Lucia didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t occur to her. She was always sunny, happy. She was just a baby when her parents divorced, so it was never weird for her to have two families, two bedrooms, two Thanksgivings and Easters and Christmases. Who would complain about more abundance? And she shared everything with me.
Lucia and I never fought, so we were probably talking about our favorite TV show, The Love Boat. I couldn’t get enough of Isaac. That guy never stopped smiling.
Out of nowhere a bike whizzed past us. We stopped and looked back. Now it was racing toward us, and swear to God, both Lucia and I saw it this way, glowing red eyes. I shivered.
The bike skidded to a stop in front of us. It was a boy our age with shaggy hair, and now that he was close up, red-rimmed brown eyes. He was staring at Lucia.
“What’s your name, kid?” he said to her.
Lucia told him. And then she told him my name.
“My name’s Russell,” he said. He still didn’t see me. That gave me time to check him out. His jeans were hand-me-downs, too big in the waist, too short in the leg. His ugly brown belt was cinched to the smallest hole. His brown striped shirt was soft and limp from too many washings. I had seen this Salvation Army look lots of times. But I also sensed his confidence. He wasn’t a kid who would ever second-guess himself. Probably his family life was so bad, he couldn’t.
“I just moved in,” he said to Lucia. “See you around.” And then he stood and cycled off.
“I don’t like him,” Lucia said.
Right away Russell was dealing weed. Nobody ever offered it to me or Lucia. They knew about us. I went to Catholic school so I was too religious (I never told them that I wasn’t actually Catholic and I only went there because it was better than the public schools) and Lucia was just different, sweeter than everybody else. Sometimes I did a little preaching, aka, told them Bible stories. The kids ate them up. I didn’t realize until much, much later that these were kids who never had stories told to them. Whose apartments didn’t contain any books. Maybe some porny magazines.
It was kind of great. Religion became my invisible protective shield. I think they equated it with magic. There were some scary kids around but I neutralized them by telling stories about a god so vengeful he let loose plagues on Egypt. I hinted that this kind of thing could still happen. Infestations of frogs and flies, locusts that devoured acres of crops in minutes, water turning into blood, boils all over the body, darkness that lasted for days, and finally, death. And lo and behold, during one summer we had an actual plague of caterpillars. You literally could not take a step without becoming a serial murderer of caterpillars.
It’s no surprise Russell had a thing for Lucia. Every boy did until they realized she was different, more a sister you wanted to protect than a girlfriend. There were no words to explain Lucia’s difference, at least none that were ever told to me. She was just a bit sleepier than the rest of us, and like I said, nicer, like she always saw the good in us and never the bad.
That’s not entirely true. Once, after we saw Shannon and Michelle beat the crap out of Albert, she said, “We need to do something.” So we got poster board and it was Lucia’s idea to write SHANNON AND MICHELLE ARE ASSHOLES in thick black markerand hang it in front of the large picture window on the second-floor landing so that everyone could see it. I did get beat up for that.
Lucia wasn’t Down Syndrome or retarded or even autistic, I don’t think. She was just a pretty, sweet girl and that was unusual at Hillside Apartments, where everyone was knowing and street-smart, especially the kids.
Russell lived in the same building as me and Lucia and could often be found sitting on the fence that bordered the path to the big glass front door. From there he’d say to Lucia as she passed, “Hey there, Rosalita.” And under his breath, he’d sing the Bruce Springsteen song.
Lucia would hurry past him but I could see by the flush that went up her neck that she liked the attention. “He’s gross,” I’d say to Lucia once we were inside. “He smells like a sweaty skunk.”
“That’s just the weed,” she’d say shyly.
“That’s exactly what I mean. He’s nothing but a small-time weed dealer. Maybe he’ll work up to crack or X or whatever comes up next. That’s his future. There’s nothing there for you.”
“I know!” she’d say, her eyes wide with innocence.
Eighth grade started for me and Lucia; it got cool outside fast. Instead of sitting outside our building, Russell now sat inside, on the steps that led from the front door to the second floor, which happened to be next to my apartment. This way he could keep an eye out for customers.
“Hey, China,” he’d say to me. I mean, of course I was China to him.
“Hey, Russell,” I’d say. “Business good? What do you do with all that money you’re making?”
“Oh, you know,” he’d say. He was still wearing Salvation Army clothes.
No, I had no clue. I wanted to sit down and ask him everything—who he got the drugs from and if they were scary, and who they got the drugs from and how they priced it andwhat did it even feel like, but I was too afraid he wouldn’t tell me.
One time when I came home from school, he said,
