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“The key is still in the ignition,” I said. Ernie lowered the tailgate so Damian could lay Greg in the bed. I got in, too, and continued to apply my towel. Damian closed the tailgate and hurried around to the cab. Ernie had started the engine.
“Greg,” I said.
He didn’t answer. His head felt limp in my hands. I rolled my other towel and put it under his head. I kept the first towel on his temple and eye. It was soaking in blood. Ernie turned the truck and headed away. I looked back and saw the girls standing next to Mateo, all of them watching us drive off, looking stunned and frightened.
• • •
Two nursing assistants came out with a stretcher after I had run into the ER and methodically explained Greg’s condition. They moved him quickly into an examination room. Ernie and Damian stood beside me, both mumbling about how they couldn’t believe this and how quickly it had all happened. A nurse came out to speak with us. Ernie and Damian let me do all the talking. I was as short and precise as could be.
The nurse looked impressed and told us to wait. “The police will be here momentarily.”
“Police!” Damian repeated. He looked at Ernie and then at me.
“I don’t think you need an explanation for that,” the nurse said.
I dug out my mobile and called home. As soon as my father said “Hello,” I rattled off a description of what had happened and where we were. I wanted him to know the police would be taking statements at any moment.
“Just tell them what happened truthfully,” he advised. “We’ll be there as quickly as we can.”
Never in my life had my parents had to worry about anything I had done or anyone I had as a friend. Stories about other kids my age swirled about our home like a tornado that dared not touch down anywhere near us. My mother heard more than two earfuls at her salon weekly, and whenever she brought a story back and told it at dinner, my father usually said something like, “Well, we’ll never have to worry about Donna when it comes to that sort of thing.”
“Or Mickey, either,” my mother would add, reaching to pat him on the hand.
Mickey, a bit of a bookworm himself now, was oblivious to that talk. He had friends, all mostly like him, who were into intricate video games and science fiction.
But as nutty as it might sound, when my father talked about other kids in trouble and then complimented me, I thought he sounded wistful, as if he wished I was more like Huckleberry Finn. Getting into some kind of trouble, even if it was only being late to a class too often—something I couldn’t do, of course—would make me seem more “normal,” I guessed.
My father would hear others talk about their kids, but he would only listen and maybe smile when they told him he was lucky. I never cursed, never wanted to smoke, had no opportunity to drink too much alcohol, and knew what physical damage it could do anyway. I certainly avoided any form of drugs, and I didn’t drive yet, even though I could start, so I didn’t get cited for speeding or get parking tickets, much less dent one of the cars. I didn’t even play music too loudly in my room.
Yes, this was the first time I was involved in anything negative, and look at what it was: an incident requiring the police. My parents were stunned and looked lost when they arrived just after two patrolmen had begun speaking to Ernie, Damian, and me. Again, the boys let me do all the talking, nodding when the policemen looked at them for confirmation. I made sure to mention that Mateo had drunk too much tequila. We had to give them the names of the others. Everyone was a witness now. My parents spoke with the officers, and then Ernie and Damian went out to call their parents.
Greg’s father and mother arrived shortly after. The moment I saw them, the concern on their faces, I felt my body crumbling inside. Tears came to my eyes. My mother looked at me and put her arm around me. The police waited until Greg’s dad spoke with one of the nurses and then told them what they knew, gave them our testimony, which was ninety-nine percent mine. Greg’s parents looked my way as they spoke.
Suddenly, I felt this was entirely my fault. All I would have had to do to prevent it was to have said no to Greg’s invitation.
Shortly afterward, a doctor came out and spoke to Greg’s parents. They followed him into the hallway that led to the examination rooms.
“I’ve got to know how he is, Mom,” I said.
She nodded.
As the police were leaving, most likely to find Mateo, my father leaped to his feet and stopped them. They spoke with him briefly and then left. He returned slowly.
“They’ve called an eye surgeon, but it doesn’t look good,” he began. “It’s going to be quite a while, Donna. We should go home. I’ll find out everything later. I know the ER doctor.”
When we rose to leave, Greg’s parents came out. I looked at my mother and then broke away to approach them.
“I’m Donna Ramanez,” I said. “Greg took me to the beach.”
His father no
dded, but his mother just stared at me. Did she have trouble with English? I repeated it in Spanish.
“Greg was defending me when the other boy was insulting me and him. The boy who hit him was borracho. Greg didn’t want to have a fight. He wanted us to leave, and the other boy stopped us.”
His father nodded.
“Greg is the nicest boy in school,” I said. I realized that complimenting their son when he was in such pain and trouble only sharpened their agony and anxiety. I told them I hoped it would all go well and then rejoined my parents.
