Wanted by Heidi Ayarbe Read Free Book Online Page B

high. Now all I want to do is swim my way out and make sure Moch hasn’t been left for dead somewhere.
    There are two places where time is eternal—heaven, from what I’ve read, and Carson High School, from what I’ve experienced. Ninety-minute blocks are spent in a twisted time warp, and no matter how much I look at the clocks, the hands don’t advance. I feign concentration, only thinking about getting to Mocho’s house. He wanted to talk. He asked me over the other day. I didn’t figure it was anything, and now I don’t even know if he’s alive. Garbage Disposal.
    After school I run to the parking lot so I won’t get caught up in the lineup on the way out.
    “Michal!” Josh Tool Ellison catches up to me just as I get to my car. I’ve managed to avoid him all day. “Can we talk?” he asks.
    I shove one of Seth’s preview papers at him. “I think you’ve talked enough.” I should’ve known he’d be like the rest of them. I wriggle my key in the door. Figures right now would be the time it decides to get stuck. C’mon, Little Car.
    Josh watches as I struggle. “Can I—”
    I hold up my hand. The Buick makes it virtually impossible to have a dramatic exit. Locking this car, in fact, is probably a monumental waste of time. It’s not exactly robber bait. The lock finally budges and I pull up on the metallic handle with all my strength. The heavy door swings open, and I throw myself in front of the steering wheel.
    Josh stands between the door and me. “I’m sorry. Really,” he says.
    I shrug. “Whatever.”
    “Please, just give me another shot. Let me make it up to you somehow.”
    I stare at the line of cars streaming out of the parking lot; I’ve missed the window of time to get out of here before everybody else does. “I’ve gotta go,” I say, closing the door. I look at Josh in my rearview mirror and can’t help but think he really is sorry.
    When I drive up to his house, Mocho is sitting out front on an old lawn chair, its plastic weave frayed at the ends. Mocho’s cousins run around the yard, playing whack-me-with-an-aluminum-tube game. I feel a surge of relief and wave like a maniac through the window. There’s a three-legged table propped up against the side of the trailer house, and two recliners without their backs. The brown tufts of grass are barely visible underneath patches of dirty snow, old tires, and what looks like an impromptu car-part garage sale. I don’t know what Moch wants with all that junk.
    Before I have a chance to get to him, Mrs. Mendez is waving me into the old trailer house. I see Mocho say something to her, and she swats him with a dish towel.
    Mrs. Mendez gives me a warm hug when I walk up the crooked aluminum steps. “Where you been, Michal? You never come by no more. How’s Liliana?” She’s wearing a maid’s uniform—some retro-aproned gray dress, like she’s just stepped out of a TV sitcom.
    Mocho walks in behind us. I flinch at his swollen face—bluish-black cheeks and split lip, a bruise shaped like a class ring on his jaw.
    “Are you—”
    “Fine,” Moch interrupts.
    I follow his eyes, scanning the kitchen: peeling wallpaper; a cardboard box covering a broken window; linoleum, worn and yellowed with time, bubbling in one spot so everybody stumbles on the same bump in the floor except his mom, who sweeps around the crammed kitchen gracefully.
    It bothers me he pays more attention to some peeling wallpaper than the smells coming from bubbling pots, the kids running around the neighborhood, the laughter coming from a back room. The place is alive with its broken window and peeling paint. I sit next to Moch on the couch and watch the soccer match between Barça and Celtic.
    “¡A comer!” Mrs. Mendez hollers, and the kitchen fills with bodies of all ages. Chairs, stools, and wooden crates covered with towels are shoved next to two card tables. I’m placed at the head of the table, squished between two kids who I understand to be Mocho’s