Barely Missing Everything: Chapters 1–5

Dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a too-small Austin Panthers T-shirt, her wrists spangled with bracelets, his mother pointed to a pair of empty seats behind the Panther bench, her fingernails long and glossy red.

Coach Paul was always in his ear, telling him he needed to understand the game, learn when to be aggressive and when to throttle back.

Wanting to win, Juan took his chances, going hard after every loose ball, trying every tight pass and gambling on every contested shot, hoping the ball would bounce his way.

The predominantly white crowd quickly turned hostile, chanting, "Build the wall! Build the wall!" before halftime.

The Hummer had televisions molded in the leather headrests of each seat, underneath the monogram El Rey stitched across in neon-pink lettering.

JD threw his hands in the air, exasperated, his eyes wide.

The greasy smell of carne asada made Juan's thoroughly emptied stomach ache.

Flashing his lights, JD sped across the bakery's three-space parking lot and slammed his brakes in front of Juan, the engine of his '88 Escort pinging as it idled, fan belt squeaking.

The East Side of El Paso sprawled beyond what Juan had once considered the boonies, Joe Battle Boulevard and Americas and into Horizon City.

The same desert plants that had been uprooted to make room were now neatly planted along the concrete driveways and walkways.

Another group hung by a chiminea in the middle of the yard, its open mouth glowing orange as the wooden logs popped and hissed inside, plumes of smoke rising from the slender neck.

A gang of cholos from Central, dudes who relentlessly cruised a gray Cutlass, once peeked the double barrel of a shotgun at him after a game, the driver asking him if he thought he was faster than a speeding bullet.

On the other side of the wall a steep dirt hill sloped toward a construction site with tracts of half-built homes and empty plots.

JD's shoes were dumped in the middle of the room after being checked for any contraband stuffed inside.

They were "reinvesting in a historic neighborhood" by buying and fixing up an old house—the only two-story on the block—and living in the barrio.

Sunlight cut through stained glass windows, causing images of saints and crosses, chalices floating above them, to glow.

The Archangel Michael spearing the Devil, and John the Baptist standing in a river, arms extended over a bent body ready to be baptized; La Virgen presenting herself to Juan Diego, him clutching a shroud with her image.

JD dreamed of covering his own body with tattoos, though none as tacky as a name—even if it was Amá's.

When she finished she placed the stick on the toilet tank, next to a dusty basket of potpourri.

The flooring needed to be redone, mildew seeming to have replaced the grout between the cracked and mismatched tiles.

Would he turn noble, talk about being there for her and the baby and possibly mean it?

Juan exhaled loudly, in that way teenagers do when they don't have the words to express how stupid they find everything, and zeroed in on the television, suddenly interested in a cooking show where a woman was wrapping seemingly everything she was making in bacon.

In a few weeks Juan would have an arraignment hearing—so he would need a lawyer, and even an okay one would cost more than Fabi could afford.

How big a deal could evading arrest be?

"What is wrong with you?" Juan asked, gingerly holding his ankle.

Since he retired from twenty years with the city as an electrician, her daddy made extra cash fixing cars or working on busted washing machines—anything, really, him the neighborhood Mr. Fix It—and when he was done working for the day, he spent his time relaxing in the backyard, patiently tinkering on an old Chrysler she was sure he'd never finish.

Juan at last hobbled from the truck and limped up the stairs, Grampá saying to Juan, "I've got crutches somewhere in the yard."

Fabi had dated men like Ruben before, flashy types. Macho types.

Someone had forgotten their sonogram on the table beside her.

She remembered her first one, the little blob on the screen, the flicker emanating from somewhere inside it.

But I'm out of time now. I have a date for the gurney.

JD and Eddie had gravitated toward Juan, who was pedaling away on an exercise bike planted for him on the sideline of the PAC.

At the very least JD should have owned running from the cops, and he should have asked Juan about being booked—getting fingerprinted and having his mug shot taken. Asked about the charges and bail—Juan himself was still kind of clueless about the charges, but still.

"Can I think about it?" Juan said, trying to channel his inner JD and be nonchalant.

As he'd sat through algebra, he'd realized he was probably doomed come test time. So after class he hobbled to the quad to think.

"What are you looking for?" Juan yelled across the quadrangle. "What building?"
"The registrar's office," the girl called back, turning toward him. "I need to pick up my cousin's records. Apparently, he's been banned from campus."

He unfurled it...

...his forehead furrowed with concentration.

"Sounds to me like you're just taking videos like a sad mom," Danny scoffed.

He stomped on Juan's ankle, striking just above it, at the shin. White pain seared through him.