clue what he’d be up to these days, but for sure, he wouldn’t have liked that hate crap, ‘cause he was big on equality and respect for everybody.

*  *  *  *  *

SO, ROSIE AND I MISSED the Friday night triple date cornhole thing because I was dealing with slashed tires, but Cameron texted early this morning saying Brent finally has a girlfriend because Brianna likes him now. Brent texts to set up another cornhole practice. He’s so obsessed with cornhole he forgot I have to work today. We’ll be back at that place in Alhambra, painting the living room walls a Wabi-Sabi Versatile Green with glossy Soft Focus Warm White baseboards.

After work, once I’m cleaned up and have convinced Max to let me borrow her car, I head over to Rosie’s. She’s in Tilly the Trailer where she’s been working on college applications and studying for a test on Macbeth. Tilly’s table is strewn with college booklets and application forms, and Shakespeare, and orange rinds and peanut shells. Oranges and peanuts, the key to academic success, according to Rosie.

“I bet you haven’t even looked at your phone today,” she says.

“This morning I got texts from Cameron and Brent, but I only pay attention if it’s your special ring. Besides, William’s got a thing about not looking at our phones during work hours.”

“Well, you should look at this,” Rosie says, handing me her phone.

Instagram, with a big X over a stick figure of a guy and a caption that says “Cleanse the Bloodline.” I know the guy is supposed to be me because it’s another one of the stick figures without fingers on one hand. The drawing’s so bad it makes me laugh.

Rosie takes her phone back and goes to her Twitter account. “It’s not funny. Look at this.”

There’s an actual picture of me. From where? Yearbook? Somebody’s Facebook account? There’s my face with a big X mark across it, #keepamericawhite. Funnier still. Like America’s ever been white? Haven’t they ever heard of the first Americans? The ones who’d been here for thousands of years before any of the “white” people showed up? How about how California was stolen from Mexico?

“Somebody’s more than a little mad at you,” Rosie says.

I shrug, hand her phone back to her.

We go for a bite to eat at a new Vietnamese place where Rosie has a two-for-one coupon. It’s good, but I probably won’t go back, at least not until they’re giving out more two-for-ones. After Pho Quyen, we go back to Rosie’s place. To Tilly. She wants me to watch this show with her, “Atypical,” so I’ll know music therapy’s a real thing.  We climb onto the big cushion, lean back against the wall, and Rosie finds the show on her laptop. I crack the window open just enough to let in a hint of clean night air.

“I’m going to skip ahead to the episode with the important part.”

The series is about this high school kid who’s autistic. He mainly wants to talk about penguins and the Antarctica. He doesn’t have a clue about how to get along with people, and he wants a girlfriend. It’s more of a girl show, probably nothing I’d ever watch on my own, but it’s warm and cozy here in the trailer, and Rosie’s leaning in close to me. We could be watching the Teletubbies or a blank screen for all I care.

“Look, here’s the part, right here...”

It’s people sitting around in a circle, in some kind of support group, and this one woman tells another how much music therapy has helped her autistic son.

“See,” Rosie says. “It shows how important music therapy can be, how much it can help people.”

“I don’t know why you keep trying to convince me. I believe you.”

“Yeah, but not everyone thinks it’s a real thing, and it’s great to see it in a TV series.”

There’s this scene where a bunch of kids are standing around some fat girl’s locker, laughing at the girl.  Her locker has “orca” written across it, and they’re laughing and pointing at her and she’s trying not to cry.  Then the autistic guy’s sister comes up to the group, sees what’s going on, and punches the loudest one hard. In the face. And bloodies her nose. It’s one of those super satisfying moments when an asshole gets what’s coming to her.

“Serves her right,” I say.

“I feel so sad when I see someone picking on someone else,” Rosie says. “I hate how some people pick on Sofia and Fatima. They’re both just the nicest people.”

“Back when I was a little kid, this man totally took advantage of me, making me do stuff I didn’t want to do, and always pushing me around. It hella pisses me off when I see that happening to anybody else. I want to smack ‘em in the face like that guy’s sister just did, only harder.”

We watch a little more of the show, and then I pull Rosie closer, turn her face toward me, and kiss her on the lips, the way we like to kiss, a little bit of teasing tongue, and then a little more. The laptop slides to the side, and we scoot down until we’re stretched out full length on the cushions, body to body, as close as we can get. We fumble around with sweatshirts and buttons and zippers, and our hands are everywhere, touching every inch of our bodies, and I’m asking, “Do you want to? Do you want to?” and Rosie is answering, “I want to,” and we’re both fumbling around for condoms that have to be within arms’ reach but where? Where’s the damn condom!!!! Finally, I grab my pants from where they’ve slipped to the floor, and find the condom in the back pocket. At practically the same time, Rosie pulls one out from somewhere in her backpack. And then it’s more fumbling. And then I’m pushing hard into Rosie, fast and hard when she lets out a gasp that scares me, and I half pull out.

“Should I stop?” I say, breathing so fast I can barely get the words out. I feel her take a long breath in.

“Don’t stop,” she says, grabbing my butt and pulling me farther back into her.

So I go slower, easier, except it’s impossible to do slow and easy. My body won’t do slow and easy, and then it’s over. “Rosie. Rosie. God how I love you,” I say pushing her hair back and catching a dampness from her cheek. “Are you crying?”

“I’m okay,” she says. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be good for girls the first time.”

We’re lying side by side now, and she takes my hand and slides it between her legs and moves it where she wants it to go until there’s a different kind of gasp, a happy gasp, and we lie there, close, for a long time.

“This was the best feeling I’ve ever felt. Best in the whole world,” I tell her. We kiss and scoot in closer. “I’m sorry I was such a fumbler, though.”

She laughs. “We just need practice,” she says.

“Lots of it. How about now?” I whisper.

“How about tomorrow night?” she says.

It’s nearly one in the morning when I pull on my clothes and say goodnight. “I’ve never been happier,” I tell Rosie.

“I’m happy, too,” she says. “I’m glad we did it.”

I’m smiling all the way home. Like lips stretched to the limit kind of smiling. Even when I walk into the house, I can’t stop smiling.

William and Max are watching “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air,” which is like their usual Saturday night watching after Imani’s in bed.

“How was the new restaurant?” Max asks.

“Good,” I say. Big smile.

“Must’ve been amazingly good,” William says, appraising my smile.

“ ’night,” I say, eager not to answer any more questions.

In bed, I text Rosie: Luv u luv luv luv u!

A ding, and then, a string of hearts, followed by a stream of exclamation marks.

CHAPTER ELEVEN