We Were Here by Matt de la Pena Read Free Book Online

worse, if there wasn’t no tears left. Picturing her sitting there at the kitchen table withboth hands around her mug of tea, listening to the answering machine message. It got me thinking. Since everything that happened, me and her haven’t said more than ten words to each other. Ten words in four months. That’s gotta be some kind of record for a mom and her son. Especially when you consider we used to talk all the time.
    Instead of going straight back to my room to read I went in the backyard, sat on one of the cinder blocks so I could think about everything. The rest of the guys were inside waiting to make their calls or playing cards or watching rap videos on BET. So I had some space outside for once.
    Man, I started to feel really bad about myself and where I was in life and how maybe I was gonna end up being a total failure or something, like one of those guys who has nowhere else to go so they just lay around the park all day. Acting all crazy and talking to themselves and digging through the nasty-ass trash. I’ve always known Diego’s her favorite—which never really bothers me since he’s older and he’s pretty much every-damn-body’s favorite. And besides, my moms used to still like talking to me about school or stuff that was happening in the news or how our days went and all that. Especially after my old man died. Whenever Diego was out with his friends on a weekend night she’d come into our bedroom with her CD player, and we’d sit on the end of my bed listening to music.
    She’d tell me who was singing. This is Bob Dylan, Miguel. This is Simon and Garfunkel. This is Crosby, Stills and Nash. Al Green. Marvin Gaye. Nina Simone. Cat Stevens. She’d tell me to pay special attention to the words, because according to her, good lyrics were what made a song. And then we’d just sit there. On my bed. Listening to music. Paying attention to the lyrics. Hanging out, almost like if we were friends and not just a mom and her son.
    I stayed outside on my cinder block for a long-ass time after my call home. Thinking about that shit. Swatting damn flies. And then I decided something. Maybe it’s nobody’s fault how we don’t talk no more. Me and my moms. Maybe it’s just the situation and it won’t go on forever. I still care about her as much as back when we used to listen to music. Who says people have to talk all the time to care about each other?
    So from now on I’m gonna do something to make it even easier on her. Next Sunday, when Jenny and Jaden bring me in the office to call home, I’m gonna dial a fake number. And I’m gonna pretend we’re talking back and forth like a normal call would go. Like we’re catching up about our weeks. But the whole time I’ll just be listening to dead air in my ear. That way Jaden won’t have to write me up, and my mom won’t have to talk to me when I know she probably doesn’t really want to, and I’ll know I’m making it easy on everybody, including myself.
    Kind of mad smart, right?
    That’s another thing about me you should know. Sometimes I can be good as hell at figuring out stuff when it seems like there’s no possible way.
    Here’s the thing: at some point I hope my moms will wanna listen to music again. Even if it’s not in our old apartment, but out somewhere, like a coffee shop. I know it won’t ever be like it was before, but just anything would be cool with me. ’cause I really do like her a lot, man. And deep down she might even still like me too. She just can’t show it ’cause of what I did and ’cause she’s the mom. If you think about it, she’s been through about ten times more than most people. And she still means well. She really does.
    Anyways, long as they got me stuck in here and I gottamake calls home I’m gonna dial a fake number. Every Sunday. I’m just gonna pretend like we’re on the phone together, talking about what everybody else talks about when they call home. And that way everybody’ll be happy.

July