Manuel didn't take The Kings seriously, unlike his brother, Rafo, who looked for ways to get in their fights, along with his mom's new boyfriend, Marcos El Rey. He was head of the neighborhood bangers and shit, he strutted his stuff like a groomed cock up and down 'La Deisiocho,'Eighteenth Street, all duded up and carrying a Magnum in the leather holster at the small of his back. He'd take Rafo everywhere with him day or night to show him off and Rafo ate it up.

 

Manuel never told anybody how dumb he thought the whole thing was. At thirteen, man, even he could tell when the older 'hermanos' got together, they acted stupid, talking real big, full of bullshit, only killing each other. Marcos was the worst. Big cocksucker with the fat beer belly knocked his mom around for kicks. He was smart enough not to do it around Rafo but Manuel saw the dark marks she tried to powder over.

 

Last night Rafo and he had stayed up late in the dark of their room. It was hot, real hot, and the windows were wide open so you could hear a drunk weaving down the alley, singing 'rancheros,' hokey songs from Mexico about broken hearts and shit like that. Manuel didn't actually know all the words but he understood enough to know this one was about love and chicks who cheat on guys or something like that. The drunk was puking his guts out between choruses underneath their window and he and Rafo laughed so hard, they almost gagged. After a while, Rafo asked him stuff about how he felt being part of them now, even if he was a 'peewee.' Manuel couldn't answer so he pretended to be asleep. He heard Rafo light a cigarette and take a deep drag, then slowly exhale, as if he were dying. The minutes passed and Manuel turned over to watch him out of one eye.

 

Rafo was nineteen and the handsomest man around. He had always had babes hanging around but he didn't care much about them. Ever since Manuel was little, Rafo was more interested in impressing the guys and being popular with them. Manuel watched him, his body lean and dark, his profile illuminated only by faint street light and the glow of his 'pucho.' He was scared for him. He loved him as much as he could love anybody. It ached like a huge hole in his chest to imagine him gone. His tongue went numb because if he said what he thought, maybe Rafo would leave him alone. He wished he knew how to cry. Secretly in shame, he prayed, so deep inside, so silently, no one could find out how much he truly believed. He asked God fiercely to keep his brother safe no matter what and, if it meant that his mother or Marcos die instead, okay, take them but keep Rafo alive with me. Amen. He crossed his heart under the covers.

 

Rafo put out his cigarette, grinding it into the wooden floor, extinguishing his reverie. Then they slept, both dreaming of the circus, lit with a thousand tiny colored lights, moving and flashing, the two of them strapped in a careening, jolting ride racing them uncontrollably toward what they thought might be Mexico.