Perfect Chemistry

“Get up, Alex.”

I scowl at my little brother and bury my head under my pillow. Since I share a room with my eleven- and fifteen-year-old brothers, there’s no escape except the little privacy a lone pillow can give.

“Leave me alone, Luis,” I say roughly through the pillow. “No estés chingando.”

“I’m not fuckin’ with you. Mamá told me to wake you so you won’t be late for school.”

Senior year. I should be proud I’ll be the first family member in the Fuentes house hold to graduate high school. But after graduation, real life will start. College is just a dream. Senior year for me is like a retirement party for a sixty-five-year-old. You know you can do more, but everyone expects you to quit.

“I’m all dressed in my new clothes,” Luis’s proud but muffled voice comes through the pillow. “The nenas won’t be able to resist this Latino stud.”

“Good for you,” I mumble.

“Mamá said I should pour this pitcher of water on you if you don’t get up.”

Was privacy too much to ask for? I take my pillow and chuck it across the room. It’s a direct hit. The water splashes all over him.

“Culero!” he screams at me. “These are the only new clothes I got.”

A fit of laughter is coming through the bedroom door. Carlos, my other brother, is laughing like a frickin’ hyena. That is, until Luis jumps him. I watch the fight spiral out of control as my younger brothers punch and kick each other.

They’re good fighters, I think proudly as I watch them duke it out. But as the oldest male in the house, it’s my duty to break it up. I grab the collar of Carlos’s shirt but trip on Luis’s leg and land on the floor with them.

Before I can regain my balance, icy cold water is poured on my back. Turning quickly, I catch mi’amá dousing us all, a bucket poised in her fist above us while she’s wearing her work uniform. She works as a checker for the local grocery store a couple blocks from our house. It doesn’t pay a whole heck of a lot, but we don’t need much.

“Get up,” she orders, her fiery attitude out in full force.

“Shit, Ma,” Carlos says, standing.

Mi’amá takes what’s left in her bucket, sticks her fingers in the icy water, and flicks the liquid in Carlos’s face.

Luis laughs and before he knows it, he gets flicked with water as well. Will they ever learn?

“Any more attitude, Luis?” she asks.

“No, ma’am,” Luis says, standing as straight as a soldier.

“You have any more filthy words to come out of that boca of yours, Carlos?” She dips her hand in the water as a warning.

“No, ma’am,” echoes soldier number two.

“And what about you, Alejandro?” Her eyes narrow into slits as she focuses on me.

“What? I was tryin’ to break it up,” I say innocently, giving her my you-can’t-resist-me smile.

She flicks water in my face. “That’s for not breaking it up sooner. Now get dressed, all of you, and come eat breakfast before school.”

So much for my you-can’t-resist-me smile. “You know you love us,” I call after her as she leaves our room.

After a quick shower, I walk back to my bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. I catch sight of Luis with one of my bandannas on his head and my gut tightens. I yank it off him. “Don’t ever touch this, Luis.”

“Why not?” he asks, his deep brown eyes all innocent.

To Luis, it’s a bandanna. To me, it’s a symbol of what is and will never be. How the hell am I supposed to explain it to an eleven-year-old kid? He knows what I am. It’s no secret the bandanna has the Latino Blood colors on it. Payback and revenge got me in and now there’s no way out. But I’ll die before I let one of my brothers get sucked in.

I ball the bandanna in my fist. “Luis, don’t touch my shit. Especially my Blood stuff.”

“I like red and black.”

That’s the last thing I need to hear. “If I ever catch you wearin’ it again, you’ll be sportin’ black and blue,” I tell him. “Got it, little brother?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I got it.”

As he leaves the room with a spring in his step, I wonder if he really does get it. I stop myself from thinking too hard about it as I grab a black T-shirt from my dresser and pull on worn, faded jeans. When I tie my bandanna around my head, I hear mi’amá’s voice bellowing from the kitchen.

“Alejandro, come eat before the food gets cold. De prisa, hurry up.”

“I’m comin’,” I call back. I’ll never understand why food is such an important part of her life.

My brothers are already busy chowing down on their breakfast when I enter the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and scan its contents.

“Sit down.”

“Ma, I’ll just grab—”

“You’ll grab nothing, Alejandro. Sit. We’re a family and we’re going to eat like one.”

I sigh, close the refrigerator door, and sit beside Carlos. Sometimes being a member of a close family has its disadvantages. Mi’amá places a heaping plate of huevos and tortillas in front of me.

“Why can’t you call me Alex?” I ask, my head down while I stare at the food in front of me.

“If I wanted to call you Alex, I wouldn’t have bothered to name you Alejandro. Don’t you like your given name?”

My muscles tense. I was named after a father who is no longer alive, leaving me the responsibility of being the designated man of the house. Alejandro, Alejandro Jr., Ju nior . . . it’s all the same to me.

“Would it matter?” I mumble as I pick up a tortilla. I look up, trying to gauge her reaction.

Her back is to me as she cleans dishes in the sink. “No.”

“Alex wants to pretend he’s white,” Carlos chimes in. “You can change your name, bro, but nobody’d mistake you for anythin’ other than Mexicano.”

“Carlos, cállate la boca,” I warn. I don’t want to be white. I just don’t want to be associated with my father.

“Por favor, you two,” our mother pleads. “Enough fighting for one day.”

“Mojado,” Carlos sings, egging me on by calling me a wetback.

I’ve had enough of Carlos’s mouth; he’s gone too far. I stand, my chair scraping the floor. Carlos follows and steps in front of me, closing the space between us. He knows I could kick his ass. His overblown ego is gonna get him in trouble with the wrong person one of these days.

“Carlos, sit down,” mi’amá orders.

“Dirty beaner,” Carlos drawls at me in a fake deep accent. “Better yet, es un Ganguero.”

“Carlos!” mi’amá reprimands sharply as she comes forward, but I get in between them and grab my brother’s collar.

“Yeah, that’s all anyone will ever think of me,” I tell him. “But you keep talkin’ trash and they’ll think that of you, too.”

“Brother, they’ll think that of me anyway. Whether I want them to or not.”

I release him. “You’re wrong, Carlos. You can do better, be better.”

“Than you?”

“Yeah, better than me and you know it,” I say. “Now apologize to mi’amá for talkin’ smack in front of her.”

One look in my eyes and Carlos knows I’m not kidding around. “Sorry, Ma,” he says, then sits back down. I don’t miss his glare, though, as his ego got knocked down a peg.

Mi’amá turns and opens the fridge, trying to hide her tears. Damn it, she’s worried about Carlos. He’s a sophomore and the next two years are either going to make him or break him.

I pull on my black leather jacket, needing to get out of here. I give mi’amá a peck on the cheek with an apology for ruining her breakfast, then walk outside wondering how I’m going to keep Carlos and Luis away from my path while steering them toward a better one. Oh, the fucking irony of it all.

On the street, guys in the same color bandannas flag the Latino Blood signal: right hand tapping twice on their left arm while their ring finger is bent. My veins fire up as I flag right back before straddling my motorcycle. They want a tough-as-nails gang member, they got one. I put on a hell of a show to the outside world; sometimes I even surprise myself.

“Alex, wait up,” a familiar female voice calls out.

Carmen Sanchez, my neighbor and ex-girlfriend, runs up to me.

“Hey, Carmen,” I mutter.

“How about giving me a ride to school?”

Her short black skirt shows off her incredible legs, and her shirt is tight, accentuating her small but perky chichis. Once I would have done anything for her, but that was before I caught her in another guy’s bed over the summer. Or car, as it was.

“Come on, Alex. I promise not to bite . . . unless you want me to.”

Carmen is my Latino Blood homegirl. Whether we’re a couple or not, we still have each other’s backs. It’s the code we live by. “Get on,” I say.

Carmen hops on my motorcycle and deliberately places her hands on my thighs while pressing against my backside. It doesn’t have the effect she was probably hoping for. What does she think, that I’ll forget the past? No way. My history defines who I am.

I try to focus on starting my senior year at Fairfield, the here and now. It’s damn difficult because, unfortunately, after graduation my future will likely be as screwed up as my past.