On the Edge Page 3

  Now Mom was insisting that I see someone again. So the following week I made an appointment with the school psychologist. It would at least confirm to everyone at school that I was in desperate need of psychological help. Why else would I, Maddie Diaz, a supposedly smart girl and editor of the school newspaper, Prep Talk, have ratted on two Reyes?

  Because I was batshit crazy, of course.

  I was just lucky that I didn’t go to my neighborhood school. If I were at Rivera with Carmen and Abby, I’d be a target. Rivera was full of gangbangers, some of them affiliated with the Reyes.

  Thursday at lunch was the school newspaper meeting. I was tempted to reschedule it for next week, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had enough trouble chasing everyone down for their articles as it was, and any delay would only make it worse.

  Although I’d been on the newspaper staff since I was a freshman, I’d never dreamed of being editor. I had enough on my plate with trying to maintain my GPA and working on weekends. But last September Ms. Halsall, the staff advisor to the newspaper, had suggested I go for it. She’d said that being editor would look great on a college application, and that my writing was “incisive and brave.” I hadn’t even known what incisive meant, but I knew why she’d called it brave. I’d written an article on girl trafficking in Miami, and people still talked about it.

  Since everybody on staff knew that I could write, I got elected. The thing was, no one knew if I could lead. Including me.

  At first, running the meetings had scared the hell out of me. Although my voice was steady, I could feel my knees trembling. But I made it through those first few weeks, and proved to myself that I really was cut out for this. Once I’d figured that out, my knees stopped shaking.

  When the noon bell rang, everybody flooded in. For once, all ten of them showed up.

  “Hey, guys, let’s get started.” I looked around. “Who’s doing the film and TV section for the April edition?”

  Brad raised his hand. “I’ll do it.”

  “Everybody cool with that?” I asked. “Great. Now, I think we should do Part Five of Staff Stories. You can choose whoever you want, but I bet Ms. Karpoff would be interesting. She grew up in Romania, post World War Two.”

  “I’ll do it, but I want to write about Mr. Marshall,” Samantha said. “He’s got all these stories from the Gulf War.”

  “Awesome. Now, for the social issues section.”

  When I paused to take a breath, Cassidy jumped in. “You have to do social issues this time, Maddie. Everybody wants to know exactly what happened with that homeless guy. And it could be a jumping-off point for a discussion of gang violence. Didn’t you say in the fall we should write about that?”

  Leave it to Cassidy to bring up the one thing I wasn’t ready to talk about—or write about.

  The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Maybe this was why attendance was so good today. Everyone wanted the story.

  “I can’t write about it for legal reasons,” I said.

  “Does that mean you’re gonna testify?” asked Josh, the sports writer.

  I nodded.

  “Maybe they’ll cover the trial on TV,” said a freshman named Arleth. “You could be famous!”

  “It’s not going to be on TV,” I said. I hadn’t even considered that. “Anyway, let’s move on to the—”

  “Even if you can’t get specific about the case, you should still write an article about gangs,” Cassidy said. “Don’t you want to bring attention to the problem?”

  My face heated up. In true Cassidy style, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’d given me a hard time ever since I became editor, a position she’d desperately wanted. Her greatest wish was to make me look incompetent.

  Right now, she’d settled for making me look insensitive. I glanced at Ms. Halsall, who sat up on a desk, eating carrot sticks. Forty-something and hip, she had a streak of gray at the front of her wild red hair. Ms. Halsall watched me intently, not sparing a glance at Cassidy. It reminded me that I was the one in charge here.

  I wasn’t going to let Cassidy force me into an I’m not in the right space to write about this speech. I was the editor, right?

  “I’ve already started work on a two-parter about transitioning to college,” I said, turning away from Cassidy. “Anyone want to do an article on gang violence, as she suggested?”

  There were no takers.

  “Cassidy, what about you?” I asked.

  “I can’t, I’m covering the spring play.”

  “All right, then. Moving along.”

  I caught a glimmer of approval in Ms. Halsall’s eyes. For once, I’d managed to shut Cassidy down.

  That night, the doorbell rang. Dex went wild, launching himself at the front door, scratching and barking. I peered through the peephole.

  Detective Gutierrez. I was surprised that he was showing up at seven o’clock at night, but then, this was probably the start of his shift. He was driving an unmarked car, not that it mattered much. The whole neighborhood already knew I’d been talking to the cops.

  Although Gutierrez was a solid, stocky guy, the sound of Dex’s barking made him scoot back from the door.

  “Just a second!” I put Dex out back, then returned to open the door. “Sorry, he gets excited.”

  “A dog like that’s better than any burglar alarm,” he said, walking in. He wore crisp office clothes and looked freshly shaved. “We use German shepherds in our canine units. They’re smart dogs.”

  “I know.” I led him to the living room, which was messy with dog toys and Mom’s tabloids. My laptop and the remains of my dinner sat on the coffee table.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Maddie. But I wanted to update you on what’s happening.”

  I moved a copy of Us Weekly off the couch and we both sat down.

  “The two men you identified, Ramon Santiago and Diego Gomez, were arraigned earlier this week and charged with second-degree murder.”

  “I know. Saw it on the news.”

  “Judge Conway set their bonds at a million dollars. We’re looking at a trial date of August seventeenth of next year.”

  “Next year?” I wanted this over yesterday, not next year.

  “The timeline’s standard, unfortunately. You’ll need to be available for at least a week, maybe more. The DA’s office will be in touch with you long before that to go over your testimony and coach you on what to expect on the witness stand.”

  “All right.” I’d seen enough crime shows to know how it works.

  He cleared his throat. “You’ll be an excellent witness, Maddie. You’ve got the confidence not to let the defense cut you down.” He gave a meaningful pause. “You did the right thing by speaking out.”

  Of course I had. But hearing him say it didn’t bring me any comfort. It felt like there was an unsaid ending to his statement: You did the right thing despite what the Reyes might do to you.

  “Am I in danger?” I asked, flat out.

  He took his time in answering. “If some of the gang members come after you, it will only make things worse for Ramon and Diego. But you never know about these guys. My advice is to stay in public places. No more walking through the park after midnight.”

  Darn, no more moonlight strolls. But in all fairness, what could he say? No worries, you’re safe? Or Good luck, it’s just a matter of time?

  “Now, I have to get going, unless you have any questions for me.”

  I hesitated. There was something else I needed to know. “Was there a funeral for Hector? I didn’t hear about one on the news.” The moment I spoke his name, my throat seized up. I tried not to think about him, about his suffering, about his family. But it was always there, lingering beneath the surface.

  “I believe his family held a service,” he said, then stood up.

  “Good.” Hector deserved that, at least.

  Before he stepped outside, Gutierrez said, “Don’t forget, Maddie, you can’t share details of the case with anyone. If anything is
leaked, your credibility will come into question. And our whole case is resting on your testimony.”

  “Don’t worry, Detective. I get it.”

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  THE NEXT NIGHT, I SAT BY MYSELF, slowly working through my medium fries.

  The staff room looked like a cramped locker room, its walls splattered with forty years of McDonald’s propaganda. There was even a life-size Ronald McDonald statue, his hands cupped like he was praying. Creepy. I could never sit facing the thing, for fear old Ronald would wink at me.

  The door swung open. “Diaz! I was missing you.”

  “Hey.” I hadn’t seen Manny since last Friday, and I’d actually missed joking around with him.

  He slipped his uniform on over his T-shirt, then plunked down beside me. “I been worried about you.”

  For once, Manny wasn’t joking.

  “I’m okay. It was a horrible thing, you know?”

  “I know.” And I could tell that he did. You didn’t get tattoos like that without having witnessed a few things yourself.

  “Everybody thinks I have a death wish because I talked to the police. It wasn’t like that. I had to talk about what I saw.” I looked at him. He knew about gangs, didn’t he? Maybe I should ask. “Do you think the Reyes will come after me? I heard their leader is . . . brutal.” Which was the mildest way I could say it.

  Manny didn’t miss a beat. “Salazar doesn’t give a shit about you, Maddie. He’s not gonna lose sleep over Ramon and Diego. He’s got a lot of guys like them. They were small-time, trust me.”

  Just the name Salazar made my stomach sick. He was the head of the Reyes, a kingpin who dealt in drugs, guns, and girls. His name had come up many times when I’d researched girl trafficking for my article last year. Not that I had dared name him in print.

  “Salazar’s got his hands full these days,” Manny said. “He’s got a cartel from Tijuana trying to put him out of business. Plus, his dealers are getting robbed left and right. No one even knows who’s behind it. Some say it’s an underground gang. Point is, you’re not even a small fish to him. You’re, like, a fucking guppy.”

  I smiled. I’d never been so happy to be called a fucking guppy. I only wished I’d talked to Manny days ago. I might have slept better if I had.

  “Do you know them, Ramon and Diego?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, kinda. We’re from the same neighborhood. Never liked them, though.”

  “So you don’t think they’re . . . planning something. I mean, without Salazar.”

  “If Ramon and Diego wanted to get you, they probably would’ve done it by now. They could’ve easily called up their friends and told them to burn your house down. No planning necessary.”

  That wasn’t so comforting. It had only been a week. Maybe Ramon and Diego were slackers when it came to exacting revenge.

  “Be careful, though. Reyes are all over the place. You see one coming, you step out of their way. Don’t go starting something.”

  “I won’t, trust me.”

  “What you need”—he bent closer, and I could smell his spicy aftershave—“is a personal driver.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’ll be your guy.”

  “I’ll take you up on that sometime. Not tonight, though. My friends are picking me up in a cab. We’re going to Iz’s cousin’s party.”

  “Next time, then. I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, Diaz.” He winked. “Anywhere.”

  I had to smile. He wouldn’t be Manny if he didn’t try.

  Now this is a party.

  It was exactly what I’d pictured college parties would be like—low lighting, acid jazz on the Bose. A stylish crowd was hanging out, some of them dancing, some lounging, some cradling glasses of sangria between their legs.

  “Hey, you guys showed up.” Eric came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. The aromas of cumin, garlic, and other spices wafted toward us.

  “That smells incredible,” Iz said, giving her cousin a hug and glancing past him into the kitchen. “Is it ready?”

  “Almost.” With Eric’s good looks and Brooklyn accent, I couldn’t blame Carmen for crushing on him. I’d have crushed, too, if there’d been any point. “Here comes my girl, Julia.” Eric’s girlfriend walked out of the kitchen. She had wavy dark hair, big earrings and a warm smile. I liked her immediately. He slung an arm around her, and looked down at her proudly. “She goes to U. of M. for creative writing.”

  We all said hi. I glanced at Carmen. If she was upset to meet Julia, she didn’t show it. I guess she was finally past her Eric fantasy, probably because she’d gone out with Rafael twice this week.

  Within minutes, we were all drinking Eric’s homemade sangria. Heavy on fruit and light on alcohol, I bet this was his way of keeping the party under control. Me and the girls went into the living room, and since we didn’t know anyone, we danced. I loved the music and danced hard, wanting nothing more than to lose myself in it. And I was pretty much succeeding until I saw him.

  Him. Corner Store Guy. He was sitting across the room with a group of guys, watching me. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t looking at some hot chick behind me. When I looked back, he was staring down at his phone.

  I had to admit, the sight of him made my heartbeat kick up. It was either that or the dancing/sangria combo. I promised myself that I’d talk to him at some point. I couldn’t strike out worse than Iz had last weekend.

  The dancing continued, and after a bathroom break, I lost track of the girls. They were probably in the kitchen feasting on Eric’s arroz con pollo. Instead of searching for them, I wandered into one of the bedrooms and found myself listening in on some philosophical chat. It was an interesting mix of people—one of Eric’s roommates and his girlfriend, along with a few people who worked at Eric’s restaurant.

  College could be like this, I thought. Great parties and conversation. I just had to make it till September, and then I was outta here.

  “Heard you’re a writer too.” A girl sat down beside me. It was Julia.

  “Well, not a creative writer like you. Respect to that. I’m studying journalism next year.”

  “I know. Iz was bragging about your scholarship to Florida State. Ever since I met her she’s been bragging about you.”

  “That’s Iz. She probably made most of it up.” I searched for something to say. “Miami must be really different from Brooklyn, huh?”

  “Hell, yeah. But I love it here. The palm trees, the beach. It’s a total paradise compared to Brooklyn.”

  “I’d love to go there sometime. I’ve heard it’s the most amazing place.”

  “It is, but . . .” She sighed. “I was ready to leave. Junior year of high school was kind of crazy. My dad and I ended up moving to Queens so I could finish. It just wasn’t the same. Brooklyn will always be where I’m from, but it’s not home anymore.”

  I wanted to ask what crazy stuff she was referring to, but I doubted she wanted to spill it. Whatever it was, it sounded like trouble. And Julia didn’t seem the type to get into trouble.

  “I feel the same, in a way,” I said. “My mom married this asshole and it’s been a rough ride ever since. She finally woke up, but he’s stalling the divorce. I’ve been dying to leave Miami. To start over.” I was surprised at myself for being so open, but why not? I liked her. “Moving to Tallahassee’s just what I need.”

  She nodded, like she totally got me.

  A game of poker started, and we headed back to the living room. There was a huge piece of artwork on the wall, a gritty Miami street scene. Julia told me how Eric had brought the canvas to his favorite street artist and paid him fifty bucks to do it. I guess having an eye for art was something Eric and Iz had in common.

  Julia sat down on one of the couches, and shooed away a guy so that I could sit.

  “These are Eric’s boxing buddies,” she explained.

  One of them was Corner Store Guy. He was sitting on a chair next to the couch, beer in hand. When our eyes met,
he actually said, “Hey.”

  Julia noticed. “You know Ortiz?”

  Ortiz. So that was his name.

  “I—we’ve—at the store.” Way to impress a guy. I hoped the darkness masked my red cheeks.

  “He and Eric beat the shit out of each other last week,” Julia said, glaring at him. “I wasn’t impressed.”

  “That’s ’cause you didn’t see it,” Ortiz said, a glint in his hazel eyes. “You missed a fight, Julia.”

  “I didn’t miss the bruises. Why can’t you guys play tennis, or something that doesn’t leave you messed up?”

  “Tennis wouldn’t feed the beast. Your man Eric’s got the Brooklyn in him.”

  “I’ve got it in me, too,” Julia threw back at him. “Next time no black eyes, ’kay? I don’t think his boss at the restaurant was too happy about it.”

  “Deal.” That’s when Ortiz turned my way. To my surprise, he reached out his hand. “Maddie Diaz, right?”

  “Yeah.” His palm was callused, a boxer’s hand. I felt a shiver go up my arm.

  “You have some funny friends,” he said, his mouth curving up. “You’re not like them, are you?”

  I smiled. I suspected he was flirting with me, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “I heard all about you, Maddie Diaz. I admire what you did.”

  I was startled that he brought it up. I couldn’t accept the compliment, though. “Don’t admire me. I didn’t do enough. I wish . . .” I broke off. The intense look in his eyes silenced me.

  “You told the truth,” he said.

  I couldn’t argue with that. And I had to admit, Ortiz’s praise meant a lot. No one else had reacted that way to what I’d done. They’d reacted with worry, horror, or curiosity. Never admiration. Not even my mom.

  “Hector practically lived outside the store,” he said. “I used to give him overstock before we threw it out, and he was always grateful. The guy was more polite than most customers.”

  A lump rose in my throat. “I can believe it.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder—Julia’s.

  “Maddie’s a writer, you know,” Julia said, abruptly changing the topic. “She did this whole exposé on girl trafficking in Miami.”