Cole is pulling up to the house in his flashy Jaguar when Marcus and I step onto the sidewalk. He rolls his windows down and shouts, “Kia, baby, you back,” before stepping out of the car, engine still running. He jogs around to take Marcus in, slap his back, and then turns to hug me.
That’s when the car pulls up, sleek and black, flashing lights from the inside, when the men in the car leap out, reaching into their waistbands and pulling out badges and guns. I catch their numbers, 220 and 17, both of them from the Whore Hotel, both of them staring straight at me as they pull Marcus’s hands taut behind him, then Cole’s, slapping on handcuffs and mumbling something about their rights, something about searching the car. 220 leaving 17 to place them in the backseat of the undercover car while 220 pops the trunk in Cole’s Jaguar, pulls out sacks of powder and automatic rifles.
I look through the tinted window to Marcus, who is crying, fear-crying like he did when Daddy got taken away, and I’m screaming for him, at him, pleading with 220, who smirks at me, comes up close enough that I can feel his breath, grabs my arm. He growls, “Don’t you dare say my name or I’ll make sure everyone knows yours. We’re watching.” He releases me, walks back toward the car, and gets into the passenger seat.
Marcus’s face isn’t visible anymore and suddenly Shauna is running at the car, pounding on the glass, sobbing. The car is screeching away, she’s turning to look at me, raging, and Tony is behind me, appearing right when the danger is gone, pulling me into a hug. I don’t think Tony’s ever wrapped his arms around me before, not like this, not like he is capturing me and cannot let go. Part of me wants him to squeeze me until one of my ribs cracks, until I don’t feel like I’m floating, wants him to squeeze me so hard the tingle fades and his arms are the only things worth feeling.
But the other part of me can’t bear that he stood at the door and watched my brother get taken, didn’t do shit, and my chest starts getting heavy. I start to push on him, shoving, my fingernails digging into his shirt, until he releases.
“Sorry,” he says. I’m out of breath. I stare at him and my stomach heaves like this is the ultimate betrayal, but what did he really do to me? Men done so much worse than hug me for a minute too long.
“Why didn’t you do nothing?” I scream, shoving him again, tears flying out with my spit.
Tony stumbles backward like my hands have the force to knock him down and he looks like he’s about to argue, starts to stutter something too choppy for me to make out, then shakes his head, doesn’t even look at me as he says, “I didn’t wanna go down too.” Tony steps forward, tries to grab my hand. “I’m sorry.” He just keeps saying he’s sorry, over and over again, but it doesn’t change anything, so I tell him I don’t want to see him right now and turn on my heels, suddenly unafraid of the tingle and the cops and the men who might find me because my brother just got taken and it’s starting to feel like I don’t have anything left to lose.
I get on the bus and there’s no seats, so every time we hit a pothole I fall into the person next to me, my body doing internal flips. Everything a blur. At least I don’t feel the tingle here, on the bus, behind these windows. Even when I get off at my stop, the tingle stays gone, but the image of Marcus’s face mid-panic remains, feels like it will never leave me.
La Casa Taquería is small and comforting, the blue awning and the sounds of constant construction. Alé is at the cash register, Trevor sitting on a barstool in front of her, folding paper airplanes, and the two of them are something, some miracle I was gifted in all this shit. When Alé glances up, I can tell she sees my panic right as she locks eyes with me, tells Trevor to go help in the kitchen.
I walk up to her and she grabs both my hands. “What’s wrong? You don’t look right.”
“They arrested Marcus.”
Alé pulls me into her chest and whispers, “I’m so sorry. Lunch rush is almost over and I think the rest of ’em got it. Come upstairs with me?”
I don’t remember Alé ever inviting me into her apartment like this before. Always thought she was afraid I’d judge or think she was some kind of a mess. I nod and wait for Alé to go into the kitchen and let her family and Trevor know where we going. She returns and gestures for me to follow her through the other door and up the staircase.
She tries to push the apartment door open, but it doesn’t budge. “Gets stuck sometimes,” she says, and proceeds to slam her entire body weight into the door until it swings open.