Benjamin Alire Sáenz - Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

To all the boys whove had to learn to play by different rules

I had second thoughts about writing this book. In fact, after I finished the first chapter or so, I had almost decided to abandon the project. But Im lucky and blessed enough to be surrounded by committed, brave, talented, and intelligent people who inspired me to finish what I started. This book would not have been written without them. So here is my small and certainly incomplete list of people Id like to thank: Patty Moosebrugger, great agent, great friend. Daniel and Sasha Chacon for their great affection and their belief that I needed to write this book. For Hector, Annie, Ginny, and Barbara, who have always been there. My editor, David Gale, who believed in his book and the whole team at Simon & Schuster, especially Navah Wolfe. My colleagues in the Creative Writing Department whose work and generosity continually challenge me to be a better writer and a better person. And finally, I would like to thank my students, past and present, who remind me that language and writing will always matter. My gratitude to all of you.

WHY DO WE SMILE? WHY DO WE LAUGH? WHY DO we feel alone? Why are we sad and confused? Why do we read poetry? Why do we cry when we see a painting? Why is there a riot in the heart when we love? Why do we feel shame? What is that thing in the pit of your stomach called desire?

The problem with my life was that it was someone elses idea.

ONE SUMMER NIGHT I FELL ASLEEP, HOPING THE WORLD would be different when I woke. In the morning, when I opened my eyes, the world was the same. I threw off the sheets and lay there as the heat poured in through my open window.

My hand reached for the dial on the radio. Alone was playing. Crap, Alone, a song by a group called Heart. Not my favorite song. Not my favorite group. Not my favorite topic. You dont know how long...

I was fifteen.

I was bored.

I was miserable.

As far as I was concerned, the sun could have melted the blue right off the sky. Then the sky could be as miserable as I was.

The DJ was saying annoying, obvious things like, Its summer! Its hot out there! And then he put on that retro Lone Ranger tune, something he liked to play every morning because he thought it was a hip way to wake up the world. Hi-yo, Silver! Who hired this guy? He was killing me. I think that as we listened to the William Tell Overture, we were supposed to be imagining the Lone Ranger and Tonto riding their horses through the desert. Maybe someone should have told that guy that we all werent ten-year-olds anymore. Hi-yo, Silver! Crap. The DJs voice was on the airwaves again: Wake up, El Paso! Its Monday, June fifteenth, 1987! 1987! Can you believe it? And a big Happy Birthday goes out to Waylon Jennings, whos fifty years old today! Waylon Jennings? This was a rock station, dammit! But then he said something that hinted at the fact that he might have a brain. He told the story about how Waylon Jennings had survived the 1959 plane crash that killed Buddy Holly and Richie Valens. On that note, he put on the remake of La Bamba by Los Lobos.

La Bamba. I could cope with that.

I tapped my bare feet on the wood floor. As I nodded my head to the beat, I started wondering what had gone through Richie Valenss head before the plane crashed into the unforgiving ground. Hey, Buddy! The musics over.

For the music to be over so soon. For the music to be over when it had just begun. That was really sad.

I WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN. MY MOM WAS PREPARING lunch for a meeting with her Catholic-Church-lady friends. I poured myself a glass of orange juice.

My mom smiled at me. Are you going to say good morning?

Im thinking about it, I said.

Well, at least you dragged yourself out of bed.

I had to think about it for a long time.

What is it about boys and sleep?

Were good at it. That made her laugh. Anyway, I wasnt sleeping. I was listening to La Bamba.

Richie Valens, she said, almost whispering. So sad.

Just like your Patsy Cline.

She nodded. Sometimes I caught her singing that song, Crazy, and Id smile. And shed smile. It was like we shared a secret. My mom, she had a nice voice. Plane crashes, my mother whispered. I think she was talking more to herself than to me.

Maybe Richie Valens died youngbut he did something. I mean, he really did something . Me? What have I done?

You have time, she said. Theres plenty of time. The eternal optimist.

Well, you have to become a person first, I said.

She gave me a funny look.

Im fifteen.

I know how old you are.

Fifteen-year-olds dont qualify as people.

My mom laughed. She was a high school teacher. I knew she half agreed with me.

So whats the big meeting about?

Were reorganizing the food bank.

Food bank?

Everyone should eat.

My mom had a thing for the poor. Shed been there. She knew things about hunger that Id never know.

Yeah, I said. I guess so.

Maybe you can help us out?

Sure, I said. I hated being volunteered. The problem with my life was that it was someone elses idea.

What are you going to do today? It sounded like a challenge.

Im going to join a gang.

Thats not funny.

Im Mexican. Isnt that what we do?

Not funny.

Not funny, I said. Okay, not funny.

I had the urge to leave the house. Not that I had anywhere to go.

When my mom had her Catholic-Church-lady friends over, I felt like I was suffocating. It wasnt so much that all her friends were over fiftythat wasnt it. And it wasnt even all the comments about how I was turning into a man right before their eyes. I mean, I knew bullshit when I heard it. And as bullshit went, it was the nice, harmless, affectionate kind. I could handle them grabbing me by the shoulders and saying, Let me look at you. Dejame ver. Ay que muchacho tan guapo. Te pareces a tu papa. Not that there was anything to look at. It was just me. And yeah, yeah, I looked like my dad. I didnt think that was such a great thing.

But what really bugged the living crap out of me was that my mother had more friends than I did. How sad was that?

I decided to go swimming at the Memorial Park pool. It was a small idea. But at least the idea was mine.

As I was walking out the door, my mom took the old towel Id slung over my shoulder and exchanged it for a better one. There were certain towel rules that existed in my mothers world that I just didnt get. But the rules didnt stop at towels.

She looked at my T-shirt.

I knew a look of disapproval when I saw one. Before she made me change, I gave her one of my own looks. Its my favorite T-shirt, I said.

Didnt you wear that yesterday?

Yes, I said. Its Carlos Santana.

I know who it is, she said.

Dad gave it to me on my birthday.

As I recall you didnt seem all that thrilled when you opened your fathers gift.

I was hoping for something else.

Something else?

I dont know. Something else. A T-shirt for my birthday? I looked at my Mom. I guess I just dont understand him.

Hes not that complicated, Ari.

He doesnt talk.

Sometimes when people talk, they dont always tell the truth.

Guess so, I said. Anyway, Im really into this T-shirt now.

I can see that. She was smiling.

I was smiling too. Dad got it at his first concert.

I was there. I remember. Its old and ratty.

Im sentimental.

Sure you are.

Mom, its summer.

Yes, she said, it is summer.

Different rules, I said.