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Omar grimaced. “Oh. That can wait. It isn’t an emergency or anything.” Except that it might be, but surely one little daywouldn’t make a difference. “Hey! Why don’t you spend the night at my place tomorrow?”

Anthony shrugged while making a pouty face. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Come on,” Omar said, nudging him. “You love staying at my house. Admit it! We always have fun.”

Anthony rolled his eyes and smiled reluctantly. “Yeah, okay. Just me and you right? I’m not going to show up at a slumber party with Silvia and Ricky there?”

“No promises,” Omar said with a wink. He held out an elbow until Anthony bumped it with his own. “Wish me luck.”

Mike honked before he could.

“I better get going,” Anthony mumbled. “See ya.”

“Later.”

Omar dropped his board to the ground and sailed away from the parking lot, a wild grin plastered on his face. He was about to hang out with a pretty girl. What could be better than that?

CHAPTER 7

September 11th, 1992

Omar was right. Anthonydidlove staying at his house. He stood in front of it now, and as always, envied the sheer size. The front door was central, a covered porch wrapping around both sides. The same balustrades could be seen above on the second floor, where a small balcony was attached to Omar’s bedroom, the lucky bastard. Most of the building was maroon brick, the wooden ornamental details painted white. Anthony still remembered the first time he had visited, and how spacious and sprawling the rooms had seemed to him. They still did, although now that he wasn’t sharing a room with Mike, he felt a little better about his own situation.

He went up to the front door and knocked, unsure who would answer. He had gone home after school to drop things off and to pick up what he needed. Then he walked over to Omar’s house, which didn’t take long, even though they lived in different neighborhoods. It was possible that Omar’s mom would be home by now, since she didn’t work as late as her husband did. The wait was long enough that Anthony knew it wouldn’t be her. By the time the door finally opened, he was already looking downward to make eye contact with an elderly woman in a wheelchair. She wore a bright blue hijab—a hint of white hair sticking out from beneath it—and a pair of thick prescription glasses that made her dark eyes appear huge.

“Hello, Blondie,” she said in a rusty voice thick with her native accent.

Anthony was glad she still called him that, even though he’d been dyeing his hair for well over a year. That had been her nickname for him since he’d first met Omar, and he didn’t want it to change. “Hi, Mamani,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“There are two children with working legs in this house, but who answers the door?” She said this while rolling back to make room so he could enter.

“This is why I should have my own key,” Anthony said. “Or better yet, let me live here. I’ll open the door all day long.”

“If only I were so lucky,” Mamani said with a crooked smile. “You would make a much better grandson.”

She didn’t really mean that, and probably wasn’t upset about having to answer the door. Mamani always seemed to be in high spirits. And her legsdidwork. Just not very well. She had some sort of degenerative disease but Anthony prided himself on never asking about it. He figured the most annoying thing about having to be in a wheelchair sometimes was how everyone else fixated on the fact.

“You can guess where he is?” Mamani asked. She looked up at the ceiling, where thudding bass could be heard.

“Yeah. Should I ask him to turn it down?”

“No. Have him turn it up! I can hear the rock, but not the roll.”

She was kidding again. Probably. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And tell him that he continues to break his grandmother’s heart!” she called after him.

The stairs, like all the floors in this house, were wooden. Anthony took them two at a time, getting a glimpse of the attached areas to each side—the dining room and living room respectively. As always, everything was immaculately clean. Omar’s family were the only people he knew that hired a maid. And man did it show! Anthony’s house was a well-meaning sort of tidy, since everyone pitched in where they could, despite being perpetually behind.

Omar’s bedroom was the first door on the right. Anthony let himself in without knocking, which is exactly what his best friend always did when the situation was reversed. The room wasn’t the biggest in the house, but it was the brightest, thanks to the two windows and a door that led out to the balcony. Black curtains lined them, which were always yanked shut when the entertainment center on the far wall was in use. Not only did Omar have a nice big television, but he hadfourdifferent game consoles, which they made frequent use of, along with a VCR, stereo, and two tall speakers flanking it all. The bed across from this was big enough that Anthony never had to sleep on the floor. The walls were covered in movie posters and babes in bikinis. Anything else, if the option was available, was inevitably in black; comforter, sheets, the director-style canvas chairs, and even the blades of the ceiling fan.

Omar looked right at home here, especially when banging his head while snarling his lip, like he was doing now. Anthonydidn’t recognize the music, but it featured high-powered guitar licks and—oddly enough—quite a few squeaky horns.

After he shut the door behind him, Anthony shouted over the music, “Your grandmother says you’re a soulless demon and that you’re sending her to an early grave.”

Omar grinned and moved to turn the stereo down somewhat. “Promises, promises,” he replied. “What do you think?”

Anthony dropped the bag he’d brought with him and cocked his head to listen. He caught the chorus, which as it turned out, was the title of the song. “My ass is on fire?” he repeated incredulously.