The First Rule of Punk

by Celia C. Pérez

  “I’m going to leave you two to your musical nerd fest,” Joe said. “Later, María Luisa.”

  “Walk her home, Joe,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Please.”

  “Do I have to?” Joe whined.

  “I’ll make you a mix sometime, Malú,” Mrs. Hidalgo said, ignoring Joe. “You should know all punk has to offer, not just the standards. And you should know your people’s influence on the genre. It’s part of your history.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. H,” I said, and followed Joe upstairs, still hearing the music in my head and Mrs. Hidalgo saying “like us.” She must not have known that I’m a coconut who doesn’t even eat cilantro.

  “Your mom’s great,” I said to Joe as we walked back to my building. “You don’t know how good you have it.”

  “She’s all right,” he said. “A little weird, but . . .”

  “I haven’t even told my mom about the band.”

  “Seriously?” Joe asked. “Why not?”

  “She wouldn’t like it,” I said. “Anyway, she doesn’t really have to know. As long as I do well in school and don’t complain about being here, she’s happy.”

  “If you say so,” Joe said, sounding unconvinced.

  “Practice at your place tomorrow, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “Tomorrow and forever, from the looks of it.”

  I thought about Mrs. Hidalgo saying that it was important to know my history. Mom had said the same thing when she was telling me about Posada. But the history Mom was talking about was totally different than the history Mrs. Hidalgo was talking about. Wasn’t it?

  Chapter 19

  “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  Mom was like a scratched record with that question. She eyed the blue-and-green-plaid Catholic school jumper I wore. I’d found it on one of my thrift store adventures with Dad. Today I’d paired it with a white Spins & Needles Records T-shirt, blue striped tube socks, and my sequined Chucks. It was my punk Dorothy look.

  “You’re going to need something comfortable, something you can move in.”

  “You mean like this?” I asked. I jumped up and down and jogged in place, lifting my knees as high as I could.

  Mom sighed. “Don’t you think it’s time you started acting and dressing like una señorita?”

  “I’m wearing a dress,” I said, and gave her a curtsy. “That’s señorita-like.”

  Her look told me my outfit was not what she had in mind.

  Even though Mom said it was “very rude,” I put my headphones on for the train ride. She could drag me to this thing, but I didn’t have to talk to her.

  The dance school was in a huge warehouse-type building that also housed other businesses. The door had the words RAMIREZ DANCE STUDIO stenciled in big gold letters. Below it, in smaller letters, it read TEACHING MEXICAN FOLKLORIC DANCE SINCE 1998. Mom opened the door, and we were greeted by the sound of heels banging against the wooden floor.

  Selena and a boy a little older than us stopped dancing. They were the only other people there besides Selena’s mom. Señora Ramirez smiled big when she saw us. She turned off the music that was still playing and walked over.

  “Magaly y María Luisa.” She gave us both a hug. “I’m so glad you came. This is my son, Gael, and you know Selena.” The two walked over, clopping the whole way like a couple of horses.

  “Selena, get María Luisa a pair of shoes,” Señora Ramirez said. “This is going to be fun.”

  For who?

  “Sí, Mami,” Selena said. “Come on, María Luisa.”

  “Shoes?” I asked, looking at Mom.

  “Those won’t do at all,” Señora Ramirez said, pointing to my sneakers. “You need something with a hard heel to make some noise.” She stomped her own shiny black shoes against the floor, and Mom gave a startled laugh.

  “I don’t think we’re going to have anything to match that outfit,” Selena said as we walked to a wall of cubbies full of shoes that reminded me of a bowling alley. “What size?”

  “Very funny,” I said. The cubbies were filled with the kinds of shoes I would never voluntarily wear. They had buckles and heels and wouldn’t go well with cutoffs.

  Selena handed me a pair of scuffed brown shoes in my size and walked back to where our moms waited. I changed into the shoes and clip-clopped to a case full of ribbons, sashes, certificates, trophies, and plaques. Some of them were awarded to Ramirez Dance Studio, but many were in Selena’s or Gael’s name. There were also photos of Ramirez dancers, most of them featuring Selena and her mom.

  “Wow,” Mom said. “She’s really good, huh?”

  Señora Ramirez beamed and nodded. “She and her brother have been dancing since they were little,” she said. “Gael, come here. Why don’t you two show them your dance for the Mexican Independence Day parade? We have a float that features our dancers every year.”

  Selena rolled her eyes. She looked annoyed as she turned to join her brother. But by the time she got into formation, she’d replaced her annoyed look with a big smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

  When the music started, it sounded like tiny bells and jumping string instruments. I watched as Selena and her brother stomped back and forth and side to side. Selena lifted and bowed and waved her skirt so fast, it was dizzying. All the while she kept a smile on her face. Joe was right about the cucaracha killing. No bug that had the misfortune of finding itself under their shoes was coming out alive.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mom sway in place, smiling, like she wanted to jump in and dance too. Maybe she was thinking about what it would be like to have a daughter like Selena.

  When the music stopped and the dance ended, Mom burst into applause. She nudged me with her elbow, and I clapped my hands a few times.

  “Amazing,” Mom said. “That was beautiful.” If the look on her face was an emoji, it would be the smiley face with hearts for eyes.

  Selena and her brother said thank you at the same time. Gael changed into his sneakers, said good-bye, and made a quick exit. The lucky dog.

  “Well, let’s show you some basic steps, ¿sí?” Señora Ramirez asked. “Selena, work with la Señora Morales, and I’ll see if I can help María Luisa find a little rhythm.”

  Selena cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. “Good luck with that, Mami,” she said, leading Mom by the arm.

  “A good teacher is encouraging, Selena,” her mom said, taking my hand. She stomped out a beat, and I tried to follow, but my feet felt like they were weighed down by big Frankenstein shoes.

  “Just loosen up,” Señora Ramirez advised, shimmying and waving her arms around like she was blowing in the wind. “Look, your mom has got it.”

  I looked over at Mom, who was laughing as she sashayed and stomped like it was the happiest day of her life. Meanwhile, I felt like the Tin Man, who’d been left out in the rain to rust, in need of some serious oil for his joints. I tried to remember the feeling I had at punk shows when the music just took over, and I felt free to move without being judged. This wasn’t a punk show, though, and I felt ridiculous. So for the next hour I did what Dad had advised, and I just tried. But when Señora Ramirez went left, I went right. It seemed that no matter how much I tried to keep up with her, I couldn’t. How did Selena do this?

  “That was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done,” Mom said when dance class was over. Her face was flushed, and strands of hair had come loose from her bun.

  “You did great,” Señora Ramirez said. “You too, María Luisa.” She patted me on the shoulder in a consoling manner.

  “Yeah, right,” I mumbled.

  “Our next session starts in two weeks if you’d like to sign up,” Señora Ramirez said.

  “Oh, I do,” Mom said with a nod. I gave her a look of terror.

  “Let me get you a brochure so you can see what we offer,” Señor
a Ramirez said. “You can sign up online or just do it when you come in for the first class.”

  She walked toward the office, Selena following close behind.

  “Mom, I’m not doing a whole session,” I whispered urgently.

  “Don’t worry,” Mom said. “I’m not going to force you to do it. I’m glad you at least tried.”

  “Good,” I said, feeling like I was finally able to breathe. “I’m going to get my shoes.” I couldn’t wait to get out of there and meet the band for practice.

  I walked back to the cubbies and sat down on a chair next to the office to put my sneakers back on as quickly as possible. If I didn’t hurry, Mom might change her mind about signing me up for classes. From where I sat, I could hear Selena and her mom talk inside the office.

  “What is this? Is it like the Riverdance?” Señora Ramirez asked.

  “It’s Irish dancing, Mom,” Selena said.

  “But you’re not Irish. Why do you want to do Irish dancing?”

  “It looks kind of cool,” Selena said. “It’s kind of like . . . like Irish huapango.”

  Señora Ramirez laughed. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard. You don’t have time for that, Selena.”

  “I promise it won’t get in the way of my dancing here,” Selena pleaded.

  “I’ve already said no,” Señora Ramirez said, sounding agitated. “Besides, you know this time of year is busy with Independence Day, el Día de los Muertos, las Posadas. We have too many obligations already.”

  “But, Mami—”

  “No. Now come on,” Señora Ramirez said, cutting her off. “They’re waiting for us.”

  “Yes, Mami,” Selena said.

  I leaned low over my knee, pretending not to notice as they came out of the office. Selena balled up a piece of paper and threw it into the trash on the way to meet Mom. When Señora Ramirez started going over the brochure with Mom, I stuck my hand into the trash can and pulled out the paper Selena had thrown away. Once I smoothed it out, I could see it was a flyer for an Irish dance class at a neighborhood rec center. I quickly stuffed the paper into my pocket before joining Mom, who was at the door saying good-bye to Señora Ramirez.

  “Are you sure that’s your mom?” Selena asked, checking that the moms were out of earshot. “She can move, but you looked like a rag doll.” She let out her Wicked Witch cackle.

  I had actually started to feel a little bad for Selena after hearing Señora Ramirez shoot her down about the Irish dance lessons. But she made it really hard to sympathize with her.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I could use a little spring in my step. Maybe a little Irish spring.”

  Selena looked at me like she was trying to see inside my head.

  “Let’s go,” Mom called from the doorway.

  “See you at school,” I said, and gave Selena a smirk.

  At first I felt pretty good about not letting Selena get the best of me, even though my Irish spring joke was kind of corny. But then I started to think about how her mom not letting her dance wasn’t so different from my sneaking around with the band, afraid Mom wouldn’t let me do it if she knew. I understood wanting something badly and feeling disappointed, even if I didn’t get why she would want to go from one stomping dance to another. It was kind of like how in The Outsiders, Ponyboy and Cherry Valance are from completely different worlds, but they understand each other, at least in some ways. I tried to convince myself that punks don’t feel guilty about giving mean people a taste of their own medicine, but by the time we got home, I felt even crummier about my joke.

  Chapter 20

  When the day of the talent show auditions arrived, I felt like we were as ready as we could be. We’d practiced every day, sometimes with Mrs. Hidalgo’s help, and had watched a bunch of videos of the Ramones performing. I worked on my singing in the shower until Mom said she didn’t know what she was going to do if she heard “that song” one more time. We knew we wouldn’t sound perfect, but we’d have time to really work on the song after we got into the talent show.

  Despite all our work, everything seemed to go wrong on that Thursday afternoon as we stood in front of Principal Rivera, Mr. Jackson, and Mrs. Larson, the music teacher. When we were setting up, Joe realized he’d left the cord to his guitar in his locker and had to run back to find it, which cut into the time we’d been given. Ellie counted us down, but all three of them managed to start playing their instruments at different times, so we had to start over. Worst of all, when it was time for me to sing, I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My tongue felt like it had been glued to the roof of my mouth, and as much as I tried, it wouldn’t unstick. When it finally did, I sounded like I was croaking out the lyrics. At least the ones I could remember. But croaking seemed to work great with the grating, mismatched sounds that came from the instruments behind me.

  Halfway through the song, it felt like we were finally in sync. My face and ears burned. My stomach was still in a knot, and all I could do was clutch the microphone, but at least I wasn’t croaking anymore. When we finished, Mr. Jackson and Mrs. Larson looked at each other, then at Principal Rivera, who jotted something down.

  “Thank you for coming,” Principal Rivera said with a smile. “We’ll post the participants on the announcements board tomorrow.”

  We gathered our instruments, minus the drum set we’d borrowed from the band room, and left the auditorium. Outside, there were a few kids, including Selena, waiting their turn.

  “I thought that went okay,” Joe said.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I wanted to cry, partly from the relief of being done, but also because I knew we didn’t sound anything like I imagined we would.

  “Besides,” Joe said. “The auditions are just a formality. Everyone gets into the talent show.”

  “What’s the point of auditioning, then?” Benny asked.

  “They just make you audition to, like, prescreen you,” Joe said. “To check that what you do is, you know, appropriate.”

  I felt a little better after hearing that. But before I went to sleep that night, I made sure my worry dolls were under my pillow. We just needed more time, and we’d be ready to rock the talent show.

  Chapter 21

  The first thing I did when I got to school the next morning was check the announcements board where the talent show roster would be posted. I read name after name, scanning nervously for the Co-Co’s. But we weren’t on the list. What about what Joe had said? Didn’t everyone get to perform? I knew we’d messed up, but I thought we’d get a chance to really prepare after the auditions. Except it looked like we wouldn’t get that chance after all.

  Mr. Jackson’s office was nearby, so I walked over, part of me hoping he wouldn’t be there. His door was open a crack. I knocked before poking my head in. He sat at his desk, eating oatmeal, the instant kind you mix with boiling water and eat out of a cardboard cup.

  “Hi, Mr. Jackson,” I said, rubbing the toe of one shoe nervously over the other. “I have a question about the talent show, and I thought I’d ask you since you were at the auditions yesterday.”

  “Come on in.” Mr. Jackson spun around in his chair to face me. He had a little bit of oatmeal on his beard. “You’re . . . let me think. I know this.”

  I waited for him to remember my name while he chewed on a spoonful of oatmeal.

  “María Luisa,” he finally said with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Malú,” I corrected.

  “Yes, so what’s up, Malú?”

  “Well, um, do you know why my band didn’t get picked for the show?” I asked.

  Mr. Jackson swiveled back and forth. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his beard, finally wiping off the oatmeal. Then he gave me an apologetic smile.

  “Yeah, the Co-Co’s,” he said. “Right on. You guys were pretty rockin’.”

  “So why aren’t we on
the list?” I asked.

  “Well, as you probably know, this year marks the school’s thirtieth anniversary. We’re celebrating José Guadalupe Posada, and Principal Rivera wants the talent show to have an anniversary vibe to it,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “She wants to feature more traditional acts.”

  “Traditional how?” I asked.

  “Well, we’ve got some singers, a violin player, a kid who does these cool lasso tricks. Have you seen him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He’s awesome,” Mr. Jackson said. “And one student is doing a folkloric dance, that type of thing. Acts Posada might enjoy if he was alive.”

  “But there was nothing on the flyer that said we couldn’t play any song in any way,” I said. “Was there?”

  “Hmm,” Mr. Jackson said, moving some papers around on his desk until he found the green flyer. He read over it, taking a bite of watery oatmeal. “You’re right. It says thirtieth anniversary, school appropriate, but nothing about specific types of acts.”

  “I even rewrote some of the lyrics to the song so it would be okay for school,” I said.

  “You guys were fun to watch,” Mr. Jackson said. “But I think Principal Rivera wants it to be family friendly, maybe a little . . . quieter than the Co-Co’s. I’m sorry.”

  He had a sincere look on his face, but that didn’t make me feel any better.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I left Mr. Jackson to finish his oatmeal. As I headed to first period, my ears burned with anger at the unfairness of it all. I couldn’t believe we’d been shut out of the talent show for being too loud.

  Ellie and Joe had already claimed a table when I walked into the library. We’d planned to meet up at the end of lunch to talk about the talent show.

  “Please don’t get any food on that book, Joe,” Mr. Baca called from the circulation desk.

  “Got it, Mr. B,” Joe said, trying to brush bread crumbs off the pages of the book open in front of him so that Mr. Baca wouldn’t see. “Did you guys know that the Maya thought crossed eyes were attractive?” He crossed his eyes and looked from me to Ellie with a straight face. “What do you think? Were they right?”