May 13

Here’s the thing: I was probably gonna write a book when I got older anyways. About what it’s like growing up on the levee in Stockton, where every other person you meet has missing teeth or is leaning against a liquor store wall begging for change to buy beer. Or maybe it’d be about my dad dying in the stupid war and how at the funeral they gave my mom some cheap medal and a folded flag and shot a bunch of rifles at the clouds. Or maybe the book would just be something about me and my brother, Diego. How we hang mostly by ourselves, pulling corroded-looking fish out of the murky levee water and throwing them back. How sometimes when Moms falls asleep in front of the TV we’ll sneak out of the apartment and walk around the neighborhood, looking into other people’s windows, watching them sleep.

That’s the weirdest thing, by the way. That every person you come across lays down in a bed, under the covers, and closes their eyes at night. Cops, teachers, parents, hot girls, pro ballers, everybody. For some reason it makes people seem so much less real when I look at them.

Anyways, at first I was worried standing there next to the hunchback old man they gave me for a lawyer, both of us waiting for the judge to make his verdict. I thought maybe they’d put me away for a grip of years because of what I did. But then I thought real hard about it. I squinted my eyes and concentrated with my whole mind. That’s something you don’t know about me. I can sometimes make stuff happen just by thinking about it. I try not to do it too much because my head mostly gets stuck on bad stuff, but this time something good actually happened: the judge only gave me a year in a group home. Said I had to write in a journal so some counselor could try to figure out how I think. Dude didn’t know I was probably gonna write a book anyways. Or that it’s hard as hell bein’ at home these days, after what happened. So when he gave out my sentence it was almost like he didn’t give me a sentence at all.

I told my moms the same thing when we were walking out of the courtroom together. I said, Yo, Ma, this isn’t so bad, right? I thought those people would lock me up and throw away the key.

She didn’t say anything back, though. Didn’t look at me either. Matter of fact, she didn’t look at me all the way up till the day she had to drive me to Juvenile Hall, drop me off at the gate, where two big beefy white guards were waiting to escort me into the building. And even then she just barely glanced at me for a split second. And we didn’t hug or anything. Her face seemed plain, like it would on any other day. I tried to look at her real good as we stood there. I knew I wasn’t gonna see her for a while. Her skin was so much whiter than mine and her eyes were big and blue. And she was wearing the fake diamond earrings she always wears that sparkle when the sun hits ’em at a certain angle. Her blond hair all pulled back in a ponytail.

For some reason it hit me hard right then—as one of the guards took me by the arm and started leading me away—how mad pretty my mom is. For real, man, it’s like someone’s picture you’d see in one of them magazines laying around the dentist’s office. Or on a TV show. And she’s actually my moms.

I looked over my shoulder as they walked me through the gate, but she still wasn’t looking at me. It’s okay, though. I understood why.

It’s ’cause of what I did.

June 1

I’ll put it to you like this: I’m about ten times smarter than everyone in Juvi. For real. These guys are a bunch of straight-up dummies, man. Take this big black kid they put me in a cell with, Rondell. He can’t even read. I know ’cause three nights ago he stepped to me when I was writing in my journal. He said: Yo, Mexico, wha’chu writin’ ’bout in there?

"Whatever I wanna write about, I said without looking up. How ’bout them apples, homey?"

He paused. What you just said?

I shook my head, told him: "And Mexico’s a pretty stupid thing to call me, by the way, considering I’ve never even been to Mexico."

His ass stood there a quick sec, thinking about what I’d just said to him—or at least trying. Then he bum-rushed me. Shoved me right off my chair and onto the ground, pressed his giant grass-stained shoe down on my neck. He said: Don’t you never talk like that to Rondell again. You hear? Nobody talk to Rondell like that.

I tried to nod, but he had my neck pinned, so I couldn’t really move my head. Couldn’t make a sound either. Or breathe too good.

He swiped my journal off the table and stared at the page I was writing, his kick weighing down on my neck. And I’m not gonna lie, man, I got a little spooked. Rondell’s a freak for a sixteen-year-old: six foot something with huge-ass arms and legs and a face that already looks like he’s a grown man. And I’d just written some pretty bad stuff about him in my journal. Called him a retarded ape who smelled like when a rat dies in the wall of your apartment. But at the same time I almost wanted Rondell to push down harder with his shoe. Almost wanted him to crush my neck, break my windpipe, end my stupid-ass journal right then and there. I started imagining the shoe pushing all the way through, rubber hitting cement. Them telling my moms what happened as she stood with the phone cupped to her ear in the kitchen, crying but at the same time looking sort of relieved, too.

After a couple minutes like that—Rondell staring at the page I’d been writing and me pinned to the nasty cement floor of our cell—he tossed the journal back on the table and took his foot off my neck.

And that’s how I knew he couldn’t read. Dude was staring right at the sentences I’d just written about him, right? And he didn’t do nothin’. Just hopped up on his bunk, linked his fingers behind his head and stared at the paint-chipped ceiling.

What Rondell Thinks About:

There was a long silence in our cell as I got up off the floor and sat back in the chair, tried to stretch out my neck and jaw. Then Rondell said: Hey, Mexico.

I rolled my eyes. Like we were gonna be boys after he just tried to kill my ass.

Yo. Mexico.

People are straight-up ignorant, man.

He leaned over to look at me. Mexico! I’m talkin’ to you, man!

What! I shouted back. Go on, man. Talk. Damn.

Yo, you think God could really see the stuff you do down here? Even when you locked up like me and you is?

I think he sees about as much as Santa Claus, I said, opening my journal back up, ripping out my last entry and crumpling it in a ball.

He laid back down, stared at the ceiling again. ’Cause I been thinkin’ about that lately. If he could see me even when I’m in here. Behind bars. I been thinkin’ he maybe don’t like what he see too much.

I looked up at Rondell’s bunk, stared at his big black leg hanging off the bed. I looked at my brown arm and then back at his leg. It was probably the blackest damn thing I’d ever seen in my life—and more than half my school back in Stockton is either black kids or Mexicans like me. You ever wonder why some people get so much darker than others? It’s about people’s genes, I know. And how all the continents were once connected or whatever. But how’d it start? Who was the first person to come out looking all different from everybody else? Sometimes I trip on little shit like that.

Wha’chu think, Mexico?

He couldn’t see me, but I shrugged anyway, told him: "I don’t think any of us know what he can see, Rondell. You ever think maybe that’s the point?"

And that was it, we didn’t say another word to each other for the next two days. And on the third day, early in the morning, a guard came for me. He slid open our cell door holding a clipboard, looking down at it, and said: Miguel Castañeda? Grab your stuff and come with me, kid. You’re being transferred.

To where? I said.

Group home in San Jose. Let’s go.

Rondell didn’t look down at me while I was gathering up all my stuff. Even though I was being all loud on purpose. Even though I could tell he was awake.

June 2

I’ll tell you this: my brother Diego’s a trip, man. He’s probably the quickest kid you could ever meet when it comes to making up a lie. I’m not playing, yo, he could do it right there on the spot. Fool anybody, anytime. Anyplace.

Take the morning Principal Cody caught me and him fighting in the hall three months before I got locked up—Diego was in eleventh grade, I was in tenth. The bell had just rung and we were still going at it pretty good, like we always did: pushing and wrestling and landing an occasional fist to each other’s neck or rib cage (we never hit each other in the face, though; that was Diego’s one rule). He was pissed at me because I forgot to bring our money for the school field trip to see the Stockton Ports play baseball. Left it sitting right there on the kitchen table next to our empty cereal bowls. Or maybe that was the time he found out I rode his dirt bike up and down the levee in the rain without asking, got mad mud all over his spokes and tires and the bottom part of his frame. I don’t remember exactly why we were fighting that day, but right in the middle of it Principal Cody blew his whistle and said, What the hell’s going on here!

Me and Diego separated quick, turned to Principal Cody, straightening out our plain white T-shirts.

I was scared as hell ’cause Moms had just told me and Diego that if we got one more detention she was gonna ship us down to Gramps’s place in Fresno, where they pick strawberries and raisins and figs all day under a sun so damn hot it looks blurry. Me and Diego did it for one week last summer and we pretty much almost died, man. I’m not even playing. And all Gramps did was laugh the whole time. He told us in Spanish that we were tired ’cause we weren’t real Mexicans like everyone else who was out there picking in his group. We were Americans. Told us we might be dark on the outside, but inside we were white like a couple blond boys from Hollywood. And then he laughed some more and so did all his buddies.

Like pretty much every time my gramps says something, I only understood half the words, but as soon as the old man went back to the picking, Diego filled in the blanks.

Diego’s Play:

Anyways, there was Principal Cody scowling at us, right? Freckled-ass arms folded, stupid whistle hanging from a red string around his neck. But Diego’s mad quick, like I told you. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a copy of West Side Story, some play his English teacher was about to put on in front of the whole school.

My little brother’s helping me rehearse, sir, he said. Mrs. Nichols thinks I could maybe play that guy Action, the one that starts all the fights. She says bein’ in a play would maybe be a good outlet. My moms thinks so, too.

Principal Cody looked at me.

I nodded—even though I didn’t know what the hell Diego was talking about.

He looked at my bro again. Well, I didn’t know you had an interest in the theater, son.

It started with this one right here, sir, Diego said, flipping through the playbook.

"Well, that doesn’t surprise me at all. West Side Story’s a classic."

I don’t even mind the singing and dancing parts.

Principal Cody unfolded his arms and took the playbook from Diego. He flipped through the pages himself and said: My wife and I caught a production of this musical in New York City back in ’74. Right after we were married. A big smile came on his face.

You been all the way to New York? Diego said.

Principal Cody laughed a little under his breath, said: Many times.

That’s awesome, sir.

I kept looking back and forth between them, thinking how crazy it was that me and my bro were this close to a principal and we weren’t even in trouble. Dude was actually smiling. The only other times I’d been this close to one is when I got my ass sent to his office ’cause of something I did in class or if I got caught stealing from the campus store or whatever. And trust me, on those times there wasn’t no smiling involved.

Principal Cody stared at one of the pages for a minute, then he looked up and said: I was actually thinking about getting my wife the DVD as a gift. It’s our twenty-eighth anniversary in, let’s see—he used his fingers to count—thirteen days.

Diego nodded, so I nodded too.

Congratulations, sir, Diego said. And then after a short pause he said: Anyway, sir, Mrs. Nichols told me I needed to get someone to rehearse with since tryouts are comin’ up soon. So I got my brother here, right, Miguel?

I nodded.

Principal Cody handed the playbook back to Diego and smiled at me. He said: Well, I wish you kids all the best. He checked his watch, then turned back to Diego and clapped his hands together. Okay, let’s hurry on to class now, gentlemen. You’re already ten minutes late. You can get back to the Jets and the Sharks at break, all right?

Yes, sir, Diego said.

Yes, sir, I said.

Diego packed his playbook in his backpack and we both smiled and nodded and then walked past the cafeteria toward the classroom buildings. Diego looked back after we rounded the corner, and when he saw we were out of Principal Cody’s line of vision he whacked me on the back of my head one last time. But we were both sort of laughing when he did it. We weren’t serious anymore.

Who’s the Jets and the Sharks? I said.

Don’t worry about it, he told me, pulling a pack of gum from his jeans pocket.

You aren’t really trying out for that play, are you? I said.

Wha’chu think, Guelly? Diego said, chewing his gum and wadding up his wrapper. He flipped me a piece too.

I caught it, unwrapped it and popped it in my mouth.

I ain’t even read that shit, boy, Diego said, and then he slipped right into his classroom without saying bye. Like he always did.

I walked down a few more buildings cracking up about my bro, until I got to my own classroom. I peeked around the door, and when I saw my teacher writing out an equation on the chalkboard, I ducked in without her seeing me and grabbed a desk in the last row.

Later that night I snuck the playbook out of Diego’s bag and read the whole thing to see who the Jets and Sharks were. And what the character Action was like. When I was finished I couldn’t believe what a perfect lie Diego came up with. Right there on the spot too.

But that’s just an example of my bro. I swear to God, man, he thinks up lies faster than anybody you could ever meet. Trust me.

June 3

Yo, this group home’s full of punks and posers and loudmouths and skeleton-ass baseheads. Nothing but ugly, stupid-looking gangster-wannabes. I guarantee there’s not a person in the place who could spell his own damn name without a cheat sheet. And you should peep the weak-ass decorations they got in this place. Corny paintings and posters on every wall: a sailboat leaving some fake island, two polar bears fondling on each other in the snow, a giant rainbow waterfall coming off a cliff in Hawaii or some shit. There’s this big blown-up photo of Martin Luther King, Jr., on a stage pointing out at a crowd of black people back in the day and a bunch of goofy inspirational sayings like: Life is 5% what happens to you and 95% how you deal with it.

Yo, deal with this, I said in my head, and when I saw nobody was watching I spit a fat loogie on the cheap plastic frame.

On every single door there’s a typed-up sheet of rules so nobody forgets they’re in a group home, forgets their ass is locked up, put away, bad kids. On the dry-erase board in the kitchen there’s a list of all the chores we gotta do every day—Miguel written in over the name that’s been crossed out, Marquee.

I guess it’s only the damn names that change.

A Serious Question for Whatever Counselor’s Reading This:

Yo, you really think a punk-ass place like this could make a kid better? How’s that make any sense, man?

Lemme ask you something: If you send a normal kid to a group home with a bunch of dummies for nine months what’s more likely to happen? The normal kid ignores all the shady shit around him and gets his life straight, or he just turns into a damn dummy his own self?

For real, think about it.

June 3—more

This ancient-looking black dude named Lester drove me here in a house minivan. Didn’t stop yapping the whole time either. He told me how they got seven houses total and each one has six residents and a minivan. The residents are all between fourteen and eighteen years old and are placed here to rehabilitate. I damn near pissed myself when he said that word, by the way, ’cause he could hardly pronounce it. He’s like Jamaican or whatever, so it came out sounding like rehubby-litate.

Something the matter? he said, turning to look at me.

I just shook my head at him, though, and kept laughing. And after a while he went on.

He told me about the history of the place, how it was founded and who by and what for and a bunch of other random stuff too, but after a while, man, I just tuned his Jamaican ass out. Instead I counted how many cars passed us on the freeway, thinking back on how me and Diego used to flip people off from the back of our old man’s truck when we passed ’em. How we’d make bets about which people would flip us back. You’d be surprised how many people just take shit like that, by the way. Or act like they don’t see you. For real, most people ain’t got no kinda balls, man. It’s sad.

When we got to the place, Lester handed my file and my bag of group-home clothes to the counselor, this surfer-looking white guy named Jaden.

Jaden:

Blond floppy hair, blue eyes and perfect white teeth when he smiled at me. He looked pretty damn out of place, considering all the black and Mexican ex-Juvi kids he was supposed to be watching. He and Lester talked in the office for a sec with the door closed and then Lester came back out, told me good luck, waved to the rest of the residents sitting around the couch watching TV and took off out the front door.

Jaden came up to me and patted me on the back. What’s up, bro? Welcome to the Lighthouse. Ha ha! That’s what everybody calls it, bro. Because all the other houses on this street are old and brown and gray and ours is bright yellow like a lighthouse. Ha ha! Anyway, bro, you wanna meet the guys now or in the morning?

I didn’t say anything back.

He peeked in at the rest of the residents, then turned back to me: Tell you what, let’s do it tomorrow. We’ll start fresh and all that good stuff. Ha ha!

He waved for me to follow him into one of the three rooms, where he set down my stuff. Go ’head and use that dresser, bro, he said, pointing to the one closest to the window. And this is your bed right here with the light blue blanket. You’re rooming with Jackson. He’s from Oakland. Little bit of a drug habit that keeps setting him back, but we really like the guy overall.

I sat on my new bed and stared at the scuffed-up headboard. There were like twenty different sets of initials carved into the wood. This how many other people slept in this bed? I thought. And what was I supposed to do, carve in my initials too? Another set of stupid-ass letters on a stupid headboard in a stupid group home surrounded by stupid people?

Really? That’s what’s up?

And right then something clicked in my head. I realized how alone I was. Just another random kid in their system. A half-Mexican ghost from Stockton who messed up his family. I’d spend this year with a bunch of other ghosts from other nowhere places until they said I could leave, and then I’d have to go haunt some other spot. And I was trying to think if I could ever go back home. Maybe when my moms dropped me off she was dropping my ass off for good. My whole family would probably turn their backs on me. And I’d have to roll solo like this forever.

Anyways, staring at all those initials, the shit hit me hard. I didn’t have nobody that cared about me anymore.

Not even my own self.

And right then I had to put my hands on my middle. And lean over. I didn’t know what was going on, but I had mad cramps in my stomach. And my head was spinning. Jaden stopped talking for a sec, asked me if I was okay, but I just sat there. I tried to be as still as possible so I wouldn’t be sick or nothin’. And eventually he started talking again.

He moved toward the door, peeked outside and then leaned against the doorframe. Les tells me you’re cool beans, bro. That’s sweet. We need some chill factor in this place. Sometimes the guys get a little—You know, they get worked up about stuff. But it’s not a bad house overall. We’re like any other group home: we got some positive energy flow and we got some static. While I’m here during the day, before the night watch comes in, it’s my job to build on the positive flow and limit the static. You see what I’m saying, bro? It’s Miguel, right?

I didn’t say anything back.

He opened my file, then closed it and said: Listen, let’s go sit in my office for a sec.

I cringed when I stood up because my stomach was killing me and I didn’t know why. Probably the rubbery-ass micro-waved cheeseburger they gave me earlier in the day, my last meal at Juvi. I thought about ducking into the bathroom real quick, but I didn’t. I followed Jaden into his office.

He sat down at his desk, leaned back in his chair and pointed for me to sit on an empty stool. Les also tells me you’re from Stockton. He sat up straight. Bro, that’s where I went to college. Small world, right? Elements of energy flowing together into one body of water. Six degrees of separation. Hey, what’s up with that little Italian spot, Guido’s?

I didn’t say anything back.

That was my hang, bro. Ha ha! Me and my boys used to go there on Sundays to watch football and eat calzones and drink pitchers of cheap beer. Talk to honeys. Those were some of the best days of my life, Miguel.

He looked down at my folder, said: Hey, you ever think about going to college, bro? It’s pretty awesome. And I see you got really good grades. Three point four, bro. That’s amazing, actually. I think that’s the highest GPA I’ve ever seen in a resident file.

I didn’t say anything back.

I watched Jaden flip through the next few pages of my file, nodding his head. Anyway, Stockton, he said, smiling. I got memories for days.

I figured his eyes would get all big when he got to the part about what I did, but they didn’t. He just nodded some more and then closed up the file and put it in a drawer with the others, next to a shiny lockbox—the kind people use to store money.

Bro, I’ve been at the Lighthouse for going on four months, he said, turning back to me. I try to run it on the chill side, you know? That’s my motto. You guys handle your biz, do your chores, stay out of trouble, et cetera, everything’s cool. But check it out, bro. It’s a serious adjustment, living with five other guys. Dealing with the social pressures of a group-home environment. Don’t be afraid to lean on me at first. I was a psych major, bro. I got a handle on this kind of thing. You feel me?

I gotta pee, I said, pushing off the stool.

Jaden smiled and stood up. Out this door, hang a right, third door on your left.

I turned to leave.

Door doesn’t lock, Jaden called after me as I hurried my ass down the hall. Just so you know. None of the doors here lock, bro. Except the office—

I shut the bathroom door behind me and rushed the toilet, wrapped my arms around the cold porcelain and heaved. But nothing came out. All the blood in my body went to my head, the back of my eyes, and I dry-heaved again. My face was burning. I heaved again and again, but nothing came up. I didn’t know what the hell was happening to me. Or if I was sick or what. I spit in the toilet and stood up, looked at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror, and I couldn’t believe it. There were tears running down my stupid-ass face, man. I was crying like a bitch.

I pictured Diego behind me pointing and laughing. Telling me I was mad soft.

I slapped myself in the face so I’d stop. Slapped myself a second time, harder. Look at your bitch ass, I said to my reflection. Punk bitch. I punched my stomach for cramping up on me like that. Elbowed myself in the ribs. The tears weren’t coming out anymore, but I slapped my face again anyway. I wasn’t gonna let myself turn into no punk. Punched my right temple and grabbed my hair and pulled as hard as I could. Then I spit in the toilet again and sat on the edge of the tub, rocking back and forth. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. And I didn’t know where to go or what to think.

There was a knock on the door, and I turned around and shouted, Yo, somebody’s in here!

Then I stared at the floor where the tile was all cracked and worn out and listened for the sound of somebody’s shoes walking away.

June 4

Took me less than one day to get in a damn fight.

Right before breakfast, Jaden brought me into the TV room and introduced me to all the posers sitting around on the couches watching a rap video. Three black kids, Jackson, Reggie and Demarcus; a shaved-head Chinese kid with these nasty-looking scars on his cheeks, Mong; another Mexican kid, Rene; and a fat white boy named Tommy. Only Tommy looked up when Jaden told ’em: I’d like you guys to say what’s up to our new resident, Miguel.

I laughed at the rest of their sorry asses and said under my breath: Bitches.

Right after I said it, though, the Chinese kid, Mong, stood up and said: What’d you just say?

Bitches! I shouted in his face.

And he spit on me.

I couldn’t believe it, yo. The guy straight up hawked a loogie right in front of Jaden and spit at me. It landed on the bottom of my damn pants, dripped down onto my shoe. I flipped like a mother and charged his skinny ass with my fists clenched. I threw a wild overhead right at one of his cheek scars, but he caught my fist in his bare hand and squeezed so hard I thought he was gonna break all my stupid fingers. But I didn’t even care. I kneed his ass in the side and went to throw a left, but before I could connect Jaden wrapped me in a bear hug and pulled me back.

Jackson and Rene stepped between us and pulled my hand out of Mong’s grip, and then they both stood there swiveling their heads back and forth between us.

Let him go, Mong said in this calm-ass voice. He had an ugly brown tooth hanging from a string around his neck. A smile even came over his scarred-up face, and he said it again: Let him go.

I been in mad fights before—with Diego and random kids in school or at the park—but I’d never seen somebody smile right in the middle of one. Shit pissed me off even more, man. But at the same time it was kind of confusing, too.

Lemme go! I yelled. I’ll kill this bitch!

Breathe easy! Jaden shouted, still bear-hugging me. Both of you, just breathe easy. It’s not worth it.

The fat white kid, Tommy, leaned in near my ear and said: I’d back off, man. Trust me. But I didn’t even look at the guy.

Let him go, Mong said again, still smiling. He wouldn’t take his eyes off me or even blink. He just stared at me with this crazy-looking smile on his face. He wasn’t big or anything. I’m like five eleven and he had to be at least two inches shorter. And he was even skinnier than me. But you could tell by looking in his eyes that he really wanted to throw down. He wasn’t faking.

Diego taught me about that after my first real fight in junior high school. He said you could tell if somebody really wants to get down or not just by looking in their eyes. If their heart isn’t in it all you gotta do is look mad crazy and hit ’em once in the face and it’ll be game over. Which is exactly what happened with me and that first kid. I barely grazed his chin and he acted like he just got shot and collapsed to the damn ground crying. Almost every fight I been in since has gone the same way—except the few times Diego’s whupped me. But this Mong dude had a different look in his eyes. He was for real about it.

Let him go, he said again, nodding his head.

Lemme go, I said.

The Asian kids in my school back in Stockton barely even talked. They just sat there at the front of the class and took notes and got As on all the math tests. They packed together at the two far tables in the cafeteria at lunch. But this Mong dude wasn’t like that. He was a different kind of Asian kid.

Jackson told me: Miguel, man, squash it. Mong don’t play.

I don’t give a shit, I said. I ain’t lettin’ no Chinese fuck spit on me. I’m gonna kill—

Then dude spit at me again! Right in the face. Before I could even get my damn sentence out. And he started laughing.

I straight up lost it, yo. Wrestled out of Jaden’s grip and charged Mong. Pushed him and then threw the hardest right I could. But he ducked it and