Honor, page 25
My eyes linger on the sulfuric. A good catalyst for many reactions.
I take out my little key ring. Find the padlock key. Click. The lock springs open. I pull the doors wide.
Inside sits a two-foot by two-foot white plastic tub. I slide it out.
My eyes lock on a small, transparent plastic box. Inside is a green piece of foam. On it lie a dozen gold coins. Ancient. Arabic script. The nearby Army-issued “DARI (AFGHAN PERSIAN)” phrasebook tells me where Dad got the coins. And yes, “got” is probably a euphemism.
Next to the coin collection are ten empty glass bottles, some clear, some green, some brown. All shaped like four-inch-tall mermaids.
Half these mermaid bottles are coming with me. They’re perfect for chemicals where I need only a small amount.
Ha, I should give a bottle to Mr. Renoir. He probably believes in merpeople.
Most of the tub is occupied by a black mesh. Small, off-white bricks are woven to the fabric. Arranged four by four, seven bricks are labeled “C-1,” five “C-2,” and the four central ones “C-3.” With no idea what the mesh’s purpose is, I ignore it.
Gold coins might prove handy, though. I slip them into my jeans’ front pockets, then push the tub back into the locker.
No note from Dad. Explaining this weird collection.
Or why he did what he did.
But I know why. I know the triggering event. I—
The block-laden mesh.
Jesus, he brought it home.
I secure the little locker with the padlock.
In the nurse’s office, I lay on a brown cot, staring at the ceiling. I hated telling Mr. B a dizzy spell made me need to lie down. But I was dizzy earlier, so it’s not so much a fib as a delayed truth.
And even if I don’t need to lie down, there are things I need from this office.
“How we feelin’, Titus?” Nurse Bletcher asks. With no offense meant, Mr. B is the ugliest man I’ve seen. Horse-faced, horse-bodied.
For the last twenty minutes, his stomach or intestines have been gurgling. His glances at the nearby bathroom door have grown in frequency.
“Better, Mr. B. Another twenty minutes and I’ll be, uh, I’ll head out.” Almost said out of his hair, but the man is bald and might be sensitive. “Can...may I use the phone to call home? Please?”
A lot of poorer kids somehow afford a cell. Not me.
“Sure, Titus, sure. I’ll give you privacy.” He hurries into the single-person bathroom and slams the door.
The phone waits on Mr. B’s desk, a neat affair with two small stacks of papers and no computer. Behind the desk stands my target, a three-drawer filing cabinet.
I call home. The other end rings.
Rings.
And rings.
I hang up. Nervous. Where...oh.
I dial Aunt Olive’s.
“Hello?” Dom’s voice. Small.
I audibly exhale in relief. “Hey, lil’ bro. Mom get an extra shift?”
“Yeah.”
Good. She won’t be back until Saturday.
Depressing the file cabinet latch without a sound, I open the top drawer, speaking louder to mask any noise. “Tell Auntie I’m sleeping at a friend’s. For a project.”
Among the drawer’s three hundred files, five are of interest. I stuff them into my backpack between a half dozen mermaid bottles.
“Some weer-doh called at home.”
I close the drawer. Kneel to open the bottom one. “What weirdo? What’d he say?”
“He asked for you. I said you were un-uh-vail-ble. And he said ‘Choose.’ I said ‘Choose wha’?’ And he said ‘Choose whom.’ And he tole me to tell you ‘whom,’ not ‘who,’ like it was a big deal.”
Nieve.
My stomach clenches. “He say anything else?”
I pull “RODRIGUEZ, NEVILLE” from the bottom drawer. Spy the next name. “RUTHERFORD, TITUS.”
“He tole me to tell you ‘Tomorrow ev-uh-nin.’ I said ‘Tomorrow ev-uh-nin wha’?’ And he hung up!”
“Okay, lil’ bro. Here’s what you do.” I tell Dom to stay at Auntie’s. Not just tonight, but tomorrow. Which means pretending he’s sick and skipping school.
“All Friday?”
“Yes, Dom, all Friday.”
“But Titus!”
I take my file. How can I not? “Trust me, lil’ bro.” I lower my voice, although I doubt Mr. B can hear me over the dreadful bathroom noises he’s making. “There’re scary people around, Dom. Remember the phrase ‘laying low’? You need to lay low.”
“I-is it...El Mee-no-tau-row?”
El Minotauro dwells in the maze of tunnels and buildings on the school’s south side. Because those structures are across the street, they’re technically not part of the school. El Minotauro deals drugs there, and neither teachers nor law enforcement give him trouble.
Why?
Because they fear him. Even La Espada has steered clear of El Minotauro’s operations. Although there are rumors they want his business.
“No, Dom, it’s someone else. I’ll take care of it. Just lay low at Auntie’s. Got it, lil’ bro?”
“‘K Titus.”
“Love you, lil’ bro.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up. Dom likes it when I hang up first. A game I always let him win. My heart sinks, knowing Dom will retire the undefeated champion.
Riiiiiip.
Nieve examines the page he tore from the little book. “Uh oh, Titsus owes the library money.”
The boys laugh, smoking in the northern lot. Ernesto stifles a cough. He hates cigarettes. It aggravates his allergies, his asthma, or whatever the hell Mr. B said he has.
But if Ernesto didn’t smoke, the others would turn on him. And no Jorge to protect him.
Where is Jorge?
“Here, Ernesto,” Nieve says, handing him the torn page. “Don’t choke on a peach.”
In the page’s black-and-white drawing, a boy sits at the end of a long table, before him a plate with a single peach. The caption reads:
E is for ERNEST who choked on a peach.
“I’m allergic to peaches,” Ernesto says, regretting it when the others laugh and jeer.
Nieve blows a gout of smoke into Ernesto’s face. “You and your brother are allergic to everything. Here.”
Riiip. Another page. For George “smothered under a rug.”
Where is Jorge?
Other boys hold pages. Hector should avoid thugs. (Only Nieve could joke that Hector should avoid himself.) Jaime shouldn’t drink lye, whatever the hell that is. Nieve has to avoid ennui, which makes no sense. The book’s stupid. Like all books.
Nieve pulls out his lighter and sets the ravaged book aflame. Drops it at his feet.
“Wait, wha’ ‘bout me?” Víctor asks.
“Figured I’d spare you the embarrassment. You get the dumbest death.”
“H-how?” Víctor asks.
Nieve laughs, and the others follow. “You go out like my spirit animal, Mr. Al Swearengen.”
“Wha’ does tha’ mean, Nieve?” Víctor is big, even before puffing up.
“Read it yourself.” Nieve sticks his foot into the book despite the small fire and flips it to Víctor. Víctor stomps it a few times, then rips it off the ground. Opens it wide, its spine cracking.
Ernesto sees the page. It’s blackened. Illegible except for a capital “V.”
“Yeah, thaz stupid,” he says, as if he can read it. He chucks the burnt remnant at Jaime, who catches it and then whips it at Hector, who gently lobs it to Ernesto. Like Ernesto’s a wimp. Who can’t catch.
And he doesn’t, Gorey’s book slipping off his hands. The others laugh.
Where the hell’s Jorge?
The backpack slows my progress down the southern corridor. I’d rather not be here. It’s always been the bad side, run by one gang or another. The school’s having a new teachers’ lounge installed nearby, maybe to reclaim this area.
Good luck.
Ahead, stairs descend to the janitorial area. The school boilers are there. Plus access to the tunnel network.
And a path to El Minotauro, the reason I’m here.
A smell invades my nostrils. Like new car smell, but more acrid. It’s new carpet smell. To my left, the door to the future teachers’ lounge stands ajar, likely left open by a careless worker.
Mr. Renoir said the scent compound is 4-phenylcyclohexene. He challenged me to draw it. I did. He beamed, then looked so sad.
He must know. Maybe Mom told him as a family friend. Or maybe it’s in my file, and all the teachers know. I’ll read it later—
The collision and the word “Titsus” hit me simultaneously. Drive me into the lounge-to-be door. Hard. Don’t bl—
—ack out. Dammit. I’m on fresh carpeting, other shaggy scarlet rolls leaning against one wall. Glass bottles tinkle. Settle in my backpack. Not the shriek of broken glass.
Someone kicks me. Stomach. I gasp while doubling up. One hand instinctively goes to defend my belly. One to my face.
But another kick doesn’t come. Jorge stands overhead, a knife in one hand. Apparently tomorrow evening isn’t soon enough.
A few dry, brown flecks adorn the blade.
“What’s in the bag, Titsus?”
Jorge and Ernesto had a baby sister. Colicky. Screamed and cried without end. The whole complex could hear that kid. Word was the phase should pass after six months.
But it passed after one month, the child falling silent late one night.
She was never seen again. Allegedly sent to live with relatives.
No one dared call the police.
“What’s in the bag?”
I moan.
Jorge leans down and unzips my backpack. “What’s this?”
He pulls out a mermaid bottle. The narrow, dark brown one.
“Perfume.”
“Aww. For your mama.” Jorge’s breathing becomes wheezing. The 4-phenylcyclohexene is not treating him well.
“Don’t inhale it. It’s expensive,” I say, making my voice raspy. Acting more hurt than I am.
Bullies are predictable. So are criminals. You say don’t. They say do.
Jorge uncaps the bottle. I curl up, like the kick caused enormous pain.
Not like a spring about to uncoil.
Jorge pulls the vial to his nose and sucks in an enormous breath. I might as well have poured the contents onto a rag and held it over his face. His eyes roll back and his body drops, knife falling from one hand, brown vial from the other, and my body snaps straight, my hand reaching for the vial, not wanting the chloroform to spill, not wanting to go back to the Batcave and waste time dispensing more, but the container’s too far, and pain stabs my kicked stomach as it extends, and I’ve never been good at catching, but it’s Dad’s bottle, and my arm stretches longer than ever, my fingers get under the bottle, slow it, the smiling mermaid dancing on my digits...
...then sliding into my hand. Safe. I snatch the cap and seal the bottle.
The sprawled Jorge lies motionless.
Nearby, his knife stands point first through the carpet, the blade’s brown flecks crying out to be tested. Perhaps the police will when they find it.
I return the mermaid bottle to my bag. Might as well be carrying a flammable liquids cabinet with some mis-stored acids. I drag the backpack to the door to keep it out of the way.
Close the door to avoid unwanted passersby. Witnesses.
Walk back toward Jorge. And the unused carpet rolls.
Two hours later, I enter the Frith Library. Ha, first I rolled out the red carpet for Jorge—carpets really—which was exhausting. Then I navigated the school tunnels to El Minotauro’s lair. Stole away with a valuable prize. But I left a note on how to retrieve it.
The Frith is my sanctuary. Quiet. Almost forgotten on a back street. One kindly librarian. And innumerable books. I mention this place in a letter I’m leaving Dom, in case he needs a sanctuary someday.
Jorge and Ernesto’s files are spread before me. Jesus, they are allergic to everything. Including being decent human beings.
Nieve’s file is more interesting. His paleness stems from albinism, but not all albinos have pigment-free irises. Nieve has an icy blue eye color.
The file indicates Nieve can’t tolerate bright lights. So what? I’m not albino, and I can’t tol...
...erate bright lights. Damn. Another tiny blackout. Can’t afford them.
I stow the gang’s folders, my other enemies’ files having nothing of interest.
Pull out mine.
The teachers know.
I guess Mom had to tell them. What if I collapse in class? Or act weird? Violent?
On another page is the textbook prognosis of 3-15 months. A handwritten addition, maybe by Mr. B, says Mom insists I have longer.
My eyes tear up. She has hope.
I don’t. Sorry, Mom, glass is half empty, maybe 100% empty. Given the symptoms, I don’t even have 3-15 weeks. I’m thinking 3-15 days.
But really, I have 1 day.
Better make it count.
Hector staggers along his hallway, door numbers counting down 14, 12, 10... Carajo! Nieve tricked him into too much tequila. One shot too many. Maybe three.
Up ahead is Hector’s door, “2.” Nieve once called that number the largest even prime number. When Hector said he didn’t know what the hell that meant, Nieve punched him in the shoulder. Hard. Then told him to look it up.
And Hector had, fearing Nieve asking him later. But Nieve never did and—
The “2” door stands ajar. Hector stops. Swoons. Shakes his head. Mama left the door open again, meaning she’s passed-out drunk. Not that it matters. No one dares steal from their apartment. If they did, Hector would easily find them. And make an example. Like a few Decembers back.
Maybe Mama left something Hector can drink, then say she killed the bottle herself.
Hector once offered to drink with her. A mother-son activity. She cursed him out, telling him he was too young. That alcohol was bad. Evil, even.
Puta. So full of it.
Hector shambles into the living room, its lights out, curtains drawn. Pushes the door closed. Struggles to find the light switch. Finally...
Click. He turns and someone sucker-punches him. All the air “ooofs” from Hector as he collapses against the door, threatening to slide down it.
Someone seizes his right arm, someone else grabs his left. Pin him against the door. But Hector focuses on the landscape before him.
An apartment in complete disarray. Torn apart. And between the ransacked room and Hector looms an enormous man. Easily six-and-a-half feet tall, but not thin. Broad. Massive. Hair chokes every inch of skin, framed by long hair from scalp to waist.
El Minotauro.
The dealer’s two lieutenants keep Hector immobile. He can’t pull free. Can’t even catch his breath.
El Minotauro holds up a plastic-and-tape-wrapped package. A brick of something. Maybe cocaine.
“Got your note,” El Minotauro says, voice low and gravelly. “Should be more careful ‘bout the paper you use.” With his brick-free hand, the bull-like man holds up a glossy brochure mailed from a college.
Near the document’s top, someone scrawled, “How to buy back what I took...”
Below those directions, on the mailing label, Hector spots his address.
He brought that flyer to school to show the guys. Just a joke. Like he’d want more education. But Hector forgot, leaving it in his locker. Junk mail to sit with junk schoolbooks. “But—”
El Minotauro punches him again. Hector sags, only remaining upright because of the lieutenants. One goon shoves a dish towel in Hector’s mouth.
Hector gags. The cloth went deep. Hector can’t spit it out.
El Minotauro slides the brochure into a jeans pocket. “Can’t have punks like you thinking you can do this,” he says, holding up the brick in explanation.
The other hand pulls a long, shiny knife from El Minotauro’s black jacket.
In an alley, I surveil my apartment building for thirty minutes. No signs of trouble. No one loiters in the shadows.
In a top-floor window, Dom appears, playing “Army” with plastic soldiers. Having the time of his life.
Then he withdraws, perhaps launching an assault to seize Auntie’s couch.
My vision blurs, but it’s not my brain acting up. Tears. I wipe my eyes. Can’t afford this now.
Another twenty minutes of surveillance are followed by a matching time to sneak to my building and up the stairs. No one yells “Titsus” and tackles me. Or drags me into a dark corner to cut my throat.
No one lurks in my hallway.
No door stands slightly ajar.
But something waits on the worn hallway carpet.
A tiny book. Torn. Burned.
The Gorey book.
I could retreat. Sneak away and spend the night on the street. Or maybe in the Batcave?
It isn’t the need for my home that makes up my mind. Or the need to leave Dom my letters.
It’s anger. Reason-killing rage.
I scoop up the book. Trade it for the green mermaid bottle in my backpack. Stab my key into the door’s lock. Click. Push the door open.
Dark. As it should be.
With one hand, I flick on the lights. My other hand holds the mermaid bottle containing 37% hydrochloric acid. If things go south, at least I’ll make one thug beyond miserable.
Silence. I shut the door. Search the apartment.
No assassins await me.
Speaking of assassins, bet by now the enemy is down another man. So I’ve got that going for me.
In the kitchen, I make a snack. And collect materials to make my first fruit cocktail, including apple juice, various fruits, peanuts, and a tiny bottle of peppermint extract. Mom’s massive cookbook provides directions. It’s like a chemistry experiment, she’d always say.
With the solution blended and stored in the fridge, I examine the Gorey book. On the cover, someone used white correction fluid to write “CHOOSE.” Oh I’ve chosen, my friends.
My enemies’ pages are missing, except Víctor’s. It’s blackened. Illegible.
