The First Rule of Punk

by Celia C. Pérez

  “Is he a weirdo too?”

  I turned away from the hanging trees and left her standing alone. I couldn’t believe Mom actually thought Selena and I would ever be friends.

  Mom was near the building’s entrance, talking to Mrs. Hidalgo, when I found her. I busied myself looking at the announcements on the bulletin board near the door. There were club flyers, the week’s lunch menu, even an ad for a student’s dog-walking business. And in the middle of it all was the sign-up sheet for the Fall Fiesta talent show auditions. I read down the list of names until I came to Selena Ramirez.

  At that moment, Joe walked up to get a drink from the water fountain. “What’s your talent?” he asked.

  “What’s yours?”

  Joe tried to rub his stomach and pat his head at the same time.

  “With talent like that, what are you doing here?” I asked, and laughed. “You should be on the road.”

  “Harsh,” Joe said. “So, you signing up?”

  I tapped my finger against Selena’s name. “What do you think she’s going to do?” I asked. “Dance?”

  “She’s definitely dancing,” Joe said. “That’s her thing.”

  “You play any instruments?” I asked.

  “Some guitar, a little piano. But I prefer the visual arts,” Joe said. “Why?”

  I grabbed the pen that was hanging on a string next to the sign-up sheet and wrote my name on a blank line. Next to it, in parentheses, I wrote the word band.

  “Because we’re starting a band,” I said.

  Chapter 16

  I watched as the lunch ladies slapped food onto trays.

  “They’re like artists, right?” Joe asked, sliding his tray down. “Like Jackson Pollock in hairnets.”

  “Who’s Jackson Pollock?” I asked, nodding at the green blob a lunch lady offered.

  “He was a painter,” Joe said. “He worked by dripping and splashing paint on his canvases.”

  “Who knew you were such an art nerd?” I said.

  “I’m a man of many interests, thanks very much,” Joe said. “Come on, I told this kid I know named Benny to meet us at my usual table. If you’re serious about this band thing, you’re going to want to know him too.”

  The slapping and dripping of food was so mesmerizing that I didn’t notice the pile of cilantro the lunch lady dumped on my serving of guacamole until I slid out of line.

  “Great,” I muttered. Its sickening soapy scent drifted up toward my nose as I nervously followed Joe to his table.

  I’d been eating lunch in the library whenever Mr. Baca would let me stick around. I even offered to reshelve books when I was done eating. It was a good way to avoid Selena. Plus, it just felt weird to sit alone in the cafeteria every day.

  “Hey, Ben-man,” Joe said, and slapped hands with the boy at his table. It was the tall kid I’d met in the lunch line on my first day. “This is María Luisa, dude.”

  “Malú,” I corrected him, and set my tray down across from Benny. “Hi.”

  “Fan of the orange blob, huh?” Benny asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said, looking down at my double serving of sweet potatoes with butter and cinnamon.

  “Benny here just joined the school marching band,” Joe said. “We used to play together in this kid mariachi group back in the day,” Joe said. “I can’t believe our moms made us do that. Remember those little suits we had to wear, bro?”

  “Still doing it, bro,” Benny said. He gave Joe a look that said he didn’t appreciate him poking fun at the kid mariachi band.

  “That’s cool,” Joe said. “So, not to change the subject, but María Luisa is forming a band for the Fall Fiesta talent show, and I told her you might be interested.”

  “Is that why I’m here?” Benny asked. “I thought you were missing the little mariachi suits and wanted back in.”

  Joe gave him a guilty grin.

  “What do you play?” I asked. Benny’s black instrument case sat on the floor between us.

  “Trumpet,” Benny said.

  “Do you play anything else?” I knew beggars couldn’t be choosers, as Mom liked to say, but I had to ask. What the band needed was drums, not trumpet.

  “Seriously?” Benny asked, shaking his head.

  I started to pull out the tiny cilantro leaves that were ruining my perfectly good guacamole. If you ever want to torture me, just force-feed me cilantro. Mom jokes that it’s my diluted Mexican genes that make it taste soapy to me.

  “If you don’t want those, you can drop them here,” Benny said, and pointed to his tray.

  I flicked the leaves onto his tray with my plastic spork.

  “Auditions are next week,” I said. “We don’t have a lot of time, so we need to know now.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of playing with some of the kids from band class,” Benny said.

  “Come on, old pal,” Joe said. “We could use a real musician like you.”

  Joe gave Benny what I assumed was his sad puppy dog face. I put my palms together, pleading, and smiled hopefully. I didn’t know Benny, but I really wanted this band to happen.

  Benny looked between me and Joe like we were pathetic then shrugged.

  “What’s your plan?” he asked.

  “Yes!” Joe held out his fists for us to bump. I’d never bumped fists with anyone, but Benny bumped one, so I did the same.

  “Well, I guess we need a name, for starters,” I said.

  “Ooh, how about los Rudos?” Joe asked. “That’s good, right?”

  “Yeah,” Benny said. “We can wear lucha libre masks like Mil Máscaras and Rey Mysterio.”

  “Why would we do that?” I asked.

  “Dude,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Los rudos are the bad guys in wrestling.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I don’t know. It probably gets really hot in those masks.”

  “The Atomic Fireballs,” Benny said, holding up a red-hot candy before popping it into his mouth.

  “I kind of like that,” I said. “It’s punky.” I opened a notebook and wrote down the names we’d come up with so far.

  “Botched Manicure?” Joe asked. “I read it in a magazine at the dentist’s office. It sounded gnarly.”

  “Gross,” I said, but I wrote it down anyway.

  “What about Dorothy and the Flying Monkeys?” I asked. “Like in The Wizard of Oz.”

  “And I assume we’re the flying monkeys?” Joe asked.

  He and Benny looked at each other and frowned, but I smiled as I wrote it down, picturing Joe and Benny in those funny little hats and jackets.

  We didn’t get a chance to move on to the next suggestion because Selena walked up with Diana and a couple of boys in tow. They all wore matching candy necklaces, even the boys. Like a pack of clones that escaped from Willy Wonka’s factory.

  “Looks like you found your table,” she said. “I warned you.”

  “You always say the nicest things,” I said, closing my notebook.

  “I saw your name on the audition sign-up for the talent show,” Selena said. “I hope you aren’t seriously thinking of entering.”

  “What if we are?” Joe asked.

  “We?” Selena asked. “You too, Benny? Are you playing your trompeta?”

  “Maybe,” Benny said, looking uncomfortable.

  “I bet it’ll be some kind of weird coconut music, right, María Luisa?”

  She winked at me like we were in on a joke together. It was the second time she’d said something about coconuts, and I still didn’t get it.

  “What are you doing?” Joe asked. “Your tired cucaracha-killing dance?”

  Selena pulled off her candy necklace and began playing with it, twisting it into a cat’s cradle. “You seem to have forgotten that you were into that ‘cucaracha-killing dance’ too. Before you turn
ed into a coconut.”

  “It’s true,” Benny said, laughing. “Joe could stomp like nobody’s business.”

  Joe punched Benny in the arm.

  “You guys are no fun,” Selena said, pouting.

  “Move along then, Cantinflas,” Joe said. I remembered Cantinflas was one of the Mexican comedians my abuelo liked to watch. He had a funny little mustache that looked like it was drawn on with a pencil. I giggled at the thought of Selena with a pencil-drawn mustache over her lips.

  Selena put the palm of her hand in Joe’s face.

  “Later, weirdos,” she said, then turned and walked off with her friends.

  “Why’d you let her call you a coconut, María Luisa?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t even know what that means,” I said. “A coconut?”

  Joe and Benny looked at each other and laughed.

  “Brown on the outside, white on the inside,” Benny said. “Get it?”

  I could feel my ears burn. Suddenly the joke made sense.

  “Forget her,” Joe said, swatting in her direction. “I’m hyped about this band. We can practice in my basement. My mom has stuff in there from her band days we can probably use.”

  “Don’t we need a fourth person?” Benny asked. “Right now we’re a three-person band.”

  “I’ll play guitar,” Joe said. “María Luisa, you’re good to sing, right?”

  “Malú,” I said. “It’s Malú.” I would have felt more annoyed that Joe kept calling me by my full name if not for the news that I’d have to have to sing. What had I gotten myself into? “Yeah . . . I guess.”

  “I can play bass,” Benny said. “I mean, I don’t know how to, but maybe I can figure it out.”

  “We need a drummer, too,” I said.

  “Don’t forget a name and a song,” Joe said.

  “And probably some skill,” Benny added.

  “Thanks for the reminders,” I said. I bit into my quesadilla, wondering if this would be too much work for a group with zero experience.

  “Hey, why don’t we mess with Selena and call ourselves the Coconuts?” Joe asked.

  He and Benny cracked up, but I wrote it down in my notebook. I chewed on my cap.

  “What about instead of the Coconuts, we’re the Co-Co’s?” I asked.

  “I was kidding,” Joe said. “And no offense, but that’s pretty awful.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s short for coconuts. But it’s also like the Go-Go’s. You know, that band from the eighties?”

  Benny and Joe looked at me like they had no idea what I was talking about.

  “Ask your mom about the Go-Go’s,” I said with a sigh. “She’ll know. Anyway, coconuts is supposed to be an insult, right? So we use it our own way and then it isn’t. That’s totally punk rock.”

  “Whatever,” Joe said with a shrug. “Let’s just go with that.”

  “Really?” I asked. “You should care more. It’s our band name!”

  “Like you said,” Joe went on. “We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

  “I like the Co-Co’s,” Benny said. “Even though I’m not a coconut myself.” He laughed.

  I looked down at the page in my notebook, then at Joe.

  “So, we’re the Co-Co’s?”

  He cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone.

  “Señoras y señores, put your hands together for the Co-Co’s!”

  We all laughed. We had a name, and by the time the bell rang, we had a plan to meet at Joe’s the next day after school.

  As I walked to class I spotted Ellie’s red messy bun and pin-covered army jacket ahead of me. I got an idea and quickened my pace until I caught up to her.

  “Hi,” I said. “How’s your petition going?”

  “Oh, hey,” Ellie said. “It’s going pretty well. I’ve got one hundred and thirteen signatures. But I think I can get more before I present it to Principal Rivera.”

  “That’s really cool,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you play any instruments?”

  “Let me think.” Ellie looked up, pretending to think about the answer. “No. Okay, wait. That’s a lie. I played the recorder in fifth grade.”

  “Recorder, huh?” I said, thinking of how that could help the band. “Okay, well, do you want to be in a band?”

  “Why would I do that?” she said, and laughed. “I just said I don’t play an instrument.”

  “This is a totally separate question,” I said. “Forget the instrument part. Band?”

  “Uhh, I don’t know,” Ellie said. “I’m kind of busy.”

  “You’ve got a guitar pin on your bag, so you must like music, right?”

  I followed her down the hall even though we were going in the opposite direction from my next class.

  “Well, yeah, I like music. That doesn’t mean I want to be in a band,” she said. She glanced at her phone. “Sorry. I’m going to be late.”

  I knew I was about to lose her, so I said the only thing I thought might make her think twice.

  “It would look good on a college application,” I said. “Right?”

  Ellie stopped walking and looked at me like maybe she was actually considering it.

  “I’m putting together a band for the talent show,” I said. “We need a drummer.”

  “I can’t play drums,” she said, and waved. We’d reached her classroom, and she turned to walk inside. “Good luck with your band.”

  “Wait,” I said. “What if I help you get signatures for your petition?”

  Ellie turned around.

  “Yeah?”

  “I help you, you help me?” I asked.

  “How will I be any help to you?” Ellie asked. “For the hundredth time, I don’t know how to play any instruments.”

  I thought about what Dad always said. You think every musician that’s ever lived had formal lessons? If you want to do it, you find a way.

  “You’ll learn,” I said. “We’ll help you.”

  “We?”

  “The band,” I said.

  “By next week?” Ellie looked dubious.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. You in?”

  Ellie looked at me like she was thinking about something else. Maybe which Ivy League school’s offer she would accept.

  “Okay, thirty signatures,” she said. “That will bring me closer to one fifty. Then we have a deal.” She unzipped her backpack and pulled out her clipboard. I took the signature sheet Ellie held out for me.

  “Just thirty?” I asked. “No problem.”

  Chapter 17

  Mom sat at the kitchen table with her familiar semester-preparation spread. Her laptop was open, and there were papers and books everywhere.

  “Whatever you do, do not touch the sticky notes,” she said when I sat down. I began stacking her books by size.

  “I wouldn’t dream of messing with your system, Mom.”

  “You’d better not. How was school?”

  “School was school,” I said, placing the last and smallest book on top of the pile.

  Mom looked away from her screen. “I don’t appreciate the attitude,” she said.

  “I’m helping this girl Ellie get signatures for a petition,” I said, checking my tone.

  “That’s great,” Mom said. “What’s it for?”

  “Fewer blobs, more real food in the cafeteria.”

  “I’m glad you’re getting involved, Malú,” Mom said, ignoring the fact that I’d just told her the school was feeding us blobs. She smiled a smile of relief. Like my helping with a petition meant I was settling into my new life and everything was fine. “How’s language arts? What are you reading?”

  Mom and I didn’t seem to have a whole lot in common
, but we both loved to read.

  “The Outsiders,” I said.

  “I love The Outsiders,” Mom said. “Such a great book.”

  “It’s okay.” I wasn’t about to tell her that it was more than okay. That I understood the way Ponyboy often felt mismatched too.

  “Any authors of color on your reading list?”

  “What color?” I asked. “There might be a purple author on it.”

  “Very funny.”

  I shrugged. I knew I was getting on her nerves. Mom taught US Latino literature in the English department, so sniffing out “authors of color” was one of her SuperMexican superpowers.

  “There should be,” she said. “We’re in one of the most diverse cities in the country.”

  I let out a pretend snore.

  “Do you have to be such a grouch?” Mom asked, gathering her things. “I’m glad we’re here and that you’re surrounded by people from all kinds of backgrounds. Not to mention all the Spanish you get to hear and study in school every day. I hope some of it will stick.”

  “Why?” I asked. “So I won’t be such a weirdo coconut?” I didn’t mean to say the coconut part, but it came out before I could stop myself.

  “I mean, so that maybe you’ll want to speak it,” Mom said, closing her laptop. “What’s this coconut business about?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “And for your information, I can speak Spanish just fine. I choose not to.”

  “Well, that makes me sad,” she said. “I wish you thought of it as a part of who you are, that’s all.”

  “You mean who you wish I was.”

  “I hate that we’re having this conversation when I have to leave for class, Malú,” Mom said, glancing at her watch before giving me her concerned parent look. “Let’s finish this later, okay?”

  Talking about this again with Mom was nowhere on my list of things to do. What did Mom know about the coconut life anyway?

  “Anything else going on at school that I should know about?” Mom asked as she shoved books into a large canvas bag.

  This would have been the moment to tell her about the band and the talent show. But I knew there was no way I could. It would just be one more thing for her to disapprove of.

  “Nope,” I said. “Nada.”