Chapter 13

I managed to avoid Elijah for the rest of the day. After practice, I made sure to walk in when Coach did, grab my stuff, and get the hell out of there. It wasn’t that I was afraid of Elijah and his bunch; I just didn’t want to deal with his bullshit. I was going to be extra careful, because I knew he’d blame me for being benched, instead of taking responsibility for his own actions.

Hell, I’d tried to tell him that was what was going to happen if he kept playing those games, but Elijah was the kind of guy who could never see his own faults. He always had to blame someone else for his mistakes. I’d run into that type a bunch of times in my dream life, and they’d always ended up on the wrong side of everything eventually, causing themselves more harm than anyone else ever could.

I also went out of my way to avoid him all day on Tuesday, not even bothering to go to the locker room. Instead, I left everything with Jamal on the bleachers so he could watch my stuff, and so I could just leave when practice was over instead of getting trapped in the field house with him.

There was a moment he almost cornered me at lunch, but I managed to do an end run around the table filled with theater kids, who were partially blocking the aisle, slowing him down. It was kind of like playing football, in a way.

That night, I was supposed to be at Eduardo’s house. I’d looked up the address he’d given me in the key map and he was way across the whole city. Admittedly, Wheaton wasn’t a big place, but I didn’t particularly want to walk that far, so I convinced Dad, who had the night shift, to drop me off on his way to work. Thankfully, they were having a pretty early dinner, so the time from when I was dropped off wasn’t that bad. I had Dad drop me at the edge of his neighborhood and took my sweet time walking the rest of the way.

Their house was nice. Wheaton was not a big town, but it did have a ‘good’ side and a ‘bad’ side. The good side was east of Main Street, where the city park, schools, and government buildings were located. Good didn’t necessarily mean rich. People like Coach Plummer lived just outside of town on what were essentially small, non-working ranches. It wasn’t even particularly more dangerous. I guess the only difference was the streets were a little nicer and the houses a little bigger, and we were further from the cattle ranches to the east of town, which could stink to high heaven if the wind was just right. Or wrong.

To people outside of Wheaton, they probably wouldn’t even notice the difference.

I’d dressed to be presentable enough, out of respect for his parents, and smoothed my shirt as I arrived at their front door and pressed the doorbell.

The door opened to reveal a man who had to be Eduardo’s father. They shared the same serious eyes. His work boots and paint-spotted jeans suggested he’d just gotten home himself.

“You must be Blake,” he said, extending his hand. “Come in, come in.”

I shook his hand, noting the firm grip. “Thank you for having me over, Mr. Guzman.”

Eduardo appeared behind his father, looking as uncertain as he did every time I talked to him. The guy had a major inferiority complex, which probably explained why it had been so easy for him to fall in with a gang.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, man,” I replied, following them inside.

The house smelled amazing, something with peppers and spices that made my mouth water.

“Elena, Eduardo’s friend is here!” Mr. Guzman called toward the kitchen.

“Welcome, Blake!” Eduardo’s mom’s voice carried from the other room. “Food will be ready in about ten minutes. Go ahead and wait in the living room!”

Mr. Guzman led us into a cozy space dominated by a comfortable-looking couch, a recliner facing the TV, and family photos on the wall. Eduardo and I sat down on the couch while his father settled into what was clearly his usual chair.

“So, Blake,” Mr. Guzman said, “how do you know Eduardo?”

“We started having lunch together at school. Eduardo’s a good guy to talk to.”

“Blake helped me out when some guys were giving me trouble.”

Mr. Guzman’s eyebrows rose. “That right?”

“I’d like to say I was just trying to do the right thing, but honestly, I really hate those guys. They’re bullies who think they own the school.”

“Well, you still helped my son. That makes you good in my book.”

I smiled and kind of half nodded. A part of me felt bad that I was consciously doing a lot of this because of what happened in my dream. Even with my new outlook on my life, post-dream, I’m not sure I would have gone out of my way so much to be Eduardo’s friend if it wasn’t for my attempts to stop what happened in my dream from coming true.

I looked around the room trying not to feel quite so awkward when a large photo on the wall caught my attention. Eduardo’s family was standing in front of a beautiful old stone house with some really impressive mountains in the background.

“Where’s that?”

“Mexico,” Eduardo’s father said, looking pleased. “We visited Eduardo’s abuela last summer in Guanajuato. Beautiful city.”

“That’s so cool,” I said, turning to Eduardo. “How did you like it? I’ve never been to Mexico. Must have been pretty different than here.”

“It was pretty nice. My grandparents live in this old house they’ve had forever; everyone knows them. They’re like celebrities in their town. My abuela makes the best food. You would’ve loved it.”

“I bet. What kind of stuff did you do while you were there?”

“Mostly spent time with my grandparents. My abuelo has this garden out back with these crazy-looking flowers, and he taught me how to prune them. My dad made me help fix the roof, though. That part wasn’t as fun.”

“It did you good,” his father said, getting a grunt out of Eduardo.

Before he could say anything, though, there was the sound of running feet, followed by the appearance of a young kid, maybe about elementary age, practically bouncing with energy.

“Alex,” Eduardo’s dad said, “come meet Eduardo’s friend Blake. He’s the quarterback for Wheaton High.”

“Uh, only on the freshman team,” I said, feeling a little self-conscious, but Alex’s eyes had already gone wide with excitement.

“You play football? Real football?”

He plopped down on the floor between us, staring up at me with unrestrained enthusiasm.

“Americano,” Mr. Guzman corrected automatically.

Alex waved his hand dismissively. “That’s what I meant, Papá. I wanted to play but the coach said I was too small for peewee. So now I’m stuck with soccer.”

“Fútbol is the better sport, anyway,” Mr. Guzman said firmly.

Alex groaned.

“I know, but it’s not the same.” He turned back to me and eagerly asked, “What’s it like playing quarterback? Is it hard?”

“It can be. You’ve got to learn the playbook and figure out what everyone on the field is supposed to do. Plus, you’re kind of in charge out there, so if something goes wrong, everyone looks at you.”

Alex started launching into more questions when Eduardo’s mom called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!”

I silently thanked her for the rescue from Alex’s barrage of questions about playing football. Mr. Guzman pushed against the armrests of his chair, wincing slightly as he stood.

The kitchen table was already set, steam rising from bowls of rice and some kind of stew that filled the air with an amazing aroma of peppers and spices.

“This is pozole,” Mrs. Guzman said, placing a final bowl on the table. “I hope you like spicy food.”

“I love spicy food,” I said, though honestly, I wasn’t sure what counted as spicy to them, versus what counted as spicy to me.

“We’ll see about that,” she teased, spooning some into my bowl. “Some people think they like spicy until they try real Mexican cooking.”

I picked up my spoon and took a careful bite. It was rich, complex, and yes, definitely spicy, but not overwhelming. The meat was tender and it had an interesting texture I’d never experienced before.

“This is incredible. I’ve never had anything like it.”

She beamed at me. “Finally, someone who appreciates good food! These two,” she gestured at Eduardo and his father, “don’t even comment anymore.”

“Because you already know how good your cooking is, Mamá,” Eduardo said.

“Such a good boy,” she said, grabbing his chin and squeezing a little before letting go. “So, Blake, do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah, I have a brother. He’s a little older than Alex.”

“Oh? Does he play sports, too?”

“No, he’s not really into sports.” I quickly redirected the conversation. “They mentioned you work in Midlands, Mr. Guzman. My dad makes that same drive every day, too.”

“The drive can be rough some days. Eduardo said that he’s a deputy?”

“Yes. He’s been there about four years. He was in Abilene before that, but his boss got the job in Midlands, so Dad followed him.”

The rest of the meal was split, half the time with me trying to draw Eduardo, who was painfully shy, into the conversation and half with Alex, who was about as opposite as his brother as a person could be, peppering me with questions.

As Mrs. Guzman started collecting the plates, I stood up to help, grabbing mine and Eduardo’s dishes.

“No, no,” she protested. “You’re our guest.”

“Please, I insist,” I said, following her to the sink with the plates.

She gave me a look not unlike the one she kept giving Alex when he wouldn’t mind her to stop asking about football during dinner, but let me follow her, finally taking the plates out of my hands and stacking them in the sink. When she turned on the faucet, I guess to rinse them, water suddenly sprayed everywhere, shooting up from where the spout met the base. Mrs. Guzman jumped back with a yelp.