27 He hung out with those boys in between the spaces of the houses in the small, wild reservation that we lived in. Weed, alcohol, and everything else, the rites of young children at the time. Yet again, we basked in our superiority. Grandma got angry at himwhen he went on a drunken rant, and he was kicked out. He was 12. The police would come to our house, looking for the young truant who refused to go to school. His hair was greasy, his face was unclean, and he smelled because no one had taught him how to care for himself. No one liked him besides his friends, no one reached out. No one had time to deal with a young kid, especially now that he had a new baby sister. His father leaves around this time too and Andrew has little reaction because it happened so many times before. But he didn’t know that this time it was for good. All around himwere drugs and alcohol. Nothing else to do, only to stay inside and be a hermit or run around with the others outside. Nothing to do but get into trouble, get drunk, and steal cars–which he did. His brother, his sister, or his mother would drink with him or smoke with him. Their addiction was like a bonding glue, somehow keeping them closer together. He got a tattoo under his eye. A faulty one, given by friends and later burned in a desperate attempt to remove it. His voice was deepening, and he still slept on the floor. His birthdays were sad events: there only being a couple of last-minute birthday cards from his sister and mother. He didn’t get any presents because grandma said he “didn’t mind” and didn’t deserve them. One Christmas Day, my icy, egotistical heart melted at the sight of his misfortune. Sixty dollars for a new game, a blue case wrapped in plastic foil just for him. He fished it out of the plastic Walmart bag and he smiled wide, just like he did while holding those two cans of soda. I was reminded that he was still a child, that he was not a junkie or whatever negative label I prescribed to him then. He jumped forward and hugged me, glad that at least someone got him a present. I felt touched. Later that night, he quietly died in his sleep. He had overdosed on improperly mixed drugs. No one knows if it was a suicide or if he just didn’t knowwhat was in it. He was 13. I learned this on my way to the hospital, driving my family at 5 o’clock in the morning. The wake and the funeral went by quickly. It was the first time I had participated in a funeral procession or was nominated to hold the casket. His mother refused to come for a while, vowing that she would never do drugs again. His sister attended, gathering up all the pictures she could and hating herself for her last words to him. His brother drunkenly stewed in the basement, crying into the fat pug he held in his arms. His father came back, staying in the back of the room and cradling his daughter. His grandma stood faithfully in the front row of that gym, coming to the casket and softly running her hands through his hair. They put on his favorite pair of shoes, tucked a cigarette into his ear, and placed a small teddy bear on his body. It was the cleanest he had ever looked, his body inside that casket. His shortly cropped hair, his thin cheeks that used to be so fat, and his fancy suit shaped around his body. And that little homemade tattoo of the tear, sitting under
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