The First Rule of Punk

by Celia C. Pérez

  Ellie laughed and shook her head.

  “Ugh, that does not feel good,” Joe said, rubbing his eyes. “But who am I to argue with the Maya?”

  “You are so weird,” I said. “Where’s Benny?”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Benny said as the door to the library closed behind him. He put down his trumpet case and bag next to our table. “So, what happened?”

  “Yeah, what did Mr. Jackson say?” Ellie asked. She had a puzzled look on her face. “Why weren’t we picked?”

  I shared with them what Mr. Jackson had told me that morning about Principal Rivera’s plan for the Fall Fiesta talent show.

  “And it’s totally unfair,” I said. “Because none of that was in the flyer, right?”

  “But why would Principal Rivera do that?” Ellie asked.

  “Duh,” Joe said, frowning. “Because she hates punk music.”

  “Principal Rivera just made up an excuse to keep us out,” I said.

  “How does she even know Posada wouldn’t like punk music?” Benny asked. “How would any of us know that?”

  I nodded. He had a point.

  “You know what this is?” Joe asked. “This is—”

  “Discrimination,” Ellie finished for him.

  “That’s right,” Joe said, pounding the table with his fist.

  “But what can we do?” Benny asked. “She’s already decided we aren’t playing in the talent show. Which stinks because if I’d known this was going to happen, I would’ve just played with my band friends. They’re in the show.”

  “We could start a petition,” Ellie said. “Demand to be included.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That might work for some things, but I don’t think it will work for this.”

  Joe, Ellie, and Benny looked at each other.

  “Excuse me, but did I just hear you quit, punk rock girl?” Ellie asked. Her brow furrowed, and she stared at me intently.

  “Yeah, we put a lot of time into this,” Joe added.

  “Again, what are we going to do?” Benny asked.

  “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do right now.” Mr. Baca came around the circulation desk and walked over. “You’re going to head to class. Lunch is almost over, and I have a group coming in soon.”

  “Well?” Ellie whispered as we left the library. “What are we going to do, Malú?”

  I had no idea. And I couldn’t figure out what made me angrier: that Principal Rivera had basically discriminated against us because we played loud music that wasn’t “traditional” enough or that Selena made it and we didn’t.

  That night when I called Dad, the first thing he asked about was the talent show audition.

  “It went really well,” I said. “And we’re going to play, too.” I wasn’t sure why I blurted out a lie, but I wanted to kick myself after the words came out of my mouth.

  “That’s fantastic! What’d Mom say?”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly told Mom about it.”

  “Lú, you have to tell her,” Dad said.

  “Of course,” I said. “I will.”

  “Soon? Because if you don’t . . .”

  “Yeah, Dad, soon.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m really glad you’ve made friends. Some of my best friends are people I’ve played music with.”

  I thought about Joe and Benny and Ellie. I hadn’t really thought about them as anything other than bandmates, but I guessed they were friends. Or at least the closest thing I had to friends. Although now that we weren’t in the talent show, would we still hang out together?

  “See, it’s a good thing you had those worry dolls with you, right?”

  “Totally, Dad,” I said. “I guess they really work.”

  When we hung up, I sat down at my desk to work on a zine. The Lola Beltrán CD that Señora Oralia had loaned me caught my eye, sitting on top of a stack of library books. I opened the plastic case and slipped the disc into my computer. The first song started all mournful trumpets and violins. I lay back on my bed and wondered how many worries my little dolls could handle now that I had to add “lying to Dad.”

  When the CD finished playing, I searched online for videos of Lola performing. Her long, thin fingers, covered in rings, moved in dramatic gestures. Everything about her was big. Her hair, her jewelry, her voice. She was a pretty spectacular performer, just like the punk singers I loved. Just like I wanted to be too, if I ever got the chance.

  Chapter 22

  Señora Oralia’s door was open a crack, and the smell of something delicious filled the hallway. Mom knocked, and we waited as footsteps shuffled toward the door.

  “Vengan, muchachas,” she said, grabbing us each by an arm. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  She pulled us inside with a grip that was pretty strong for an old lady’s.

  “I made chilaquiles,” she said. “I think you’re going to like them.”

  “I love chilaquiles,” Mom said.

  Señora Oralia had invited us to Sunday dinner with her family. Joe, Mrs. Hidalgo, and Mr. Hidalgo, who looked like an older Joe with a mustache, were in the kitchen when we arrived. We greeted everyone, and Mom placed the bowl of bean and corn salad she’d made on the counter, which was already covered with enough food to feed more than six people.

  “You want a pop?” Joe asked, holding out two bottles of bright red Jarritos.

  “Pop?” I asked, taking one. “Don’t you mean soda?”

  “Maybe where you’re from, dude.”

  I took a swig of the soda that tasted like fizzy strawberry candy.

  “I hope the chilaquiles aren’t too picosos,” Señora Oralia said as we sat down to eat. “I like them spicy.”

  “Mamá, you know you’re not supposed to eat spicy food,” Mrs. Hidalgo said.

  “Ay, look at this one talking to me like she’s the mother,” Señora Oralia said, and laughed. “What’s a little spice now and then, right?”

  “That’s right, Bueli,” Joe said, dishing up a spatula full of chilaquiles onto his plate.

  “Don’t encourage her, Joe,” Mrs. Hidalgo warned. “What about you, Malú? Do you like spicy food?”

  I felt like I was in the hot seat, no pun intended. But before I could answer, Mom jumped in.

  “I’m afraid Malú didn’t inherit the Mexican taste buds.”

  Everyone laughed except for me.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Hidalgo said, rubbing his stomach. “You aren’t the only one who can’t handle spicy food.”

  I rolled my eyes at Mom and shoved a forkful of chilaquiles into my mouth to prove her wrong, immediately regretting it. I could feel my tongue slowly begin to throb as the heat of the peppers crawled over it like an army of tiny fire ants.

  “Toma leche,” Señora Oralia said, noticing my discomfort. “Milk helps with the spiciness.”

  “Too hot for you, huh, María Luisa?” Joe laughed. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it. He had already devoured one serving and was going in for seconds. I stuck with Mom’s salad, which was not spicy and was cilantro-free, and the plain enchiladas Mrs. Hidalgo brought.

  After dinner Mr. Hidalgo made coffee, and Señora Oralia brought out a yummy-looking cake.

  “I am so full,” Mom said as Mrs. Hidalgo set out plates. “I don’t know if I can eat another bite.”

  “You have to try at least a small slice,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “I need guinea pigs for this cake. It’s a vegan tres leches.”

  “Be-gan? ¿Y qué es eso?” Señora Oralia asked Mrs. Hidalgo.

  “It’s an oxymoron,” Mr. Hidalgo said, and laughed.

  “Vegan,” Mrs. Hidalgo repeated. “That means it has no milk, no dairy.”

  “Oh boy,” Joe whispered to me. “Here we go.”

  “¿Un postre de tres leches . . . sin leche?�
� Señora Oralia finally asked.

  She shook her head and laughed. No, she guffawed. I remembered that word from a vocabulary list last year. Señora Oralia’s laugh was loud and boisterous from deep in her belly like it had been stored there, waiting for this specific moment. It was definitely a guffaw.

  I had to admit, a vegan tres leches cake did sound a little bizarre, since I knew that tres leches means “three milks,” and vegan means no dairy or animal products of any kind.

  “That sounds interesting,” Mom said. “But why vegan?”

  “Believe it or not, we have a lot of people who come into the coffee shop who are looking for vegan alternatives, especially for baked goods,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Even Mexicans, Mamá.” She gave Señora Oralia a surprised look that was clearly exaggerated.

  “Not these Mexicans, right, Bueli?” Joe asked, putting his arm around Señora Oralia. “We like our milk and eggs and butter.”

  “Ana always has to be different,” Señora Oralia said. “Look different. Eat different. Think different.”

  I glanced at Mrs. Hidalgo, who was slicing the cake. She had a look on her face that I knew well, a look that said she’d heard this a million times.

  “Tell me about it,” Mom said, pointing her thumb in my direction. “This one is allergic to anything that she thinks is too ‘normal.’ Just like her dad.”

  “Jeez,” I said. “We’re right here.” I looked at Mrs. Hidalgo, and she smiled and winked. It felt good to have someone who could be part of my “we.” Especially someone like Mrs. Hidalgo.

  “Bueli, tell them the story about when Mom came home with her first tattoo,” Joe said.

  “Ah sí,” Señora Oralia said, waving her hands. “It’s a miracle I didn’t have a heart attack.”

  “You’re so dramatic,” Mrs. Hidalgo said, shaking her head.

  “Mom said Bueli fainted and bumped her head and they had to take her to the hospital,” Joe said.

  “Really?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. Señora Oralia didn’t seem like the kind of lady who would freak out over tattoos. Or over anything, really. I still remembered the purple nail polish she’d worn when I first met her.

  “Pobrecita,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. She reached over to pat Señora Oralia’s shoulder. “She wouldn’t talk to me for weeks. Remember, Mamá? For an entire month she’d leave me these little notes. It was ridiculous.”

  “My head hurt for days,” Señora Oralia said. “And only part of it was because of the fall!” She looked at Mrs. Hidalgo with a twinkle in her eye. “Ana was always up to something. Tell them about when I had to pick you up at the police station.”

  “This sounds like an interesting story,” Mom said.

  “My mom, the lawbreaker,” Joe said, and laughed.

  “It was no big deal,” Mrs. Hidalgo said as she distributed slices of cake.

  “What happened?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Hidalgo getting into trouble. What could she have possibly done?

  “My high school had a pretty strict dress code for the homecoming dance. We couldn’t wear sneakers, and our outfits had to be at least semiformal, so the boys had to wear jackets and ties,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “A group of us thought it was unfair.”

  “Unfair how?” Mom asked, slicing a bite of cake with her fork.

  “Well, it discriminated against kids who couldn’t afford to buy ties or jackets if they didn’t already have them,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Plus, some of us wanted to wear sneakers with our dresses.”

  “Estos muchachos had their own dance where they weren’t supposed to be,” Señora Oralia said, giving Mrs. Hidalgo a stern look like she’d just gotten the call from the police right at that moment and not years ago.

  “Bueli’s still mad,” Joe said.

  “We asked the administration to reconsider the dress code and be a little more lenient,” Mrs. Hidalgo went on, ignoring Señora Oralia and Joe. “But they wouldn’t. So we organized an anti–homecoming dance in protest.”

  “That’s so rad,” I said, glancing at Mom.

  “You could come dressed as you pleased, fancy formal wear not required,” Mrs. Hidalgo said with a nod. “And instead of an entrance fee, we asked for a donation, either money or food, for a local homeless shelter.”

  “So where do the police come into the story?” Mom asked. I could tell she wanted me to know that calls from the police were not okay.

  Mrs. Hidalgo explained that they needed a space for their dance. They decided to use an empty garage that was owned by one kid’s uncle. The only problem was that he never asked for permission, so when neighbors heard music and saw kids going in and out, they called the police.

  “And you got caught?” I asked.

  “We were trespassing on private property, so the police came. They called our parents and cut our dance short,” Mrs. Hidalgo said.

  “Were you arrested?” I asked.

  “No. Contrary to what my mom said, we weren’t taken to the police station.” She shot Señora Oralia a stern look.

  “Same thing,” Señora Oralia said with a shrug. “The police called me to come get my delinquent daughter.”

  “We should have asked to use the garage, but kids make mistakes,” Mrs. Hidalgo said.

  “I can imagine how worried you were when you got a call from the police,” Mom said to Señora Oralia, ignoring the fact that Mrs. Hidalgo had done the coolest thing ever.

  “Pues, sí,” she said. “I think she’s in one place and she’s somewhere else, making trouble.”

  “Not making trouble,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “I’m still glad that we stood up for what we believed was right.”

  “Psssh, she hasn’t changed one bit,” Señora Oralia said. But she didn’t sound angry. It was more like she found the stories funny now.

  “How can she be mad?” Mrs. Hidalgo asked, taking a bite of her cake. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right, Mamá?”

  “How did you ever get through it?” Mom asked, glancing at me. “Having a . . . contrarian daughter?”

  “We did not always agree with each other,” Señora Oralia said. “But I always told her to stand up for what she believes in, what comes from here.” Señora Oralia put a fist to her heart.

  “Even if it means getting arrested?” Joe asked.

  Everyone laughed.

  “It sounds like you have a pretty good relationship now,” Mom said, looking from Señora Oralia to Mrs. Hidalgo.

  “She still thinks I’m cuckoo,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “But she tries to understand who I am, and that we’re all different in our own ways, right, Mamá?”

  Señora Oralia reached over and stroked Mrs. Hidalgo’s pink streak of hair.

  “You’re right, Ana,” Mom said, surprising me. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess I was a contrarian too.”

  “You?” I asked.

  “Yes, me,” Mom said. “I left home to go to college. That was something no one in my family had ever done, but I felt like I needed to see more, find my place, you know?”

  “And how did that go over with your family?” Mrs. Hidalgo asked.

  Mom laughed. “Well, my parents were always supportive, but I think they would have preferred to be supportive from a closer distance,” Mom said. “It was hard to leave them. I think it was just scary for everyone. Something different and unfamiliar. And it’s still hard all these years later to be so far away from each other, but—”

  “It’s gotten easier?” Mr. Hidalgo asked.

  “In some ways.” Mom nodded. “Easier, but not easy.”

  Mom looked at me and smiled, and for a moment I thought maybe she actually understood.

  “Ay, you American teenagers,” Señora Oralia said. “Too much free time. In my day, you would be too busy working. No time for dancing or funny hair colors.”

  “And we
’d be walking twelve miles to school in the desert too, right?” Joe’s dad asked.

  “School? ¿Qué school? You would be working, m’ijo.”

  We all laughed again.

  “This has been so much fun,” Mom said, and nudged me. “Gracias por todo, Señora.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I mean, muchas gracias.” The Spanish words felt like they were stuck in my teeth. Whenever that happens, I get more self-conscious.

  “You don’t like to speak Spanish,” Señora Oralia said. It was not so much a question as a declarative statement.

  I shrugged, once again in the spotlight.

  “She just doesn’t speak it often, so she’s not used to it,” Mom said.

  “It’s good to have two languages,” Señora Oralia said. “You know how I learned English? Listening to the Beatles.”

  “Really?” Mom asked.

  “Sí, señora. I could not speak a word of English, but I worked for a family who had a teenager. We would listen to records together. I was singing ‘Twist and Shout’ and didn’t even know what any of it meant.”

  Señora Oralia let out another hearty guffaw and shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was telling us.

  “I used to be able to do the Twist, too—mira,” she said as she started to move in her chair.

  I tried to imagine a young Señora Oralia dancing to the Beatles, but I could only picture her the way she looked now—doing the Twist in the unicorn housedress she’d worn the first day we met her, fuzzy slippers on her feet. I smiled, thinking about it.

  “Don’t lose your language,” Señora Oralia said, like words were something that might end up under the bed with mismatched socks and dust bunnies.

  After dessert, I sat on Señora Oralia’s flowery couch while Joe flipped through channels on the oldest television set I’d ever seen. It looked like a piece of furniture, the screen encased in wood and surrounded by little fake drawers.

  I kept thinking about Mrs. Hidalgo and her anti–homecoming dance idea. How did she ever come up with such a great way to make a point? And wasn’t she afraid of getting into trouble? She must have really believed in what she was doing to take that risk. At that moment she seemed like the bravest person I knew.