The First Rule of Punk

by Celia C. Pérez

  “There’s a quiche in the fridge, and I told Señora Oralia that you’ll be here alone.”

  “Mom, I can take care of myself,” I said. “Besides, Señora Oralia is about a hundred years old. I should be taking care of her.”

  “That is so nice of you to offer to check in on her,” Mom said. “I bet she’d like the company.”

  “I wasn’t offering,” I said, following Mom to the door.

  Mom smiled and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Oh, before I forget,” she said. “I signed us up for the intro dance class on Saturday morning.”

  “You aren’t serious,” I said. My heart pounded like there was a bird trapped inside trying desperately to get out.

  “Of course I am,” Mom said. “I told you about it at back-to-school night, remember?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “You told me to think about it.”

  “Well, I let Señora Ramirez know that we’re both coming,” she said. “It’ll be fun. Now, lock up behind me.”

  The little bird in my heart stopped flapping its wings. I knew there would be no discussion. This was one cultural adventure I wasn’t getting out of.

  After Mom left, I pulled out my notebook and tried to think of some songs to bring to our first band meeting. If we got into the talent show, we would have to perform in front of the entire school, in front of parents, and in front of Selena. We didn’t have a song or a real drummer. I could never bring myself to sing into the microphone at record store shows. How were we ever going to play as a band?

  I got that out-of-control feeling like when you’re on a roller coaster, strapped in, and you realize it’s too late to get off the ride. All you can do is close your eyes, hang on tight, and wait for it to end. So I called Dad because I knew he could at least slow down the roller coaster for me.

  “Ramones songs are easy to learn,” he said. In true Dad fashion, he had all the answers. Or at least some of them. “Besides, everyone will be so entranced by the lead singer, they won’t even notice if the band is good or not.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never performed in front of a crowd of people.”

  “I’m proud of you for trying something that scares you.”

  “Dad,” I said. “Do you know what a coconut is?”

  “Only the key ingredient in my favorite candy bar,” he answered. “Why?”

  “No, like, if someone calls you a coconut,” I said. “It means you’re brown on the outside and white on the inside.” I told him about our band’s name.

  “That’s pretty clever,” Dad said. “And subversive. It works.”

  “I guess.”

  “What’s the problem, then?”

  I thought about Dad’s question. What was the problem? Why did it bother me so much that Selena called me a coconut?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It makes me feel like there’s something wrong with who I am.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, Malú,” Dad said. “You can’t let what other people think about you bother you; you’ll never be happy if you do. Turning an insult into something you embrace is a good way of empowering yourself.”

  “Yeah, sticks and stones,” I mumbled, though I wasn’t feeling very powerful at that moment.

  “And as far as the dancing goes, if you inherited my moves, the lesson will be a piece of cake.”

  “You’re a terrible dancer, Dad,” I said.

  “Exactly. Step on your mom’s toes for an hour, and that will be the last dance lesson you take!”

  “Good plan,” I said, and laughed.

  “Besides, showing up and making the effort goes a long way,” he said. “Your mom will be less likely to give you a hard time about it if you at least try.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “Hey, have you checked out the record store I told you about?” Dad asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I will soon.”

  I couldn’t tell Dad that we’d been right near the store and I’d chosen not to go because it was too hard. I knew what he would say. Not doing something because it’s hard isn’t punk.

  I lifted my pillow and counted the worry dolls. All present and accounted for. “Punks don’t dance,” I said to their little faces before placing the pillow back over them.

  Chapter 18

  Joe’s place was a two-story brick house with a small, unfenced front yard. Before I rang the doorbell, I sent Mom a text to remind her I was hanging at Joe’s. I’d told her we were working on a school project, which was technically true. Mrs. Hidalgo opened the door wearing a pink ruffled apron over her jeans and T-shirt. The apron matched the stripe in her hair.

  “Malú, come on in,” she said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Hidalgo,” I said.

  The sweet smell of vanilla and powdered sugar filled the air when I stepped into the Hidalgos’ house. I imagined it must be what the gingerbread house in the forest smelled like to Hansel and Gretel, yummy and inviting. But unlike the gingerbread house, the Hidalgos’ home felt safe. There was no danger lurking. Unless you counted the possibility of my band plan completely falling apart.

  “Go ahead and put your bag down,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Joe’s pretty excited about the band.”

  “Me too,” I admitted.

  “Well, I offered Joe my services if the Co-Co’s need them.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to need help.”

  “I’m baking, but I’m almost done. Give me a holler when you need me,” she said. “They’re in the basement, first door down the hallway.”

  I gave her a little wave and headed in the direction of the basement.

  As I walked down the stairs, my stomach flip-flopped like a fish out of water. What if the band was a big failure? What if I couldn’t find the nerve to sing? What if Ellie decided not to show up after all? I’d left a note in her locker with Joe’s address.

  “Hey, Malú,” Benny said when I reached the bottom of the stairs.

  To my surprise, Ellie was already there. She sat with Joe and Benny on the carpeted floor. There was a drum kit set up, as well as a few acoustic and electric guitars. Against one wall were record crates. I felt like I was at Dad’s place, back home again.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” I said, trying not to sound too relieved.

  “Yeah, I can’t believe it either,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Do you guys know each other?” I asked as I fished the petition out of my bag.

  “We do now,” Joe said.

  “Benny’s in my science class,” Ellie added. “Now, hand over my thirty signatures.”

  I found the sheet and placed it in her outstretched palm.

  “So . . . it’s more like twenty-seven signatures,” I said. “Is that okay? ’Cause we really need you.”

  The only way I’d even gotten that many was by asking Mr. Baca for permission to tape the petition to the circulation desk in the library.

  Ellie looked at the names on the sheet. I waited, afraid she’d say no deal and leave.

  “Fine,” she said, adding the page to her clipboard. “Did you guys sign this yet?” She held it out to Benny and Joe.

  “Yeah, twice,” Joe said, and laughed.

  “Only one signature counts,” Ellie said with a frown.

  Joe shrugged.

  “So you’re really in?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Ellie said. “I can’t play drums, but I do have my own drumsticks.” She pulled the sticks out of her bag and held them up. “I asked my mom to take me shopping for these. I’m actually excited to use them.”

  “Wait, you mean you brought us a drummer who can’t play drums?” Joe asked.

  “Punk rock is all about DIY,” I said. “That stands for do-it-yourself, and that includes learning how to play
an instrument.” I smiled at Ellie. I was secretly happy to have another girl in the band. “Watch some videos, listen to the song a bunch, and you’ll be playing in no time.”

  “You’re nuts, María Luisa,” Joe said, shaking his head.

  I made a face at Joe. “Besides, my dad says Ramones songs are easy to play,” I said. “Listen to this.”

  I pulled up a song on my phone and hit play. When the song ended, everyone looked at me like I was as nuts as Joe claimed.

  “That doesn’t sound easy,” Ellie said.

  “Your mom offered to help us.” I turned to Joe. “Can you ask her?”

  “Oh man, she would love that too much,” Joe said. “No way, dude.”

  “Come on,” I pleaded. “We need help.”

  “Then you go ask her.”

  “Fine, I will,” I said. I stood and stomped up the stairs.

  I followed the sound of banging metal and found Mrs. Hidalgo crouched in front of the oven, pulling a cookie sheet out with a mitt-covered hand.

  “It smells really good in here,” I said.

  “Hey, I’m making vegan polvorones,” she said. “Mexican wedding cookies.” She pointed to a tray on the counter. “Try one.”

  I picked up a powdered cookie and bit into it.

  “Well?”

  “It’s good,” I said, leaning against the counter. “I think I’ve had these before. Not vegan, though.”

  “Just trying to add some options at the coffee shop,” Mrs. Hidalgo said.

  “Need any help?” I asked.

  “I won’t turn down help, but aren’t you needed in the basement?”

  “Actually, I came to get you,” I said, and gave her a nervous grin. “We need your help.”

  “Okay then, how about you help me finish up here?” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Take each cookie and roll it in the powdered sugar. Then place it on the cookie sheet.” She slid a metal bowl full of snowy sugar in front of me.

  I turned on the warm water and soaped up my hands. As Mrs. Hidalgo and I worked, I tried to get a closer look at the tattoos on her arms without being too obvious.

  On her right forearm, she had a cluster of pink and orange flowers that looked like balls of tiny petals. Kind of like something you’d draw with a Spirograph, repeating the pattern of tiny petals over and over. Below that, on her wrist, she had two sets of initials written in black script inside an anatomical heart. On her other arm, there was the image of a girl.

  The girl looked like Pippi Longstocking, except she had black braids sticking up on either side of her head. Instead of Pippi’s white freckled face, the tattoo girl’s face was brown and round with thick lips and a wide nose. She sort of resembled one of those huge stone Olmec heads. She wore striped socks like Pippi and what looked like an embroidered Mexican dress, the kind Mom owned. Belts crisscrossed over her chest.

  “Is that supposed to be Pippi Longstocking?” I asked.

  “This,” Mrs. Hidalgo said, looking down at her arm, “is la Pippi.”

  “She looks like Pippi Longstocking, but not.”

  “When I was a kid, I was so obsessed with the Pippi Longstocking books that one year I decided to dress up as her for Halloween. I had the red wig and the mismatched socks and too-big shoes.” Mrs. Hidalgo smiled, remembering her costume. “My mami made a patchwork dress even though she had no idea who Pippi Longstocking was. I even painted some freckles on my nose. I went all out.”

  “I’ve read those books,” I said. “Cool costume idea.”

  “I thought so too,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Until one of my friends laughed at me.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “She thought it was funny because Pippi is white and, well, obviously I’m not.”

  “But it was Halloween,” I said. “The point of dressing up is that you can be anyone.”

  “Right?” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “I was nine, and it never dawned on me that I couldn’t be Pippi, or anyone else for that matter. Not just on Halloween but whenever.”

  Mrs. Hidalgo carefully placed the powdered cookies into a storage container.

  “Anyway, I drew this character when I was in college,” she said. “It’s Pippi with a Mexican twist. To remind me that I shouldn’t let others decide who I can be.”

  “I like it,” I said. “Does it help? Remind you, I mean?”

  “Believe it or not, it does.”

  “That’s really cool,” I said, rolling the last of the polvorones.

  “Well, m’ija, you have earned your cookies,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Thank you for helping.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron and placed a few cookies onto a plate. “Share these with the band, okay? I’ll be right down.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “This was fun.”

  I took the cookies and headed to the basement, ready to start our first official band practice.

  “About time,” Joe said as I came down the stairs. “Benny could’ve learned how to play the bass five times by now.”

  “Relax, I’ve got cookies,” I said. “And your mom.”

  I set the plate down on the floor. Benny immediately pounced.

  “These cookies taste . . . interesting.” Ellie said, biting into one and studying it closely.

  “If you aren’t going to eat it, gimme,” Benny said.

  He snatched what was left of the cookie out of Ellie’s hand. Ellie tried to take it back.

  “Yo, stop it!” Joe said. “You fools are gonna break something in here.”

  “Sorry,” Benny said. He and Ellie tried to clean up the cookie crumbs that had scattered.

  When Joe’s mom got to the basement, we officially started band practice. My job was to rewrite some of the lyrics to “Blitzkrieg Bop” and get rid of “objectionable content,” as Mrs. Hidalgo had suggested. So I turned it into “Back to School Bop.” This was a performance at school, after all. But I ended up mostly watching while Mrs. Hidalgo went from Ellie to Benny to Joe, helping each one with their parts. She showed them chords, where to move their hands, which part of the drums to hit and when. She was like a cool, good-smelling punk rock music teacher. I felt jealous that Joe had her as a mom, and watching them together made me miss Dad even more.

  Joe and Benny played until their fingers started to blister. Ellie really seemed to understand what it meant to set the rhythm. It was almost like she discovered a talent she never knew she had. It made sense to me. She seemed like the kind of kid who was determined to do well at everything she tried.

  The afternoon flew by, and when I finally looked at my phone, I saw that it was already after five.

  “I gotta head out,” Benny said. “Thanks for the help, Mrs. H.”

  “Anytime, Benny,” Mrs. Hidalgo replied. “It’s good to see you hanging out with Joe again. You used to be so close.”

  “Yeah, this was fun,” Benny said, and bumped fists with Joe.

  “We need to practice every day until the audition,” I said. “Cool?”

  Benny nodded and held out his fists to me and Ellie, and we bumped them too.

  “We definitely need practice,” Ellie said, following Benny out. “In case none of you noticed.”

  “Oh, we noticed,” Joe said. He flailed his arms in an exaggerated air drumming motion. “See ya, Sheila E.”

  “Who’s Sheila E?” Ellie asked.

  “Only one of the greatest drummers ever,” Mrs. Hidalgo said.

  Ellie gave her a thumbs-up and grinned.

  “I should head out too,” I said, walking over to the crates of records.

  “Be very careful with those,” Joe said. He looked over at Mrs. Hidalgo, who was wrapping up a guitar cord, and whispered menacingly, “Or she’ll kill you.”

  “I know how to handle records,” I said. Flipping through the albums made me think of being at Spins & Needles. “I grew
up in a record store.”

  “How sad for you.” Joe made a face like he was about to cry.

  “Be nice, José,” Mrs. Hidalgo said in a warning tone. “Malú, I want to hear more about that later. But right now I want you to listen to something. Could you pull The Brat out of there, please?”

  I moved my fingers through the Bs to find the album. Sandwiched alphabetically after Bad Brains and before Best Coast was Lola Beltrán, the wailing lady with the spider-leg eyelashes. It was weird how she seemed to be everywhere. I still hadn’t listened to the CD I’d borrowed from Señora Oralia.

  I kept flipping until I spotted The Brat. There was only one record. I recognized the cover from the wall at Calaca. The band photo had an eighties-punk look, all black and white on a red-and-orange background. The band’s name was printed at the top in a funky font that included a backward R. At the bottom was the title of the album, Attitudes, written in white script that was visible against the black of the men’s shirts. I pulled out the record and handed it to Mrs. Hidalgo.

  She slipped the record out of its cardboard sleeve and placed it on the record player, then carefully lowered the needle onto the vinyl. I heard the familiar popping and crackling, my favorite sound in the whole world, and then the first song started.

  It began with a reggae rhythm on guitar, those bouncy, staccato sounds that made me think of being at the beach. Then came the drums, heavy on the cymbals. And finally, a woman’s voice that was like the hot chocolate Mom made in the winter, thick and warm and strong. The song went from its reggae intro to poppy punk. I couldn’t resist moving to the beat. Okay, so maybe punks did dance.

  “This is amazing,” I said. “Who is she?”

  I picked up the album cover and studied the photo of the woman whose voice sang out from the speakers.

  “That’s Teresa Covarrubias,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “The Brat was a Los Angeles band in the early eighties.”

  “This is so rad,” I said.

  “And they’re Chicanos, Mexican Americans,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Like us.”

  Like us. I repeated the words in my head. The next song came on. It was another fast pop-punk song with a reggae beat.