Free The Afterlife by Gary Soto

start pedaling on their own.
¡Imposible!
But I was acquainted with run-down neighborhoods. When a door was open, the street kids, spitting sunflower seed shells, would climb the steps and holler, "Hey!" maybe three times. If there was no answer, they would enter like bugs, antennas tuned to the sound of someone home. But unlike ants that carry away crumbs, these kids, praying to the Saint of Breaking and Entering, would tiptoe in like ninjas and take what pleased them.

    Straddling a lowrider bicycle, Crystal watched me freeze the hinges. Together we breathed on the door until it collapsed at an angle—what was death but a cold wind, after all? She watched while biting the ends of her hair and clapped as the door fell when a draft pushed against it. The things that go knock in the night went unnoticed in this
barrio.
Not even the dogs barked.
    The clock on the wall read 2:45. We were wide awake in the heart of the night. The moon had already carried itself westward and, in time, the night would shed its darkness. By five o'clock the eastern horizon would be rubbed with the pink of a new day. Fausto, a night thief, would not return until the afternoon. Or maybe not at all. He could be sleeping with some
chica
who didn't know better.
    "Let's go," I told Crystal.
    Crystal got off the bicycle and approached me. She grimaced at me as if I didn't make any sense. "What do you mean?"
    "I have to go home," I said. Jokingly, I asked, "You want to meet my mom?"

    The words
home
and
mom
had the strands of hair falling from her mouth. As we left the house and bounced down the front steps, I recognized the longing inside her. She wanted to go home herself and to say good-bye to her parents.
    Still, I asked, "What are you thinking?"
    "Nothing," she answered.
    Nothing? The way I figured, the mind was always swirling one thought or another. It was impossible not to think something, even in sleep. But in sleep they called your thoughts dreams—or nightmares.
    "Come on," I begged as I drew close to her. "Tell me."
    Crystal was unafraid of the stumps of my arms. She gripped them and murmured something about disappointing her parents. About what, though? I examined her face for a clue, but found none. "What are you thinking?" I probed.
    "Just something," she answered. She nervously undid the top button of her blouse.
    I was aware that she was picturing her family, mom and dad, and maybe her bedroom, and her brothers and sisters, if she had any. That was what I had pictured on the roof of Club Estrella—home with Mom and Dad in front of the television. I gritted my teeth as I remembered something else.
Dawg,
I thought. I kept a three-pack of condoms under my mattress, and none of them ever got used! In a week or so, my mom would come in and straighten up my bed and discover that box. I could see her rattling it against her ear, then start crying as she realizes that she would never have grandchildren.

    Crystal lowered her face. Her beauty had me pressing my body to hers. I hugged her, and she hugged me back. Her face rested against my neck. God, how come I hadn't met her when I was living?
    "I need to go back home," she said, and pushed me away gently. Her eyes had a sorrowful look that spread to me. I felt my own sorrow, which deepened when I saw that my calves were vanishing. For me, time was running out.
    She moved away from me and stood in the street. She faced south toward Selma, and I could tell that she had much to say to her parents. But she didn't have the words to tell them. She was dead and a ghost, and her parents, for all I knew, were unaware of her death. She had been dead only a few hours. Perhaps her body hadn't been found yet.
    Crystal,
I beckoned with my eyes. Boldly, I asked, "How did you die?"
    "Pills," she answered, after she searched my face for trust. I suppose she found it in my eyes. She bit her lower lip and punished it really hard because when she let go I could see the teeth marks in her lip.

    Wind