by Tami Charles
Junito stops shaking, and I scream, “Don’t leave me!” over and over again. Out of nowhere, the cops come running down the alley, guns drawn, mouths moving in slow motion.
My ears become soundproof. All I see is them gesturing for me to lie on the ground. Like a dog. Hands behind my head. Feet together. Don’t move. Be still. But I move uncontrollably. One cop jumps on top of me. Then another. I can’t breathe. Half my face is pressed into the grass. I wonder if Junito’s gone already. If he sees the white light, like I do, coming down from the sky. Then I feel more hands. Damn near fifty of them, exploring my body, searching for something, anything, to connect the dots. My lips position themselves to speak. One final crack in my jaw kills all of my words.
“We need to check the kid’s pulse!” someone yells.
Yes, save him please! Hurry! I plead inside my head.
Someone tosses me on a gurney. Places two fingers on my wrist and starts counting. Slaps a mask on my face. Rolls me toward a flashing swirl of red, white, and blue. Doors shut. Engine roars. Tires screech. Last thing I see out the back window is Junito lying in the field like some kind of science project.
CONVERSATIONS WITH FIVE-O
“MY NAME IS DETECTIVE Osario and this is my partner, Detective Green. How are you feeling today?”
Como mierda, I curse in my head. What day is it? Where am I? All I see are white walls, white blinds, and Mami standing by a door too far for me to reach. There are two faces staring back at me, one in particular too close to my own. I close my eyes, wishing the moment away, but an image I’ll never forget appears. Dark skin, sliced chin dripping with blood, yellow bandana curtseying its way to the asphalt. That crooked smile. And those words…. What were they again? New pop blay?
The memory sends electric bolts through every part of my body. The room tilts back and forth, side to side, until the dude’s face and his words melt away, leaving behind Detective Osario speaking at a snail’s pace.
“¿Cómo te sientes, Beatriz?”
What does this guy want from me? What’s going on? I move my head frantically, searching for Junito, each twist of my neck sending panic through my body. My hands are covered in tubes connected to machines that beep, beep, beep.
Mami stands at the door, hands pressed against tearstained cheeks, whispering “Cálmate, mi amor. Inhala, exhala.”
The guy wants to know how I’m feeling? Certainly not calm, like Mami’s telling me to be. Beat down to the ground. That’s what I got going on inside. I start to say that until I realize that my teeth won’t separate.
“It’s okay,” the other guy, Detective Green, says. “You’re at Clara Maass Hospital. You sustained a pretty bad injury to your jaw, so the doctors had to wire your mouth shut.”
“We waited a few days, but the doctors say you should be able to speak by now, even with your jaw wired,” the first cop adds.
My breathing speeds up. I can feel my heart hitting my chest with a mean uppercut.
“Do you have any idea who did this to you…and your brother?” They’re both talking now. One starts, the other finishes.
My lips are dry. So very dry. Any second, they are gonna crack. Fall off. And I’ll become lipless. Lipless Beatriz.
“Where…is…Junito?” I don’t recognize my own voice, muffled behind sealed teeth and ready-to-fall-off lips.
The detectives look at each other a moment too long, before Detective Osario grabs a chair and pulls it to the bed I’m trapped in. Pain stabs me in the jaw the second I inhale a little too deep.
“One thing at a time, Beatriz. Can you give us a description of the car or perhaps the assailant who attacked you?” he asks.
My eyes close. The silver Trans Am appears, the sound of bullets overpowering the music, the fire in that dude’s eyes as he pounced on Junito, and then there was her. And the black smoke left behind as homegirl drove the car down the alley and up Broadway.
“Beatriz?”
My eyes fly open. I shake my head no, over and over again, until the pain causes a scream to explode from my gut. “I ain’t seen nothing!” I yell.
But I’m pretty sure it sounds more like gahhhhhhhhh!
Mami comes running to my bedside.
“That’s it! Now you heard her!” Each word crashes into the next. “Haven’t we been through enough? If you don’t mind, I need to go to the ICU and check on my son.”
Wait. Junito’s here? Get these tubes off of me! I want to see my brother!
My eyes start to roll backward. Just then I hear the sound of familiar footsteps. Loud, swishy, nerve-shattering. It’s been years since I’ve heard them, but I remember like it was yesterday.
“Ahora no es un buen momento.” That’s my abuela. She’s here and already kicking people out. Typical.
Everything is a blur. We were supposed to pick her up from the airport in the afternoon. But then…the music…and the shots…and the sirens.
“I understand, Señora Vento,” Detective Osario says, “but we do have reason to believe that this shooting is gang related.”
Abuela clutches her rosary. “No mi nietos, no, no. Son niños buenos.”
My stomach churns at the thought of Abuela believing we are those same good kids skipping rope and singing songs back in Aguadilla.
“We’d like to gather information from Beatriz about Junito and his alleged gang involvement so we can prosecute whoever did this,” Detective Green adds.
“My…son…is…not…some…gangbanger!” Mami raises her voice.
I just want to rip these tubes off of me. Hold Mami. Tell her I’m sorry. That Junito is too. And that this won’t happen again because Junito will take care of everything. He always does.
Abuela steps to Detective Osario. She’s so close, and he towers over all four foot eleven of her. “¿Y qué va pasar si vuelven? ¿Nos van a proteger?”
My grandmother, Liliana Vento, has always been the feistiest lady in Aguadilla. The one who not only talked with her mouth, but also with a chancleta in her hand. But here, in this moment, in front of these suited-up policemen, she turns into someone I don’t recognize. These pendejos don’t care about protecting us, nor about the other gang that put us up in here.
They just grab their things and walk past Abuela and that puppy-dog look on her face.
Detective Osario stops short at the door. “You know, Beatriz, someone is gonna go down for this. It’s unfortunate that you didn’t see anything.”
It’s hard to look tough when you’re covered in hospital tubes. That don’t stop me from trying though. I pucker my lips, roll my eyes, and remember the code: Never snitch. I saw nothing. Don’t want to talk about one piece of that day, especially homeboy’s promise that he’d come back if I opened my mouth. Thinking about it is hard enough. Especially those other words he whispered: new pop blay. Soon as I bust outta this joint, I’ll write them down. Junito and I will find out what the hell they mean. ’Cause somebody put a hit out on my brother and there ain’t a damn thing those cops can do about it. But me and Junito will.
As the detectives leave the room, more footsteps find their way in. Three doctors. Arms folded. Lips sagging. Eyes looking like they ain’t slept in days.
“May we have a word with you privately, Mrs. Mendez?”
FAST FORWARD: SEPTEMBER THE FOURTH
I’VE GOTTEN REAL GOOD at communicating with Mami. It’s her eyes that tell her story. Those dull, gray eyes used to be green. Funny how the color of sadness comes in different shades.
“You gonna miss me today?” I ask as I brush Mami’s teeth for her.
She looks at me frantically, wordlessly, her spine curving into a deep C.
“Inhala, exhala, Mami.”
Breathing deep, she settles on staring at the floor.
“School’s starting back up. But don’t worry, I’ll be here as much as I can,” I say to reassure her.
I run a hot bath for her and brush her salt-and-pepper hair. Once upon a time, Mami’s hair was dark as midnight and so long it reached her elbows. Now the bristles of the brush pull all two inches of her hair straight, before it springs back to super-short curls again. Mami hacked it off not long after they lowered Junito into the ground. That was the last day she found a pair of scissors in the house. Abuela made sure of it.
I dry Mami off, put a clean bata on her—a yellow house dress with blue flowers. I slip into the kitchen, away from Mami’s eyes. Place the tiny blade inside my cheek. Protection, always. Junito’s voice swirls inside my head, as fresh as the day he taught me to carry the blade when I was twelve.
I stuff my pockets, bra, and backpack with nickel bags of reefer. Sweat builds on the palms of my hands. Time to start thinking ’bout getting back in the game, princesa. Such an easy thing to say when you’re playing the hero. And that’s what DQ’s been doing, five months strong. Making runs, selling dope, holding meetings at his spot, while I block that day out, make peace that the Macoutes are in lockup, and wait for the storm to pass.
It never did.
DQ wasn’t in the empty lots. He didn’t see Junito’s begging eyes. Didn’t hear that dude’s threat. That was all for me.
I return to the living room to help Mami walk down the stairs to the bodega. Each step down is slow, like she’s not sure if she can make the next one. By the time we finally reach the first floor, Abuela yells, “¡Buenos días, Mirta!”
Mami doesn’t acknowledge her.
Eyes fixed on the door, Mami grabs her milk crate and zombie-walks straight toward the exit. There she’ll sit all day, eyes staring at the ground, the very last place she saw Junito standing. She hopes and prays for him to come back to her, I think.
My stomach starts rumbling louder than I care it to.
“Maybe I’ll skip school today?” I say aloud to no one in particular.
The cashier, Ms. Geraldine, makes a low moaning sound, like she wants to give her two cents. She stays quiet, which is good because one nosy grandmother is about all I can handle.
“¡Escúchame, Beatriz!” Abuela screams from the back of the bodega. She continues in Spanish. “You’re going and that’s it. It’s time to live again.”
The door to the bodega flies open. My girls Julicza and Maricela diva-stroll in like they’re ready to walk the runway.
“First day, nenas!” Maricela shouts her way through the candy aisle, while Julicza picks up a couple of boxes of Lemonheads and sticks them straight in her pocket without paying.
Some things never change.
“Yo, you want us to wait for you while you get ready?” Maricela smacks on a piece of gum.
“And, girl, when you gonna get a touch-up?” Julicza grabs a chunk of my hair. “I never seen you with roots this nappy.”
Flames shoot up and down my body. My crew is looking fresh to death. Meanwhile I’m rocking baggy overalls, a wrinkled-up T-shirt, and hair that’s begging me to hit it with a relaxer.
“I’ll just roll in, set everybody up, and book it before first period,” I say quietly so Ms. Geraldine and Abuela can’t hear me.
Maricela scrunches up her face like I must be crazy, stepping up on the first day of school looking homeless.
Usually all three of us go shopping together in downtown Newark a few weeks before school starts. Every year, we’d come home stacked—fresh Adidas, Guess jeans, T-shirts, and bamboo earrings with our name in them, at least two pairs. All that and then some, courtesy of that good ole Diablo cash flow. For the past few months, though, the cops had a crackdown on the whole city. DQ kept the operation going, but made sure the Diablos kept a low profile. Like clockwork, DQ hit me off with a cut, even though I did nothing to deserve one cent. Left me to grieve the first few months. Told me to come back when I’m ready.
Today’s the day.
“You look just fine, nena.” Maricela couldn’t lie straight if somebody paid her.
“Word.” Julicza tries to make it seem true, but I know better.
I scan the floor, searching for a different excuse. Like Mami’s got a doctor’s appointment or something, which would just add to the pack of lies because everybody in the ’hood knows that Mirta Mendez lost her shit on Friday the thirteenth and is way beyond repair.
My hair swells around my face. Maricela pulls a chunk of it back and sticks it behind my ear. It refuses and pops back into place.
“Your face is starting to look like it used to,” she says.
This time I want to believe her. But deep down I know I am the opposite of what I looked like when I was the flyest girl in eighth grade. Ever since homeboy bashed my cheek in, I stopped hoping the day would come where I’d look like my old self. So I let my hair grow thicker, longer than it’s ever been before, in an effort to hide the ugliness that remains.
“Here, put these on.” Julicza takes the gold bangles off her wrist. “They’re only fourteen karat gold, but they’ll do.”
“Ooh, and how about this?” Maricela reaches in her backpack for a red bandana to pull half of my hair into a ponytail. The other half falls just where I need it to.
“There. Now you look fresh to death. I think we’re ready to show Barringer High who’s in charge!” Julicza squeals.
I muster up a weak smile.
“We saw your mami outside.” Maricela grabs a grape soda and heads to Ms. Geraldine to actually pay for it.
“Did she say anything to you guys?” Hope swells in my chest for a split second.
“Nah. She didn’t even look up at us when we talked to her.”
And just like that, my spirit sinks. I swear I wanna stay home so bad, but then I hear Junito’s voice in my head. It’s the first day of school. Showtime.
After the big Macoutes drug bust, cops were all up in our face, looking for a reason to get us too. They never found a solid piece of evidence. DQ stepped up and handled that.
Abuela flicks on the radio, startling me out of my thoughts. The last thing I want to hear right now is music, especially salsa.
“Abuela, turn the radio off and just play your telenovelas,” I tell her.
But with the music booming and the empanada fryer bubbling so loudly, she can barely hear me.
“¿Qué dices, Beatriz?” Abuela yells over the trumpet.
I storm to the mini-kitchen located behind the register. “I said no music, por favor. Watch your telenovelas. They’re quieter, and you can keep an eye on Mami that way.”
Abuela brushes her hand on my cheek, smiles, and then gives me two good whacks upside the head.
“¡Ay! What was that for?” I rub my head.
Abuela turns down the radio. “Uno pa’ tu amiga. La cubana que nunca paga. Y otra porque tu la deja.”
She’s had enough of Julicza always “forgetting” to pay for her stuff, and me letting her get away with it.
“Vete a estudiar.” Abuela shoos me off to school.
Outside DQ is glued to the wall of the bodega, eyes fixed on Mami. Paco and Fredito are already cornered up nearby, on Broadway at Grafton and Halleck.
“Yo, Beatriz, you know what to do today, right?” DQ asks, as though I’ve already forgotten. Three years deep in the gang and even though Junito’s not here, I still remember everything he taught me. But to be sure, DQ and I met last night to go over the plan.
“Don’t you worry,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”
The sky turns a little cloudy just as the 25 bus pulls up and the doors screech open.
Maricela and Julicza walk on ahead of me.
“Yo, Beatriz!” DQ calls out just as I place my foot on the first step. “You packin’, right?”
I pat my left cheek to show him I’ll be just fine. I still haven’t stepped up to packing a Glock—Junito would’ve never approved anyway. For now, a blade tucked inside my cheek will be e
nough to use on anybody who tries to step. Doubt anyone will, though.
I give my student ticket to the bus driver. Maricela, Julicza, and I find some seats in the back of the bus. The ride to Barringer isn’t that long, but it’s definitely too far to walk. Next year when I turn sixteen, I’ll be able to drive. I’ll get a car—a Pontiac Sunbird, and anything older than 1984 won’t do. Me and my girls will ride to school in style.
Someone is playing music in the front of the bus. Homeboy’s got a boom box propped on his shoulder. “Jam on It” comes on, and the whole bus comes alive. Everybody’s popping to the beat. Even the old abuela in the middle row is getting down.
“Come on, muchacha, you know this song is fly.” Julicza grabs my hand and tries to get me to dance, but I don’t budge.
“Aw, man, you used to go berserk on the dance floor, Beatriz. I miss that.” Maricela starts doing the snake in her seat.
Key words: used to.
I used to feel rhythm in every move I made. But these days, I just beg for it to go away. To leave me alone. Because the last thing I remember is the music and dancing with my brother, followed by running and gunshots. So, no. There ain’t gonna be no more dancing.
And no matter how fresh that beat is (because, ¡ay Dios mío!, it really is), it’ll never bring Junito back.
We hop off the bus and start walking down Park Avenue toward Clifton Street. The Cathedral Basilica towers over the sea of students as we move toward the school.
Barringer High. Population: fifteen hundred students, eighty-four teachers, and six security guards.
Translation? A lot of potential customers.
The back of the school is located on a dead-end street, and the rest of it takes up at least three blocks. It’s packed when we finally get there, and just as DQ schooled me, it’s easy to figure out who’s who. The freshmen are all huddled by the Barringer signs waaay down the block, like they’re scared as hell to even look at any of the older kids. They’re probably realizing that eighth grade is long behind them and that their big-dawg middle-school status is over. The sophomores are a little farther up, huddled by the blue auditorium doors, probably happy they’re not the small fish in the big pond anymore.