Bulletproof Vest Read Online Free PDF

Saturday and all day Sunday, until our final trip on Sunday afternoon. We step outside and Mary closes the front door—the sound of it hitting the frame sends an echo through the empty house. It’s a relief to be leaving that house for good, not only because of the threat of the two brothers, but also because it feels like by moving away we are leaving the past behind us. The last time I ever saw my brother he had been standing in that doorway, one hand resting on the doorknob, the other holding a duffel bag. He was wearing a light blue Windbreaker, jeans, and a brand-new pair of white leather Nike sneakers.
    â€œI’m leaving,” he said, pausing at the door and looking at me. I was sitting on the couch, under a blanket, watching a rerun of The Greatest American Hero. My father had asked Chemel if he’d go back to Mexico to help my grandfather—who had recently been diagnosed with diabetes—with the livestock. It would only be for a month or two, just long enough for him to find and train a responsible cattle hand to stay on permanently.
    â€œYou promised to pay for my gymnastics lessons,” I said, crossing my arms tight, even though I had already taught myself how to do just about everything from a back walkover to the splits. A few years back, we had lived near a gymnastics studio, and I used to ride my dirt bike to the studio and stand in the doorway, observing the classes. Then I’d ride home and practice in our front yard until it grew dark. The following day, I’d practice during recess, doing countless backbends over the blue rubber seat of a swing, pulling my right knee up and over the way I’d seen the girls in the class doing, until eventually I no longer needed the swing to spot me.
    â€œI will,” he said. “When I come back.” He lingered in the doorway, waiting. He was the one who had told me to observe the classes and practice on my own, because that way, when I did start lessons, I’d be at a more advanced level. That’s what he had done with karate. He had watched back-to-back Bruce Lee movies, observing and practicing before enrolling in classes, and he’d become a black belt in no time. “Aren’t you going to give me a hug?” he said, his hand still resting on the doorknob.
    â€œWhy?” I said. “It’s not like you’re going to be gone forever.” He stood in the doorway for a bit longer before turning and walking away, the light of the television reflecting off his white sneakers as he went.
    Mary locks the door and we make our way to her car. It’s spring and the icicles that hang from the white gutter in front of the house are melting in the afternoon sun, dripping and sending small streams down the driveway. I climb into the passenger seat, wedge myself next to a pillow, and place the box I’m carrying on my lap. Inside the box are my alarm clock radio, my coin collection, and the letters Chemel had written me from Mexico. After he’d been gone for six months, I had sat down and written him a letter, asking when was he coming back, and what was taking so long. I had already memorized the three chords he had left me practicing on the guitar and was sick of playing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Also, I told him that his ex-girlfriend Leticia Jiménez had gotten married, and so had Anna Sánchez from down the street, and Lucy Hurtado from my mother’s church said to say hello to him. I signed my name, licked the envelope, and placed four stamps on the upper right-hand corner. I wrote the address my mother had given me on it. There was no zip code, no street number—not even a street name—how was it possible that he was living in a place where the streets had no names? I sent the letter, convinced it would never reach him. Still, I checked the mailbox every day after getting off the school bus, until finally, about a month later, there was a letter from him.
    For the