Apology by Jon Pineda (books to read this summer .txt) 📕

headfirst again. This time it was the draping leaves and tangle. He regretted not asking Vin to bring him a flashlight, if his family even had one, and he regretted not going to his house to tell his mother he and Vin would be playing longer together this evening. So that she would not worry.

But all such regrets were pointless.

How would he cross the water in the dark?

How would he find them once he made it to the other side?

He had not considered these details. He wondered if perhaps they had not considered them either, and that after some deliberation throughout the day, the old man Nestor had thought better of his proposition to the boy and had told the other men to gather their things and begin their trek sooner rather than later.

Exequiel wished for this outcome.

He wished for it in the same way he wished for his brother Paul to be safe, wherever he was. He wished for it in the same way he wished to leave this place for good one day and go find his brother. Instead of using their father’s T-shirt, they would have more money than they knew what to do with. The first thing he was certain they would do would be to visit a place that sold real balls, all leather and perfectly stitched.

Rows and rows of them.

The pistol began to grow heavy in his hand.

He switched it from left to right to left, to distribute the burden of it, but then it was too much. He used both hands. Still, it was too heavy. He stopped running and set the gun down. He stood up for a moment to catch his breath.

It was growing dark where he stood. He walked slowly in a circle. More than nine times around, his age counted out this way. He kept thinking it would be important if he did so. He paused and decided he could do this. He would do this.

He crouched down to pick up the pistol, but now he couldn’t find it.

He placed his hands flat on the ground and felt around in the space beneath him. He widened the perimeter in nervous increments. He could hear himself wheezing. He knew if Vin were here, the older boy would slap the top of his head and tell him to calm down.

As Exequiel scoured the dark, he started to think that this, perhaps, was good luck. The pistol would only signal to the old man Nestor and the others that he had found a stockpile, that he was holding out on them.

Yes, he thought.

After more fruitless rummaging, he had convinced himself. He would go to them empty-handed. They would see he was telling the truth. There was nothing of worth in the town that the boy could find.

He could hear the water. He approached it slowly, knowing there were plenty of places he might plunge down. It was so dark. In some parts he had to feel his way with his feet, his arms outstretched.

Before he could make out the light on the river, a match flared at his right. He turned to see the old man Nestor’s face glow before the flame extinguished. The first plume of the cigarette’s smoke was a white blue.

“The others did not think you would return, but I knew you were smart. I told them so,” the old man Nestor said.

“I couldn’t find any guns,” Exequiel said.

The old man Nestor did not say anything.

“I tried to find some. I did,” the boy said.

“Yes,” the old man Nestor said.

“I thought there was one, but I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry.”

Exequiel didn’t understand why the man was apologizing.

“I have to go now,” the boy said.

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay,” the boy said and turned, but he felt a hand immediately clamp down on his shoulder.

“How many places did you look?” the old man Nestor said.

“Just that one,” the boy said.

“A long time away for just one place of searching.”

The boy did not know how to answer.

The old man Nestor laughed.

“You see, it is an altogether difficult place we have found ourselves in, my young friend. I’m not sure I believe you just yet.”

Exequiel thought he could hear Vin calling for him. He thought it was Vin who was saying, “Did you find him?” Exequiel thought of running, but he had already played the scenario out in his mind. It ended with his mother under the old man Nestor’s chair.

“You can scream. It’s okay if you want to scream.”

The old man Nestor had finished another cigarette and was blowing the smoke to the side before he leaned over and regarded the boy. They had gagged him this time, and Exequiel thought at least they would not have the pleasure of hearing him scream. This thought had a short life, like a lit match. A stupid thought. He twisted in place. The twine on his wrists burned over the wounds from earlier.

The old man Nestor removed the piece of shirt that had been knotted and used to gag the boy. “Do you want to tell us anything?” the old man Nestor said.

“Yes,” the boy said. “Go to hell.”

This made the other men laugh loudly. They slapped each other on the shoulders. There was a lantern with a flame drawn down so low that it had been nearly snuffed out.

“I like this one,” the old man Nestor said. “I like this one a lot. If only I had more of them at my disposal!” He coughed, clearing his throat. He laughed the deepest laugh the boy had heard among these men.

“I will ask you again,” the old man said. “Because I like you.”

He stood up with some difficulty and then repositioned the chair, so that one of the front legs, its gnarled end, rested just above the boy’s right shoulder. The metal was so cold from the damp earth that, when it first touched Exequiel, he laughed amidst the terror of the moment. It was too much