Free Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

voice.
    “Doesn’t matter what cops think,” I said.
    “I like you, Sammy. You’re smart. But you’re full of shit.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “You’re full of shit, too.” I tossed him a cigarette.
    “It matters, Sammy.” That’s what René said. “It matters what the cops think. Just like it matters what our fucking teachers think.” He licked the cigarette he was holding. “Toss me a light,” he said. “Sammy, the only thing that doesn’t matter is us.”
    We get to the party around nine o’clock. Nice. Hollywood didn’t havehouses like the one Hatty Garrison lived in. Cars everywhere on her street. I knew there’d be trouble. Already the neighbors looked like they were ready to swoop down. So Pifas and René Montoya and me, we go to the door. Hatty’s there with this big smile. “Pifas!” she says. She was nice, Hatty. Always liked her. “Sammy!” she says. And she hugs me. I could smell the beer on her. Well on her way to being drunk. Not a good sign, I thought. I hated that I was such a worrier. Was Pifas worried? Was René worried? Was Hatty worried? No one was worried. We had a house full of Alfred E. Newmans.
    We made our way through the crowd. The music was loud as shit. I never liked that. I mean, I liked rock. I liked the song that was on. I liked the Rolling Stones. But I didn’t like loud. I pushed my way through the crowd and made my way to the backyard. Lots of gringos. Lots of Chicanos, too. Integration. Yeah, yeah. I tried to see if anyone else from Hollywood was there. Didn’t see anyone, mostly people I knew from school. People I’d be ashamed to take to my house. I hated that I was ashamed. Where did that come from?
    Someone handed me a plastic cup. I walked over to the keg and some guy says, “Sammy! Fucking A! Sammy!” He takes my empty cup and fills it up from the keg. There’s always a keg watcher. Afraid everybody will drink all the beer and leave nothing for him.
    “Hey, Michael, how is it?” That’s what I always say. How is it? It was a Sammy Santos thing.
    Michael nodded his head to the music and handed me the cup full of beer. “It’s good, Sammy. Everything’s good.”
    “Good,” I said. “I’m good, too.” That’s when I see Gigi talking to some girl. She was wearing a mini-skirt, and her white go-go boots and really pink lipstick. Pink as Mrs. Apodaca’s house. She had a body, Gigi did.Liked having it. Liked it a lot. I walk over to her. “Gigi. How is it?”
    “It’s you,” she said.
    “Yeah. Me, Gigi. Just me.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Nothing,” I said. I walked away. I didn’t get her. I just didn’t.
    It was an okay party. People were dancing. People were talking. People were drinking. People were making out. That sort of thing. You know the scene. Funny thing, I wasn’t into it. Maybe it was Juliana. Maybe my head was still in another place. With her. At the Aggie Drive-In. I was always a watcher. But now, I was even more of a watcher. I wasn’t a part of anything. Not anything real. Maybe something would happen. If not to me, to someone else. Didn’t matter if it was something good or something bad. Just anything to make me feel like I was alive. Maybe, deep down, I knew why Pifas and Joaquín and René and Reyes liked to fight. They wanted to feel something. Maybe I was just like them. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. So there I was, at a party at Hatty Garrison’s house, a beer in my hand and about to light a cigarette, when Gigi comes up to me and says, “You know, Sammy, you’re a real asshole.”
    “Did I do something to you, Gigi? Did I?”
    “You have your head stuck so far up your ass you can see what you ate for dinner.”
    “Nice mouth.”
    “Don’t nice mouth me, Sammy.”
    “You wanna tell me why we’re fighting a war?” I offered her a cigarette. She took it—like she was doing me a favor.
    “Why do you tell everyone my name’s Ramona?”
    “Well, because that’s your name.”
    “I hate that