Fade In:
SLIP INTO SILAS’S SKIN
Shitkickers. You dig ’em, especially once they get real good and broken-in, like this goddamn fine pair of Doc Martens Dad gave you last year for your birthday. You’ve kicked some definite shit with those steel toes, too.
You like how it feels
when your foot connects
with flesh, when it yields
and splits and bleeds.
You love the sound
of bone and cartilage crunching.
Cracking.
Splintering.
Football can provide a similar rush but games have rules, not that you don’t detour around them. So, okay, you’ve had a fair number of penalties called against you each season, enough for Coach to make you run a few extra laps in practice. Some things are worth supreme effort.
The sport was an anomaly, really. Though you’ve enjoyed certain perks, like cheerleader worship, you’re more the online gaming type. It was probably good that your dad immersed you in Pop Warner, which pushed you to participate in high school football, or you’d probably be a big slug. Exercise is good for a boy, and you don’t mind it at all. It’s just that winning is easier when you don’t have to rely on a team to help you do it.
Anyway, football is over for the year, and not only that, but also for the rest of your life. You’re a senior, and once you’ve got your diploma, you’ll never set foot on a campus again, unless it’s to crash a party or maybe deliver a pizza. You’ll have to do something to earn a living. Working in a convenience store isn’t exactly lucrative.
All dressed down in faded jeans and a Cardinals jersey, almost ready to head off for some Friday night good times, you check your phone, find a couple of messages. The first is from your dad: YOU STILL COMING TOMORROW? PIZZA OR TACOS?
You take a moment to text him back: I’LL BE THERE. IF ZIA’S COOKING, TACOS.
Your dad is shacking up with a Mexican. Her food is good, great in fact, but the idea of doing a brown-skinned bitch sickens you. That might be the way things are, but it’s not how they should be. Unnatural, that’s what it is. And God forbid the two of them ever make half-breed babies. You’d never live that down. Maybe you should have the talk with your dad, remind him to always use a condom.
The day he walked out on your mom and you in favor of Zia is seared into your psyche. You were in the sixth grade, and between classwork, homework, and your first real crush, you hadn’t exactly been paying attention to his increased absences. He worked, sometimes late, he went out after to relax. That’s what dads do. But not all dads fall out of love with their wives and in love with a coworker.
It was a Saturday, and you’d ridden your bike over past Delaney’s house, hoping just to catch a glimpse of her. When that didn’t happen, you pedaled home, and as was your habit, came through the door quietly. Sometimes you’d overhear interesting parental dialogues or arguments, and that afternoon was no exception. But it wasn’t a conversation you ever expected to eavesdrop on.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say, Quen.” Your mom’s voice quivered, and that was rare. She was gravely wounded.
“I am so goddamn sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I’ll take care of you and Silas. Don’t you worry about that.”
Even at eleven, you had a very bad feeling that a vital change was blowing your way.
“I can take care of myself, thank you. But you will provide for your son.” That part was iron. What came next was rusty tin. “I just can’t believe this. Thirteen years means nothing?”
“Not nothing. Believe it or not, I still lo—”
“Shut up! Shut up! Don’t you dare say it. Get. Out.”
He did, and there was nothing you could do to make him stay. You tried. You begged him. His only response was you’d understand one day. He moved straight into Zia’s little place in Nogales, and he’s been there ever since. He tore your family in two. For a Mexican.
He assumes you’ve forgiven him, and on some small level, you have. But the residual resentment is barely beneath your skin. Time may scab over the wounds, but they’re easily picked open. You drop by their place every now and then, mostly because your dad’s guilt sometimes results in gifts. A fishing pole. A hunting rifle. Your pickup truck. The best is cash.
Speaking of cash, the second message on your phone is from your pal Josh, reminding you to bring ten bucks to help cover the cost of the keg. Okay, you’ve definitely stiffed your friends a time or two, so the not-so-subtle nudge is called for. Only problem is, you’re broke, wallet drained dry. Pockets emptied of all but lint and air and, maybe, a toothpick, used or new.
That part-time QuikTrip gig pays minimum wage and you splurged your last check on a little weed, hoping to lower a certain redhead’s inhibitions, finally finesse your way into her pants.
It was close the previous Friday, but last minute she shut you down. To say you were disappointed would be a major understatement. You’ve been working on Ashlyn for weeks. That girl is the kind of smokin’ you have to be careful not to burn your fingers on.
But she could never even approach “Grace.” You exhale her name into the silence, and it hovers there like a dragonfly. Grace has red hair, too, but it’s long, flowing far below her narrow waist, a thick mane of rust-colored waves. You remember her smile, how once in a while she aimed it straight at you.
The passing thought sparks a white-hot ignition of rage. Your mom says some people were “born angry,” and you agree because you happen to be one of them. Anger smolders steadily in your gut, awaiting a puff of the bellows.
It’s true, and you know it. You don’t even try to fight it anymore. The burn grew worse after Grace pushed you away. She should’ve gone out with you again. Everyone deserves a second chance. That was a mistake on her part, but eventually she’ll realize it was a major lapse of judgment.
Grace should be yours,
only yours.
There are ways
to make that happen.
“Chill, dude,” you counsel yourself, shaking it off. The evening is young and you’ve got plans involving beer and weed and a different girl. As for the brewski cash, you know where you can borrow it, not that you’ve ever reimbursed your mom’s “rainy day” jug.
Your mom probably doesn’t even realize that, now you’re eighteen, you can tap into your savings account without her permission. She calls it your college fund. College, right. What a joke. College is for loser know-it-all rich pricks who think they’re superior to regular guys like you. They’ll get theirs one day, though.
Since that transformative birthday three months ago, the one that magically turned you into an adult, you’ve made a few savings withdrawals. A few “major” purchases have been necessary.
You lace your boots, grab your wallet and phone, slip the contraband into your backpack before you open your bedroom door and take a long listen beyond it. No music, which means your mom can’t be home yet.
First thing she always does is turn on the radio, dial it to some god-awful pop music station. It makes her happy, but you can’t stand to listen to that crap. It’s even worse than rap, which is nothing more than programming for impressionable minds. Metal, that’s okay, but you prefer the lyric-free synthesized drive of fashwave. SoundCloud, YouTube, and BlackSun Radio are your go-to music sources.
But tonight, you hear no Taylor Swift, no Adele, or Bruno stinking Mars, and no Mom’s slightly askew singing-along. She must’ve gone out after work. Still, better safe than sorry.
“Mom?” you call down the empty hallway. “You here?”
With no response but the tick of the antique clock in the den, you wander into your mother’s tidy room, help yourself to twenty bucks in change—quarters only, though it all spends the same.
You suddenly recall a time you took a sandwich bag filled with smaller coins into a convenience store. When you tried to pay for three cans of Red Bull, counting slowly to be sure it was correct, the clerk made the mistake of getting all pissy. “Hurry it up! Can’t you see there are people behind you?”
There were only three or four, and the bitch behind the register was wearing a scarf around her head. That and her dark olive skin told you more than you wanted to know. “Fuck off back to Sharia-land, bitch.”
You threw a handful of change on the counter, picked up your caffeine supply, and exited quickly. You might have heard a gasp at your back, but you’re relatively certain there was applause, too. Not like you’re the only Muslim-hating dude in Tucson.
Tonight you take only quarters. No need to get Josh all riled up. Playing the good son, you leave a note so your mom doesn’t fret: Going out. Home late. Don’t worry. Love you. A surprising thought strikes you. You really mean it. She pisses you off, tries to tell you what to do, when you’re so beyond parental influence. But all moms do stuff like that, right?
She’s kind. Caring. Rarely does she put you down, even when she catches you doing stupid shit, and such infractions have been numerous, especially the older you’ve grown.
Your mom loves her job, really cares about the kids whose lives she tries to improve. Okay, that actually makes you more than a little jealous. Sometimes you think she’d rather mother them than her own son. Plus, you can’t stand her boyfriend.
Imagine if your TradYouth pals ferreted out the truth: Len is Jewish. Okay, the dude’s flush and, near as you can tell, he’s good to your mom. Too good. Sometimes when she comes in after they go out, she’s all blushing and messy, which is too sick to think about. They’ve been together for a while—long enough to be talking marriage, a damn decent reason to escape this house as soon as possible.
You don’t want to be around if she becomes his wife. You don’t trust yourself. A Jew could not be your family. A Jew cannot be your mom.
Heaven help her
if she goes full-on Jew
for that man.
As for him, hell
will open its jaws
and swallow him whole.
It pisses you off that it’s come to this—that some random man can break up what’s left of your family. The thought makes your gut churn hot, like magma. Once that rift is complete, you’ll have no one close. Not even a real friend. You might term the TradYouth guys you hang out with “buddies,” but you can’t rightly call them friends.
The TYN is your community, a place to belong and celebrate whiteness. You proudly display your mother’s Germanic genes in your angular face and frost-blond hair. Only your eyes, which skew slightly green rather than glacier blue, indicate the less-than-completely Aryan heritage of your father. Still, you’re white, and that’s what matters.
Your first hint that America was turning too brown was back in fifth grade, when a bunch of Mexicans ganged up on you and made you empty your pockets, not that there was much in them.
All they did was push you around, bouncing you back and forth between them. Not a single fist came flying. But that feeling of helplessness as you faced impending pain at the hands of a mob triggered an abiding thirst for control.
Gathering with like-minded individuals is one way to maintain that, and tonight’s meet-up officially starts at nine. Your watch informs you it’s five after seven. Plenty of time to grab a bite and head out on a scouting mission. You’re not looking to hassle Mexicans tonight. No, you’ve got something different in mind.
You hop up into Lolita, the ’72 Chevy pickup your gramps willed to your father, who gave it to you since Dad drives a sweet little Mustang when not using a government four-by. Lolita’s bumpers are a little dinged up, and her upholstery wears a permanent perfume of cheap cigarettes. But the bitch’s paint is cherry, her V-8 chortles happily, and she can outrun most newer models. You’d never trade her in.
She’s a forever reminder of Gramps, your namesake, who taught you to hunt and fish, showing you secret watering holes brimming with worm-hungry trout. All your very best childhood memories are right there under the wide-open sky with Gramps, threading bait and hooking whoppers.
The memory almost makes you smile. But fuck that. Gramps is gone. Dad is gone. Mom will be gone soon. Worst of all, your Grace is gone, too, at least she believes she is.
That’s where you’re headed, over past her house, after a food stop at Chick-fil-A. You’re keeping an eye on Grace, watching who comes and goes. Sometimes you follow her, to be sure she’s okay. That draws another snort. She broke up with you exactly because she thinks you’re not okay.
You pull through the drive-in window, order a Spicy Deluxe Sandwich, waffle fries, a large Coke. Fuel before fun, that’s your motto. Grace’s house isn’t far; the food is still hot when you steer Lolita against the curb across the street from the handsome stucco building.
There’s Grace’s car, angled carelessly across the driveway. “Why can’t you park the damn thing straight?” The complaint is a low mutter. “You need to go back to driver’s ed.”
There is movement at a lit window. You spy a pair of silhouettes. One definitely belongs to Grace. The other is taller. Broader. Masculine. And now the guy, whoever he is, reaches out a hand, touches Grace’s face, an invitation.
They’re kissing.
That is not all right.
Not all right.
Not all right.
You will destroy
the person who dares
defile your beautiful Grace.
Whoever it is, he’d better stop or things could go wrong. For the anonymous (as yet) guy. For her. You pound your fists against the dash as the question surfaces: What, exactly, will you do about it?
They move away from the window, toward the front door. You realize you might be seen, and reach toward the keys. But first you need to identify the interloper. It takes only a few moments to see who he is.
Not that freak. First of all, he’s Latino. Worse, dig down under that russet skin, there’s something really ugly buried there.
You should tell Grace. Problem is, she won’t believe you. In fact, she won’t even talk to you.
You’re stronger than she is.
Make her listen.
Fade Out