Suckerpunch by David Hernandez Page B

sketchbook. He was foreshortened, a tricky angle to draw—his legs were crossed and pointed toward me, his head small beside the bottom of his shoes. The iron hissed. There was melodrama coming from the television, shouting and tears and moody piano music. Enrique yawned and scratched his head. Stop moving, I said. Hurry up already, he replied. I’m bored to death. That’s when I saw it, his third tooth, wedged between the treads of his shoe like a piece of white plastic, like a chip of seashell, some fragment washed up on the shore with all the other broken things.

9
    W E WERE SEVENTY MILES outside of Monterey when Oliver pulled off the highway and into a gas station. We were surrounded by flatlands and a few anorexic trees and nothing much else. There were dozens of dead bugs on the windshield, tiny winged things reduced to yellow streaks. The air was hot and dry and made my skin feel like cardboard. While Oliver was filling up the gas tank in the Picklewagon, I opened my sketchbook and worked on a drawing I had started the day before: a giant crow perched on a house, the bird’s wingspan wider than the roof. Ashley leaned forward between the headrests.
    That’s cool, Marcus, she said.
    Thanks.
    How did you learn to draw like that?
    I don’t know, I said, making hatch marks on the side of the house. Family genes, I guess.
    Ashley turned around. Can you draw, babe?
    Nope. I didn’t get that gene.
    Ashley leaned forward again and looked over my shoulder. Hey, can you draw a picture for me?
    Sure, I said, my hands getting all clammy. What do you want me to draw?
    I want to get another tattoo, she said. When I was a kid I had a dream about this hummingbird. It was blue and green and it was drinking from a flower that was shaped like a heart. Would that be hard to draw?
    Ashley’s breath smelled like cinnamon bubble gum. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted her to know that I wanted to kiss her.
    I could do that, I said.
    Cool.
    Where do you want the tat? Enrique wanted to know.
    My chest. Right over my heart.
    Enrique pulled Ashley toward him and started kissing her neck.
    Oliver popped his head into the car window. Anyone need to use the bathroom?
    Me, I said, and jumped out of the car and into the dry heat.
    I had to get away from them. I was liking Ashley more and it was really starting to hurt. I thought about her coming to our house day after day, what that would do to me. I pictured her sitting at our dinner table, the side of her fork sliding through my mother’s flan, the perfect shape of her lips as she slipped another sweet bite into her mouth.
    The bathroom at the gas station had stall doors painted mint green and on one of them someone had drawn a gigantic penis with a black marker. The balls were two adjoined circles with short lines radiating outward, quick dashes that were supposed to be pubic hair. It looked like a dick stuck on a cactus.
    Oliver walked into the bathroom whistling. That’s about how big mine is, he said, gesturing toward the vandalized door.
    Sure it is, I said. I was wetting my face at the only sink in the bathroom, and the mirror above it was all scratched up with more graffiti—gang names andfuck-yous and a heart skewered on an arrow.
    Oliver was pissing in one of the urinals and the back of his T-shirt was damp with sweat. So how long do you think your brother and Ashley are going to last? he said.
    I don’t know.
    I give them a month.
    He seems pretty happy with her, I said. For a depressive, I added.
    Oliver hit the silver bar on the urinal to flush and zipped up and moved toward the sink. Hey, has your brother ever tried to commit suicide?
    No, I said. Not that I know of.
    Oliver’s hands were under the faucet’s column of water, wetting them.
    Why, have you ever thought about it? I asked.
    No. You?
    Nuh-uh.
    Oliver shut off the water and yanked out a few paper towels from the chrome dispenser. I wanted to tell you something, he