The next few minutes were spent in silence. Cornelia was embarrassed that Admeta knew of her crime and Admeta was angry with Cornelia for not knowing who she was. Admeta grabbed a can of paint and poured it into a paint pan. Cornelia followed suit. The paint was a darker shade of blue than the siding they were about to paint over. Cornelia decided this issue was important enough to break the silence.
“This paint is too dark,” she said in a soft tone.
“Of course it is,” was Admeta’s curt reply.
“But when we paint it on it’s going to look weird,” Cornelia protested.
“Look, Blondie, The Family Connection doesn’t have your family’s kind of money, o.k.? They couldn’t afford to hire color matchers or anything like that. They picked the closest color they could find and they were lucky to get that. They run on donations, you know. They’re non-profit,” Admeta said, waving the paint roller in her hand.
“You mean they don’t make any money?”
“Duh. What do you think non-profit means?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Cornelia began to say, but got cut off again.
“Then, what did you mean, Blondie?”
Annoyed, Cornelia asked, “Could you please stop calling me that? I’m not calling you, Darkie.” Before the words even finished leaving her mouth, Cornelia knew she had said something horrible. She only meant that Admeta had dark hair, but it came out all wrong.
“What did you just say to me, white girl?!” Admeta screamed and threw her paint roller into the pan.
Just then Monica intervened. “Is there a problem over there, ladies?” Both of the girls stood there not saying anything but Admeta’s eyes were on fire. Cornelia didn’t want to risk losing her service hours, but she wasn’t sure why Admeta kept quiet. “That’s what I thought,” Monica continued, “get to work and stop your playing!”
Cornelia whispered to Admeta, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant that calling me Blondie would be the same as me calling you…” she hesitated. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, honestly.” It might have been the most honest moment Cornelia had ever shared with anyone in her entire life. There she was with a girl she’d never bothered to get to know, who she said an awful thing to, and she was being more honest than she ever was with her own parents, friends, or even her boyfriend. It was quite possible that Cornelia actually felt badly about her poor choice of words. For some strange reason, she wanted Admeta to like her. But considering the crime Cornelia had committed, it was understandable that Admeta didn’t believe a word.
“Fine, I won’t call you Blondie. Can we just drop it?” Admeta asked.
“Absolutely,” Cornelia said with relief. Admeta picked up her paint roller again and started rolling it in her pan and Cornelia did the same.
“You’re putting too much paint on the roller. You have to roll it over the top part of the pan to thin out the paint, like this,” Admeta said, demonstrating her technique. Cornelia mirrored Admeta. “Where should we start?” Admeta asked.
“Right here,” Cornelia said, pointing to the nasty word written with the black marker.
“I should have known you would start there,” Admeta said under her breath.
“What?” Cornelia asked.
“Nothing. That’s as good a place as any,” Admeta said. Cornelia decided not to pursue the answer to her question and started painting up and down on the siding.
“No, wait, you’re doing it all wrong,” Admeta said, putting her hand on Cornelia arm. “You don’t go up and down on aluminum siding, you have to go side to side, like this,” she continued, demonstrating once again. Cornelia turned her wrist to try the sideways approach. The two continued painting in silence for a few minutes.
Then Cornelia asked, “So, what did you do?”
“What do you mean?” Admeta asked, confused.
“What did you do to get here?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“How did you get sentenced to community service?” Cornelia asked in a hushed tone.
“What do you mean ‘what did I do to get sentenced to community service?’ Just because I’m Hispanic you think I committed a crime?” Admeta asked. She stopped painting and put one hand on her hip. The other hand was waiving the paint roller at Cornelia who had put her roller down. “Just because you’re here for being a juvenile delinquent doesn’t mean the rest of us are here for that. I volunteered to be here today to help clean up my community; a topic that I’m sure is foreign to you. You richies up on the hill don’t have to deal with gangs and all of the things that come with them, like violence and graffiti. This is my neighborhood and I’m proud to be from Price Valley. I do what I can to make it a better place to live. What’s wrong with you? You’re so racist.”
“I am not racist,” Cornelia said, crossing her arms again.
“Oh really? Assuming that because I’m Hispanic I committed a crime to be here isn’t racist? You think what you wrote on the wall at school wasn’t racist? You’re in denial, white girl,” Admeta said angrily, waving her paint roller so close to Cornelia’s face that some paint splattered on her shirt.
“My shirt!” Cornelia exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, racist, some turpentine can get that out.”
“Stop calling me a racist,” Cornelia pleaded.
“Why? It’s true. Don’t think I didn’t notice that when you walked into The Family Connection you went straight for Natalie who just happened to be the only other white person in the room. You could have asked Isabella or Monica where you needed to go, or one of us for that matter, but you ran straight for Natalie. Face it, white girl, you’re racist just like everyone else on the hill.”
“That’s not true!” Cornelia yelled.
When she heard Cornelia yelling, Monica stopped painting and came over to the girls. “You two at it again? Mmm hmm. What am I going to do with you?” she asked, frowning and crossing her arms.
“I’m sorry, Miss M., but this white girl is racist and I can’t work with her,” Admeta said.
“Oh, Miss Cornelia here is a racist?” Monica asked, skeptically. “Is that what you think, brown girl?”
“What did…” Admeta’s voice trailed off before she said something disrespectful.
“What? You don’t like being called brown girl?” Monica asked, with one hand on her hip.
“No, ma’am,” Admeta replied through gritted teeth, her hands now down at her sides. She had a little more attitude than she had intended.
“Then I suggest you stop calling Miss Cornelia ‘white girl.’ That’s racist too, you know. Sounds to me like both of you need to grow up and stop hatin’ on each other. We don’t have time for this silliness, ladies. Get back to work. And if you can’t get along, then don’t talk. I don’t care if y’all’s friends. I care that the job gets done,” Monica said, and then went back to painting at the other end of the building.
Admeta stood and watched Monica walk away. Cornelia had already grabbed her roller. She was afraid that little outburst was going to cost her service hours. Admeta turned and looked at Cornelia, then rolled her eyes, before bending over and dipping her own roller into the paint pan. The two girls were once again working in silence. Within an hour, the group had the entire building finished.
Cornelia thought the building looked ridiculous covered with patches of paint that were darker than the siding. But she thought that was better than being covered in profanity, initials and gibberish that made no sense. As she and the other girls were cleaning up and packing the equipment in the luggage compartment of the bus, Cornelia asked Monica if she should call her mother to pick her up at the center.
“Watchu mean?” Monica asked.
“I want to give her time to get there so I don’t have to wait for her,” Cornelia replied innocently.
“Girl, watchu thinkin’?” Monica said. “You think this is it? One building and we’re done? Ut uh.” Monica waved her right index finge
r back and forth in the air. “We’re cleaning up this whole ‘hood. This was just our first stop, girl. Get on the bus with your naïve self,” Monica said with a laugh, shaking her head and pointing toward the door.
Cornelia furrowed her brow, but she complied with Monica’s order. She once again sat in the front seat with her service coordinator. And once again Monica was talking to the bus driver while Cornelia sat quietly. Their next stop was Glen Park on Glenway Avenue.
As the girls piled out of the bus, Cornelia could see the graffiti that littered the wall surrounding the park. As she walked up the stone stairs she saw a cornerstone that read, “WPA 1941.” Cornelia imagined that the park had looked much nicer in 1941. She envisioned new walls, perfect equipment and no litter in sight. As she walked up the stairs, reality set in. She could see that graffiti artists had even written on the playground equipment. Cornelia wondered why anyone would write on a merry-go-round built for five-year-olds. Most of the children who used the park couldn’t even read what the graffiti said, let alone care about the messages. She thought it was a pretty silly thing to do in a children’s park. Cornelia had no idea what went on in that park after dark. It’s where a lot of drug dealers met with customers and many gangs went to hang out or challenge each other.
Admeta knew this park all too well. It was where all of her brothers got jumped into their gang, La Hijos de El Salvador, or The Sons of El Salvador. Each time one of her brothers was initiated, they would come home bloody and bruised. Her oldest brother, Raoul, was beaten so badly, Admeta thought he was going to die. “Take it easy, pequeña hermana,” he said, after coughing up blood. Pequeña ermana is Spanish for “little sister.” All of her brothers called her pequeña hermana. “I’m fine. La Hijos will take care of me now. They’ll take care of all of us.”
“I don’t care about La Hijos!” Admeta screamed, “I care about neustra familia!” Neustra familia means “our family” in Spanish. Admeta’s family often spoke in Spanglish, which is a combination of English and Spanish. Admeta and three of her brothers were born in the United States, but her eldest brother, Raoul, was born in El Salvador. Once he was initiated into the gang, he made sure his younger brothers’ jump-ins weren’t as bad as his own. Admeta thought gangs were stupid. She wanted to go to college someday and she wasn’t about to let a gang mess that up for her. She was disgusted by the sight of the gang graffiti and saddened by the fact that her brothers might have helped spread it.
“O.k. troops,” Monica began. “Let’s get to it. We’re runnin’ behind schedule.”
The heat of the day was bearing down on Cornelia. She wiped her brow and walked over to Admeta. “How are we supposed to cover this rock?” Cornelia asked, referring to the wall around the playground.
“We use gray paint, look,” Admeta replied, pointing to previous paint patches. Cornelia thought about how tacky the wall was going to look. It would all be patchwork, just like the deli down the street. She felt like the entire group was waging a losing battle.
“Why are we painting if they’re just going to write graffiti all over it again and again?” Cornelia asked.
“We paint because it’s the right thing to do,” Admeta replied, matter-of-factly. “We paint because if we didn’t they would win, and we can’t let them win.” Admeta seemed so sure of herself, Cornelia was taken aback.
“I admire your dedication,” Cornelia said, truthfully. It was the first connection Cornelia and Admeta had made all day and it made Cornelia feel good to say it. She smiled at her classmate.
“If we don’t fight for our own neighborhood, who will?” Admeta asked. “Aside from those who are forced to, of course.” Cornelia’s smile quickly turned to a frown.
“What’s your problem?” Cornelia asked. “I was trying to be nice.”
“I don’t want you to be nice to me. I happen to like Mrs. Hakim and I don’t like what you did to her. She’s the best teacher I’ve ever had.” Admeta poured gray paint into the paint pan and began rolling the roller.
“What’s so great about her?” Cornelia asked sarcastically, pouring her own paint.
“She’s a good teacher. She cares about her students; all of her students. Unlike a lot of the teachers at our school who only care about the rich ones, so they can please their parents and get large donations for the PTA,” Admeta replied, as she began to paint over the f-word at the edge of the park wall.
Cornelia was painting a few feet away. “I don’t think that’s true,” she said.
“Well, YOU wouldn’t, would you? You’re one of them. One of the richies on the hill. What would you know about being treated as a second-class citizen? Mrs. Hakim treats us all equally.”
“Then why did she fight to get me a light sentence? If what you say is true she was probably hoping my father would make a nice financial gift to the school.”
“You’re an idiot, Cornelia. Mrs. Hakim couldn’t care less about your father or his money. She has more important things to worry about.”
“Like what?” Cornelia asked, but Admeta clammed up.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” she said, trying to change the subject. “She fought for you because she believes in you. I’ve heard her tell you in English class that she thinks you’re a good writer. She even asked you to join Writers on the Storm once, don’t you remember?”
“What’s riders on the storm?”
“Not riders; writers,” Admeta said, putting an accent on the ‘t.’
“O.k., then, what is Writers on the Storm?” Cornelia asked, mimicking Admeta with an exaggerated accent on the ‘t.’
“Oh my God, you are so thick. She only asked you to join like a million times. Do you ever listen to anyone but your stuck-up friends?” Admeta did not wait for a reply. “Writers on the Storm is the literary club at Storm River. For some reason Mrs. Hakim thinks your writing is really good.”
“Why did she give me a ‘D’ if my writing is so good?” Cornelia asked, indignantly.
“Oh, I-D-K, maybe it’s because you never do your homework, you turn assignments in late, if at all, and you talk with your snotty friends all through class instead of paying attention. Do you think that might have something to do with it, Cornelia?”
“I do my work!” Cornelia said, and then lowered her voice. “And stop calling my friends snotty and stuck-up.”
“If the shoe fits,” Admeta began, but then changed her mind. “You know what? I’m not going there with you. Mrs. Hakim thinks your writing is worthy of Writers on the Storm, but you couldn’t care less about it. You didn’t even bother to ask what it was until just now. It’s not a club that you can just join, you know. You have to be invited by a member of the English department faculty. She obviously sees something in you that I don’t.”
“Why is that?” Cornelia asked.
“What?”
“You’ve seemed to have it in for me all day. It’s more than just me not remembering you or you not liking what I wrote on the school wall. And it’s more than just me being from Storm River Hill when you come from Price Valley. So what is it?”
“Oh, haven’t you figured that out yet, Princess Cornelia?” Admeta asked, waving her paint roller in the air.
“No, I haven’t, why don’t you enlighten me, oh Great Admeta?” Cornelia said, waving her own paint roller around, mimicking Admeta.
“I don’t like you because I’m the one who had to cover up the graffiti you put on the wall at the school!” Admeta yelled.
Chapter 4
The Day After
Writers on the Storm Page 3