The First Rule of Punk

by Celia C. Pérez

  “I’m not chickening out,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”

  Maybe if I said it enough times, it would be true.

  Chapter 26

  In the days that followed, I studied the lyrics to “Cielito lindo” and listened to Lola B on loop. I’d read the lyrics so many times, I could almost see them pass before my eyes like they were on a digital news ticker. Around and around they went. I read them before bed. I whisper-sang them in the bathroom as I got ready for school. In math class I slipped them inside my binder. And I sang them silently in my head during lunch while the band goofed around.

  More than a week into practicing the song, the band finally played what sounded like “Cielito lindo.”

  “Once you have the song down, you can play around with the tempo,” Mrs. Hidalgo said.

  “Or it could just be chaos,” Joe said. “It is punk rock, after all.”

  “Very funny,” Mrs. Hidalgo said.

  “What’s the tempo?” I asked.

  “Like ‘tiempo’ in Spanish,” Benny said. “The timing.”

  “Right now it’s a sweet slow dance,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “But you want to play it faster. Like it’s a . . .”

  “Frenzied mosh pit!” I said.

  We all cracked up.

  “Something like that,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “So, you ready to sing today?”

  The stomachache I’d had on and off all day had come back. My palms were sweaty, and my cheeks were flushed. I knew I shouldn’t feel nervous—it was just Ellie, Joe, and Benny—but I was. Very. I felt like the Cowardly Lion in need of courage.

  “I think so,” I said. “But you all have to promise not to laugh.”

  “Why would anyone laugh?” Mrs. Hidalgo asked, looking sternly at Joe.

  “Come on, Malú,” Ellie said. “You can do this.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “I’m ready.”

  Ellie counted down. Benny started his part on the trumpet. I opened my mouth to sing, but nothing came out.

  “Sorry,” I croaked. “Start again.”

  Ellie counted down again and Benny played, but all I could do was squeak out the first few lyrics.

  “Loosen up those trenzas,” Joe said. He reached over and tugged one of my braids.

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt like a desert.

  “Can I get some water?”

  Mrs. Hidalgo went to the kitchen and came back a minute later with a glass of water that I instantly gulped down.

  “Not so fast,” Joe said, taking the glass out of my hand. “You’re gonna get the hiccups.”

  “Closing your eyes might help,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. “Imagine you’re alone in your room. Or that you’re singing in the shower.”

  I nodded.

  “Here we go,” Joe said. “For real this time.”

  I took a deep breath and waited for the clicks of Ellie’s drumsticks. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself alone in the room, like Mrs. Hidalgo had suggested. And then, on cue, I sang like I’d been singing in my head and in whispers for days now.

  I opened one eye. I was still in the basement. The band was still there, busy with their instruments. No one stared or laughed. So I kept singing. I’d studied the words so much by then that they traveled easily from my brain to my mouth. I knew this song, but it still felt like I was struggling to make the words feel like my own. When I finished singing I opened my eyes.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “That was actually . . . not bad,” Joe said.

  “Gee, thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Ellie said. “You were great!”

  “Beautiful,” Mrs. Hidalgo said. Benny didn’t say anything, but he gave me a thumbs-up.

  “I have to admit, I was a little worried about your Spanish,” Joe said. “I thought it would sound funny. You being a coconut and all.”

  “Takes one to know one, right?” I asked.

  “Seriously, though,” he said. “You have a good voice, dude.”

  A wave of relief washed over me.

  “Now we just have to kick it up a bit so it doesn’t sound so sad,” Ellie said.

  “Good idea, Ell,” I said.

  “We should add some background vocals like in the song,” Benny said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe we can sing the chorus together.”

  We went through the song a few more times. My body felt like a tightly wound coil, but it wasn’t just nervousness anymore. It was excitement. Each time I sang, the words felt more natural coming out of my mouth. Like me and Spanish might belong together after all if we gave each other a chance.

  Chapter 27

  When October rolled in, the weather began to cool. And then the most amazing thing happened. Autumn! Everything turned fiery red and gold like in that Robert Frost poem in The Outsiders. I loved the sound of the leaves crunching under my shoes and the smell of wood burning. Mom and I took a trip to a farmers’ market where I discovered that there are so many different types of apples and that my new favorite food was the apple cider doughnut. I wanted to bottle up all the smells and colors and the feeling of fall so they’d always be close. I wished I could iron it all between sheets of wax paper like I’d done with the bright red maple leaf I’d mailed to Dad. And the weird thing was that when I remembered we had another fall in Chicago, I didn’t feel as unhappy as I thought I would.

  October also meant that the Fall Fiesta was looming, and it was getting harder to find excuses for why I needed to stay after school or go to Joe’s. I felt like Mom was giving me funny looks. Like maybe she knew I wasn’t being 100 percent truthful.

  “Joe isn’t . . . your boyfriend, is he?” Mom asked one morning. She put down her newspaper and looked at me with raised eyebrows. Her smile told me she was joking, but I didn’t find the joke funny at all.

  “Hilarious, Mom,” I said sarcastically. “Why are you being gross?”

  “Why is that gross?” she asked. “He’s a cute kid. And he’s artsy just like you.”

  “Joe is not my boyfriend.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Besides,” she said, “you’re getting to be una señorita. I mean, you could stand to look more like one, but that’s beside the point. Boys are going to be interested, and you might be interested too. . . .”

  “I cannot believe we are talking about this,” I said, cutting her off. I grabbed one of the million apples we’d brought back from our farmers’ market trip and stomped off to my room to call Dad before going to Calaca to meet up with the band.

  “But if he was, you would tell me, right?” Mom called after me.

  I could hear her giggle at the so-not-funny joke. Okay, truth? Joe wasn’t bad looking, but that wasn’t the point. On the one hand, I felt relieved that she didn’t seem to suspect anything about the band. On the other hand, she had totally creeped me out with her boyfriend talk.

  When Dad answered, he was walking Martí. I could hear the jingle of the dog’s tags in the background, and I thought of the path he usually took, wondering where they might be at the moment.

  “Dad, do you think Martí remembers me?”

  “Of course he does,” Dad said.

  “But what if dogs have terrible memories?” I asked.

  “Lú, this dog has known you all his life,” Dad said. “Believe me, he remembers you.”

  “Okay, I was starting to worry,” I said. “We’ve been gone for more than a month already.”

  “Hard to believe,” Dad said. “Thanksgiving will be here before you know it. Hey, before I forget: I have a surprise for you.”

  “You do? What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you yet.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “You know I hate surprises.”

  “I know, but you’re going to have to wait for this one.”

  “Dad, seriously,” I said
. “Just tell me, please.”

  “Sorry, kid. Can’t,” Dad said. “But I can guarantee you’ll like it.”

  “You promise it won’t be one of those bad surprises?” I asked. “Like moving to Chicago?”

  “It won’t be one of those bad surprises,” Dad said. “Trust me. Speaking of surprises, have you told your mom about the band?”

  “No,” I said. I filled him in on practicing with Mrs. Hidalgo and that she’d even offered to help me talk to Mom.

  “I can help you talk to Mom too,” Dad said. “If that’s what you need.”

  “I know you can, Dad,” I said. “But you don’t get it like Mrs. Hidalgo does.”

  I felt bad as soon as the words came out of my mouth. I realized it was the first time I’d ever thought there was something Dad just couldn’t really help me with.

  “Of course I get it,” Dad said. “You’re scared your mom will be angry.”

  “It’s not just that,” I explained. “It’s different with Mrs. Hidalgo.”

  “Yeah?” Dad asked. “What’s special about this magical Mrs. Hidalgo?”

  I knew Dad was joking, but something in the sound of his voice told me his feelings were hurt. I tried to choose my words carefully.

  “Well, she’s like me. She’s a girl. And she’s Mexican. And she’s into punk. So it’s like she understands all this stuff about me—”

  “That I don’t,” Dad finished for me.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said.

  There was silence. Then I heard Dad sigh. “It’s okay. Nothing to be sorry about,” he said.

  “I’ll tell Mom myself,” I said. It was the only thing I could think of to make Dad feel like I wasn’t picking Mrs. Hidalgo over him. I’d never wanted to end a conversation as much as I wanted to end this one.

  “No worries, Lú,” he said. But it didn’t sound like he meant it, at least not all the way.

  All of a sudden liking fall in Chicago and being in a band and having friends made me feel like a traitor. How could I miss home and be happy here, too? I wondered if Dad secretly felt like I’d forgotten all about him.

  When I walked into Calaca, Joe was at the counter, bent over a notebook. Ellie and Benny weren’t there yet. I waved to Joe and found a table, where I pulled out my zine supplies.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked when he came over. He nudged his chin toward the zine I was working on.

  “It’s a zine,” I said, closing the cover of my book over it.

  “What’s a zine? Can I see it?”

  “Maybe when it’s finished.” I told him all about zines and how to make them.

  “Sounds cool,” he said. “Are there, like, comic zines?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll make one too then,” he said. “Been working on a story.” He tapped his sketch pad.

  “What’s it about?”

  “A family of Mexican vampires,” he said, and hissed. “They gotta figure out how to keep a tan and avoid the sun at the same time. But it’s, like, the 1800s, so there are no tanning beds. Chew on that.”

  “Like I said before, you’re weird,” I replied, and laughed. “But get this: instead of garlic, you should make their weakness cilantro.”

  “Good idea,” Joe said. “I’m using that.” He flipped open his sketch pad and wrote something down.

  “You want your usual?”

  I nodded.

  “One Cafe Olé and one concha coming up.”

  Joe picked up his sketch pad and headed back behind the counter.

  Through the window, I could see Ellie climb out of a car and wave to a red-haired woman in the driver’s seat. When she arrived at our table, she dropped her heavy backpack onto the floor.

  “What’s in there?” I asked. “A ton of bricks?”

  “Close,” Ellie said. “These are all the books I need for the essay and test I have this week.”

  “Was that your mom? The woman in the car?”

  Ellie nodded. “Couldn’t you tell?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and laughed. “Do you live nearby?”

  “Not really,” Ellie said. “But I’ve been at Posada since kindergarten. My parents applied because it has a curriculum that will prepare me to complete a high school IB program. Which will look—”

  “Great on a college application,” I finished for her.

  “Exactly.” Ellie grinned. “They also want me to be in a school where I can easily learn a second language. It’s worth being an outsider to get a good education.”

  “You’re not an outsider,” I said. I realized I didn’t know much about Ellie outside of the band and her school interests.

  “My mom says it builds character,” Ellie said with a shrug. “That it’s good to know what it feels like to not be the norm.”

  “Girl, that’s harsh.” Joe placed a plate of conchas in the middle of the table just as Benny came in and made a beeline for our table.

  “What’s harsh?” Benny asked, grabbing a concha.

  “Forget it,” Joe said. “Check this out.” He sat down and flipped through his sketch pad until he found the page he was looking for. He held it out for us to see. “I’m thinking we should make T-shirts.”

  We all leaned in to get a better look. On the page was a drawing of four coconuts, real coconuts, wearing mariachi hats. Above the coconuts was the band’s name written over an eighties-looking checkered pattern.

  “This is awesome,” I said.

  “What about a motto or a mission statement on the back too?” Ellie said. “Something like—”

  “Like ‘Not Your Abuela’s Ranchera,’” I said.

  “How about ‘Not Your Abuela’s Music,’” said Joe. “In case we decide to branch out.”

  “Or ‘Spreading Mexican Culture. Loudly,’” Ellie added.

  We laughed.

  “And we should give one to Principal Rivera after the show,” Benny said.

  We argued over colors, mission statements, and eco-friendly T-shirt vendors. Then we asked Mrs. Hidalgo if Calaca Coffee would want to sponsor the shirts. And for a little while I was able to forget about my conversation with Dad and about eventually having to tell Mom about the band. It was the happiest I’d felt since we moved to Chicago.

  Chapter 28

  “What do you think?” Joe asked. We were in the library after school, where I flipped through a book I’d pulled from the display shelf while he finished the flyer for our talent show.

  “Looks great,” I said. “Did you check with Mr. Baca about the copier?”

  “Yeah, no problem,” he said. “I’ll make the copies now.”

  “Cool,” I said. “We can hand them out on Monday. We should probably do it off school grounds, just in case. Maybe by the bus stop.”

  Joe nodded and looked over the flyer again.

  “And no color paper,” I added. “We don’t want it to be too noticeable.”

  “Yes, your highness,” Joe said, bowing dramatically. “Whatcha reading there?”

  I closed the book and held it up for Joe. I’d pulled a book from Mr. Baca’s display about José Guadalupe Posada, the guy our school is named after and who our school was celebrating at the Fall Fiesta.

  “He was a pretty interesting guy,” I said. “I think I’m going to check this out before Mr. Baca closes up. I’ll come by Calaca this weekend to grab some flyers.”

  Later, as I shoved the book into my bag, I found the balled-up flyer Selena had thrown away at her mom’s dance studio. I pulled it out. The deadline to register for the dance class had passed. I wondered if Selena was still upset about it. Was she mad at her mom for not letting her do it? I didn’t know why I’d even kept the flyer. Or why, as much as Selena bugged me, I felt a little bit bad for her.

  On Monday morning the four of us met early to give
out as many of the flyers as we could. We hung out near the bus stop, at the end of the curb, where we wouldn’t be noticed by school staff patrolling. It’s the same corner where there’s a little market perfect for buying bottles of orange juice and roles de canela, cinnamon rolls packaged in bright pink wrappers featuring a white bear wearing a baker’s hat.

  “All done,” Ellie said.

  “I think that went well.” Benny laughed, pointing to a kid throwing the flyer into a trash can.

  “Great,” I said.

  “Hey, that’s my hard work,” Joe complained. “Whatever. I know at least a couple of kids who are interested.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Rivera gave them the ax because their entire comedy act consisted of fart and bathroom jokes.”

  The bell rang, and we headed to our homerooms.

  Selena and I had a routine now that consisted of ignoring each other at first, making faces from across the aisle, and eventually trading smart-aleck remarks. So it was no surprise when she leaned toward me to say something.

  “I know what you’re up to, María Luisa,” she whispered cryptically.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, trying not to sound nervous.

  We had strategically planned our flyer distribution to not only avoid teachers and staff, but also to avoid Selena. I knew Selena always arrived at school just as the bell rang and would come in through the front door instead of around the back, where everyone was supposed to enter. We also hadn’t put any of our names on the flyer. Just the date, time, location, and invitation for kids to participate.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” she said.

  “No, I don’t,” I said, fiddling with the cap on my water bottle.

  “I know about your talent show plan.” She pulled a sheet of paper out of her folder and placed it on her desk where I could see it. It was the flyer Joe had made. Not a copy of the flyer, but the original he’d photocopied in the library.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

  “I found it in Mr. Baca’s copier, right where you left it.”