Don't Call Me Hero Page 2

  “You can’t take those in,” the guard with the metal detector wand told Rawly when he saw the comic books in his hand.

  “But they’re for my brother.”

  “Sorry. You’ll have to take them back to the car, or you can leave them here until you finish your visit.”

  Rawly looked at his mother. She shook her head. Reluctantly, he handed the comic books to the guard.

  They were issued passes to the contact room. They walked down a sidewalk until they reached a beige building. Rawly’s mother knocked on the steel door and a guard let them in.

  White plastic tables were spaced throughout the contact room. Inmates sat at the tables, visiting with friends and family.

  Three guards paced around the room. They wore gray uniforms with navy-blue baseball caps. A Texas Department of Criminal Justice patch was sewn on one shirtsleeve, and an American flag was stitched on the other. A blue stripe ran down the sides of their pants.

  The contact room offered no privacy.

  Jaime sat next to an inmate who was visiting with his wife and three kids. Like all other prisoners, Jaime wore white scrubs and black boots. His dark-brown hair, which he had always worn over his ears when he was in high school, was now closely cropped. His ears stuck out from the sides of his head like butterfly wings. His right arm bore a tattoo of a snake crawling out of a skull’s eye socket. On Jaime’s left arm was a large drawing of Wolverine, one of the X-Men, posed in a lunging position, with his metal clawed hands extended in front. Cyclops, the Beast and Nightcrawler filled the rest of his arm.

  Jaime rose and greeted his family.

  “I tried to bring you some comic books, but a guard took them away from me,” Rawly told his brother.

  “Yeah, they don’t let you bring anything in here,” Jaime said. “You know that. But thanks anyway for trying.”

  Rawly knew he couldn’t bring the comic books inside the prison. The rules had been explained to him when he first tried to bring them in eleven months ago. Rawly was hoping that maybe after almost a year of visiting his brother, the guards would cut him some slack, but no such luck.

  “You do that yourself?” Rawly asked, when he saw the snake and skull tattoo on Jaime’s arm.

  Jaime gazed at his most recent body art. “I drew the picture, but Martín helped tattoo it.” Martín Gómez was Jaime’s cellmate.

  Mrs. Sánchez looked away. She did not approve of Jaime’s tattoos.

  When Jaime was thirteen, he got his first tattoo—a small J and S on his left hand between his thumb and forefinger. His mother exploded with anger when she discovered it and accused him of trying to look like a gang member. The tiny J and S were now lost among the much larger and more graphic drawings on Jaime’s arms and body.

  “How’s the restaurant doing?” Jaime asked. “Business getting any better?”

  His mother smiled uncomfortably. “It . . . It’s doing real good,” she lied. “You should’ve seen it last night. It was packed.” She bumped Rawly’s knee under the table. “Wasn’t it, Rawly? Wasn’t it real busy last night?”

  Taking his cue, Rawly bobbed his head. “Yeah, uh, we had a full house. In fact, the last group of customers, a big party of eleven, didn’t leave until almost midnight.”

  Rawly felt he needed to support his mother’s story, because he had let it slip out during their last visit that the restaurant was doing poorly.

  “That’s good. How about you, ’manito? Anything new?”

  “Not a whole lot,” Rawly said. “My friend Nevin Steinberg and I are going to the fair in a couple of weeks.”

  “Nevin Steinberg?” Jaime laughed. “Isn’t he that goofy kid you said you couldn’t stand?”

  Rawly shrugged. “Nevin’s okay most of the time. He’s gotten better since middle school.”

  “I hope so,” Jaime said doubtfully. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. “Check this out, ’manito. I’ve started working on a comic book character.”

  On the lined notebook paper was a drawing of a masked superhero, dressed in dark-gray tights with black boots and gloves, speeding through a city street. A tornado was pictured on his chest. “This is El Torbellino. He can run super fast. He’s like a Latino version of the Flash,” Jaime explained.

  “That’s tight, man,” Rawly said, admiring his brother’s art.

  “Keep it. It’s yours,” Jaime said. “I don’t have a story yet, but I’ve got a bunch of ideas. Maybe when you come back next time, I’ll have a storyboard to show you.”

  Rawly whipped his head around and stared at his mother.

  She sighed and said, “Go ahead. Tell him.”

  Rawly lowered his eyes and swallowed hard. “Jaime, I’m not going to be able to see you for a while.”

  Jaime’s face grew somber. “Why not?”

  Rawly glanced at the inmate sitting with his family across them. They were joking and laughing, as if they were at a church picnic instead of in the contact room at the Ferguson State Prison Farm. “Because I flunked algebra,” he muttered. “Now I have to start going to tutoring classes on Saturdays.”

  Jaime frowned. “Yeah? For how long?”

  Still refusing to meet his brother’s eyes, Rawly said, “I guess until my grades get better.”

  “What’s your problem, man?” Jaime said loudly.

  One of the guards walking by stopped and stared at him. Jaime waved and mouthed the word sorry to indicate that he wasn’t causing trouble.

  “Don’t you listen in class?” Jaime’s tone softened, but it was still serious.

  “Yeah, but algebra’s hard,” Rawly said.

  “So what? If things are hard, you work harder, that’s all.” Jaime glimpsed around the contact room. “Look at these guys, ’manito. They’re a bunch of losers. Things got hard for them, so they gave up and tried to take the easy way out. Do you want to end up like them? Like me? A loser?”

  Rawly finally looked up at his brother. “Jaime, you’re not a loser. You’re better than any of these guys in here.”

  “Yeah? Well, there’s a dead woman’s family who’ll tell you a different story,” Jaime said bitterly.

  Mrs. Sánchez kicked Rawly under the table. “I told you not to bring up Jaime’s accident,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

  “But I didn’t,” Rawly whispered back.

  There was an awkward silence.

  The conversation picked up again, but nothing more was said about the accident or about the dead woman.

  When their visit was over, Jaime hugged his brother. “I want you to bring up those grades, you hear? I don’t want you failing. Make me proud of you, ’manito.”

  “I’ll try,” Rawly promised.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nevin Steinberg walked up to a J.C. Penney store clerk who was folding sweaters and tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am. May I talk to you?”

  The clerk, an old, unnaturally thin woman peered down at him from above the rim of her glasses. “May I help you find something?” Her voice was high and sounded more irritable than helpful.

  “Um . . . no.” Nevin licked his lips and glanced around the store. “This may not be anything, but, um, do you see that kid over there?” He pointed at Rawly, who was standing on an aisle near the women’s lingerie section. “This is probably none of my business,” Nevin said, “but I’ve been watching him for a while, and well, you see, my dad works security at Dillard’s, and he’s taught me to look out for certain things.”

  The clerk removed her glasses and fixed a frigid stare on Rawly. “What’s the matter? Did you see him shoplift something?”

  “No. No. I don’t think he’s stealing stuff,” Nevin said. He lowered his voice. “It’s just that . . . It’s kind of embarrassing, ma’am, but . . . ”

  “What is it?” the clerk asked with an edge of impatience creeping into her voice.

  Nevin cleared his throat. “Well, whenever that kid thinks no one’s looking, he slips ladies’ underwear over his head,
like a mask. I’ve seen him do it twice already.” He looked back at Rawly. “I thought I should tell someone what I saw.”

  The clerk gaped at Rawly, pop-eyed. Her gaunt face grew pinched with disgust. She sat an orange sweater on the table and marched down the aisle.

  “Young man!” she spat out. “May I help you?”

  Rawly turned and smiled. “No, thanks. I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “Is that right? And where is your . . . friend?”

  Rawly, who had not immediately noticed her accusatory tone, looked around the store.

  Nevin hid behind a dress rack and watched with glee.

  “He’s around here somewhere.”

  The clerk noticed Rawly’s empty hands. “Are you buying anything?”

  “No, but my friend . . . ”

  “Then perhaps you need to leave!” She aimed a twig of a finger in the direction of the store’s exit.

  Rawly’s eyes widened. “Why? What’d I do?”

  Nevin pressed his hand against his mouth, trying to keep a laugh from exploding.

  “Do you think no one saw you?” the clerk fumed. “Shame on you!”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Rawly protested.

  “Please leave!”

  “But my friend . . . ”

  “Do I need to call security?”

  Rawly didn’t answer. With the clerk’s venomous stare bearing down on him, he skulked out of the J.C. Penney store, dumbfounded.

  Nevin caught up with him in the mall a few seconds later. “Dude, where were you? I’ve been looking all over the store for you.”

  Still reeling from what had just happened, Rawly croaked, “I got kicked out of Penney’s.”

  Nevin’s jaw dropped. “You did? Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Rawly’s eyes were glassy. “I was just minding my own business, waiting for you, when this lady came up and started yelling at me.”

  “Really? What did she say?” Nevin asked, sounding shocked.

  “She said someone saw me doing something and that I should be ashamed of myself,” Rawly said.

  “Yeah?” Nevin’s eyes started to water as he tried to hold in his laughter. “Maybe she thought you were doing something weird.”

  “Weird? Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she thought you were putting ladies’ underwear on your head.”

  “Why would she . . . ?”

  Nevin burst out laughing.

  “Doggone it, Nevin!” Rawly gave him a hard shove. “Why do you do stupid stuff like that?”

  Nevin wiped the tears that had leaked out of his eyes. “Aw, chill out, dude. What’s the matter? Can’t you take a joke?”

  “That wasn’t funny,” Rawly said. “That old lady probably thinks I’m some kind of freako.”

  “She’s a freako,” Nevin retorted. “She looks like she ought to be standing in a cornfield scaring away crows.”

  “I’m leaving.” Rawly wheeled around and headed toward the mall’s exit.

  Nevin caught up to him and hung an arm on Rawly’s shoulders. “Hey, don’t be sore. Come on, dude, I was just messing with you. Look, I’m sorry, okay?” He bit his lower lip to suppress another laugh that was trying to erupt.

  Nevin was surprised the clerk had bought his story. He thought she’d see through him and realize that he and Rawly were together, and that he was playing a practical joke on his friend. But as he’d heard his father, the public relations director at the Dallas Zoo, say a million times, “It’s all about the sell. It’s not what you say but how you say it.”

  “Tell you what, dude. Let’s go to the food court. I’ll buy. Besides, it’s pouring out there. You don’t want to wait for the bus in the rain, do you?”

  It was barely misting.

  Rawly shrugged off Nevin’s arm. “I don’t need you to buy me anything.”

  “Please?” Nevin coaxed. “They’ve got a Sonic here. I’ll buy you a nice, delicious, banana split. M-m-m.” He ran his tongue across his lips. “How about it? A banana split with lots of whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

  Rawly peeked at his watch. It was ten after five. He still had a little time before he had to go to work. “All right, but I’ll buy my own banana split.”

  At the food court, Rawly recognized a couple of guys from his school, sitting at a table, eating McDonald’s burgers, but he didn’t know their names. He nodded his chin at them and they nodded their chins back in acknowledgement.

  Standing in the Sonic line, Nevin said, “Listen, Rawls, as long as you’re buying yourself a banana split, um, can you buy me one, too? I just remembered. I don’t have any money.”

  Rawly glared at him. “You’re too much, man. You know that?”

  Nevin laughed. “Better to be too much than not enough, dude. Right?”

  Rawly checked his wallet. He had a five and three ones. He hated having to buy two banana splits, but he really wanted one, and he couldn’t eat a banana split while Nevin sat there watching him, salivating like a hungry dog.

  Luckily tomorrow was payday. Rawly would then have enough money to buy ten banana splits if he wanted.

  While they ate their treats, Nevin asked, “So which suit do you think I ought to buy? The black one, the gray one or the navy one with the white pinstripes?”

  Rawly shrugged. “Either one’s fine, I guess. A suit’s a suit.” He scraped the last bit of melted ice cream with his spoon and ate it. He resisted the urge to pick up the plastic dish to lick it clean. Not long ago, he would have done it without hesitation. But now that he was in the ninth grade, he thought it was uncool to do that sort of thing—in public, anyway.

  “Come on, dude, that’s not an answer,” Nevin said. “You told me you’d help me pick out a suit.”

  Rawly wiped his mouth and dropped his paper napkin into his empty banana split dish. “Okay, if I were you, I’d go with the black one. Black’s good for any occasion—including weddings. Didn’t your mom make any suggestions as to what you should buy?”

  Nevin snorted. “Are you kidding? If it was up to her, she’d have me dressed up in short pants, knee-high socks and a bowtie.”

  Rawly nodded. He had been around Nevin’s mom long enough to know that there was some truth to what he said. “I’m surprised she’s letting you choose your own suit. I mean, for something as important as your sister’s wedding.”

  Nevin raised his plastic dish to his mouth and swiped his tongue across it. He immediately sat it back down when he saw Rawly staring at him. “Yeah, well, ever since my Bar Mitzvah, she’s been trying to teach me to be more responsible. You know, now that I’m a . . . man.” Nevin stressed the word “man” like a bleating sheep. “By the way, you are going to Miriam’s wedding, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll try,” Rawly said. “But algebra tutoring classes start this Saturday.”

  Nevin slapped his head. “Oy, vey! How’d you get stuck with having to go to algebra tutoring?”

  “Easy,” Rawly said. “By stinking at algebra. The worst part about it is that I won’t be able to visit my brother any more.”

  “Oh, yeah. How’s Jaime doing these days?”

  “About what you could expect, given his circumstances,” Rawly said. He tapped his nose with his finger, and then pointed to Nevin.

  Nevin picked up his napkin and wiped chocolate syrup from his nose. “I don’t get it, dude,” he said. “What is it about algebra that you don’t understand?” Nevin had participated in the Math Olympiad competitions every year since the fourth grade, and he couldn’t imagine why math would be difficult for anyone.

  Rawly folded his arms on the table and shook his head. “It’s the word problems that kill me, man. I just don’t get them.”

  “There’s nothing to them,” Nevin said. “If you know how to read. You do know how to read, don’t you?”

  Rawly quirked his mouth. “Of course I do.”

  “That’s right,” Nevin said. “You’re the comic book king.”

  “There’s n
othing wrong with reading comics,” Rawly said indignantly.

  “No, there isn’t,” Nevin agreed. “So if you can read comic books, you can do word problems.”

  “How do you figure that?” Rawly asked, thinking that Nevin was setting him up for one of his jokes.

  Nevin leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He slipped his red plastic spoon in the corner of his mouth and clenched it between his teeth, like a pipe. “Let Professor Steinberg give you a crash course on how to solve word problems.” Nevin inhaled with the spoon in his mouth. Then he took out the spoon, held it between two fingers, pursed his lips, and pretended to blow out smoke. “Okay, let’s say that the Joker’s caught Batman in his Joker Destructo Deathtrap Device.”

  “There’s no such thing in the comics,” Rawly said.

  “Don’t complicate things, dude. The point is, Batman’s trapped, see? And he has to find a solution to his predicament.” Nevin took another puff from his imaginary pipe. “Now, Batman’s going to escape from the Joker’s Destructo Deathtrap Device. We know that, right? ’Cause if he doesn’t, DC can’t sell any more Batman comics. Anyway, Batman goes over all his options. He thinks of everything he knows about deathtraps ’cause he’s been in plenty of them in all his years of being Batman. He makes a few calculations in his mind and . . . bingo! He figures out a solution to his problem. He escapes from the Joker’s Destructo Deathtrap Device and captures the Joker. End of story. At least until the next issue.” Nevin put the spoon back in his mouth, crossed his arms and smiled with satisfaction.

  Rawly gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t get it. What does that have to do with algebra?”

  “Everything, dude.” Nevin sat up. “Next time you go to algebra class, think like Batman. You’re in a predicament. You’ve got a problem to solve. Go over all your options. Consider everything you know about algebra, and you’ll come up with an answer.”

  Rawly smiled and said, “You know, Nevin, sometimes you almost make sense.”

  “Sure, I do. And if you’d listen to me more often . . . ” Nevin glanced to his right and saw two girls approaching them. He leaned into Rawly and whispered, “Chick alert at three o’clock.”