by Tami Charles
I spot Tony by the lockers in front of the chemistry lab. He raises his hand and forms it into the shape of a zero over his heart. No need to exchange words. The school day ain’t even half over yet, and that boy has already sold off his entire stash. Damn, he’s good!
And so fine. Tall with bronze skin and a curly low-fro, but I’d never step to him. He’s more like a brother than anything.
I spend the next few periods in English literature (what’s the point of reading Shakespeare, anyway?), algebra (useless math I’ll never need), and home economics (not interested). Each class only proves the point that I don’t need to be here. So as soon as lunch is over, I do what I do best. Cut.
There’s an exit door right in the gym. I hesitate for a second when I see a teacher there, but then I notice her slumped over her desk, snoring, drooling, the whole nine. Walking out is easy as one, two, three. I cross the street on the side where the Cathedral Basilica is. There’s a statue of la Virgen del Carmen right in front of it. She stares at me like, “Where do you think you’re going?”
When I round the corner to walk toward the bus stop, I feel the skin down my back rise up like cactus needles. I look behind me as a sea of cars blasts up and down the street. The hum of the engine of a black car roars louder than the others, closer to my ear than any of them, as it slows down near the bus stop. The vibration ricochets inside me, quickening the pace of my steps. I keep my eyes straight ahead. People park illegally by the bus stop all the time. I walk faster, passing a black Mustang with tinted windows and Bob Marley’s “Buffalo Soldier” blasting.
Finally the 25 bus pulls up. I get on and head home to take care of Mami. The Mustang drives beside the bus for three stops before it peels left and speeds down Bloomfield Ave.
I tell myself it’s nothing and instead take my mind back to Barringer. I’m not sure that I can carry out a four-year sentence there. This school thing ain’t nothing but business for me. So that whole “try your best so you can pass” bit will have to wait. Maybe I’ll finish. Maybe I won’t.
NIGHTS OF FAME
THE BEATS OF MY HOOD are everywhere. Salsa on Broadway. Rap on Grafton. But these days I block it out and will myself to move forward.
In front of the bodega, Mami is in her usual spot. Milk crate planted in front of the window. Today she gazes at the sky, blue and cloudless, like it’s the most fascinating picture she’s ever seen. Mami is not alone. Seated next to her is Daniel Martin. Mystery man of Grafton. Never a man of many words…except one day last year when I had a run-in with him because of his daughter. Me and him have had bad blood ever since.
I walk up to them, hoping to pull them out of their hypnosis. Mr. Martin pretends he doesn’t even see me, even though Mami looks my way.
“¿Tienes hambre, Mami?” I ask. She shakes her head no. I’m hoping she ate something at lunchtime.
DQ and a couple of guys are playing dominoes a few feet away.
“What’s up with this picture?” I walk over and ask him.
DQ takes the toothpick out of his mouth and shrugs his shoulders. “Beats me. I ain’t seen that man ’round here in a long time. He came to get coffee and a newspaper. Next thing I know, him and Mamadukes been sitting there in silence for like two hours now.”
I turn and look at them. For months Mami has worn a look of pain on her face. Somehow, the way she’s sitting right there, right now, looks almost peaceful. Like she’s caught up in the middle of a prayer. Even Mr. Martin’s usual mean mug is looser.
I walk back over to them.
“How’s your father-in-law, Mr. Martin?” I ask. Everybody in the neighborhood knows one-and-a-half-legged Pop Pop, grandfather to all of Grafton. He used to love walking up the hill to the bodega to get a cup of coffee and the day’s paper, sneaking in a dirty-old-man flirt with Mami. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him…or anyone else from the Martin family, for that matter.
“It’s getting harder for him to walk around,” Mr. Martin whispers to the sky.
“And what about TJ…and your daughter?”
Mr. Martin cuts his eyes straight at me. “Better than ever.”
The words slice through clenched teeth. I feel it deep in my gut, but I don’t say nothing back.
Mr. Martin slaps the newspaper on his knees and rises up. “Nice talking to you today, Mirta,” he says to Mami.
She pauses her gaze to look at him, says nothing back, doesn’t even crack a smile.
“Wait. She actually talked to you?” I can’t remember the last time I heard Mami’s voice. What she said. How she said it.
“Don’t always need to move your mouth to tell a story.” He starts walking away, not turning around one bit.
DQ and I look at each other, confused as all get-out.
“Come on, Mami, let’s get you inside.” I help her up.
I check on Abuela and Ms. Geraldine in the bodega to see if they need my help.
“Go,” Ms. Geraldine insists. “Liezel is coming after class to help close up.”
Hiring Ms. Geraldine and her two daughters was a good decision I made after everything happened.
I help Mami upstairs to our apartment, dress her in a clean bata—this one with the Puerto Rican flag spread all over it—and start making dinner. Most days I ask myself why I even try. Mami doesn’t eat like she used to.
Still, I cook to bring the memories back. The times when there was Junito and me and her, and music and dancing and love. I start up a pot of arroz blanco con habichuelas and fry up some chuletas and plantains. Not even the smells pull Mami out of her trance. She’s sitting on the couch, eyes glued to this new telenovela—La pasión de Isabela. While the rice and beans finish cooking, I sit next to her and hold her hand.
Time passes, the sun starts to go down, and Abuela comes up to the apartment. She showers before joining us at the kitchen table. We sit there like sad puppies, waiting to see how much Mami will eat this time. Half of a nibble of pork chop, about three grains of rice, two beans…and she’s done.
Typical.
I eat my plateful of food and the rest of hers too.
Also typical.
There is one bright spot in my time with Mami. Once a week. Eight o’clock. Our favorite show, Fame, comes on. It’s the only time I see Mami look half alive. Not long after we came to Newark, Mami worked like a dog so I could take dance classes at Maria Priadka’s in South Orange. Mami swore I had what it took to become a professional, and she convinced Ms. Maria of the same. Deep down, I wanted that for myself too.
Things changed around the time I turned ten. No food, no heat, no future will make you shift your focus real quick. Mami held down three jobs, but it was never enough. Junito was only thirteen, but he found a way to fix it all. That came with secrets, hiding, and me putting my dreams in the back seat.
Last year when I joined that pageant at King Middle, Junito was all like, That’s not a priority, Beatriz! I remember the hurt like it was yesterday. By that point, we were finally in a better place. The cash flow was good. We had our own bodegas. Food, heat, fresh gear, the whole nine.
But there was nothing Junito could do to stop me from dancing again. Because Mami said so. So every night she worked with me. Re-taught me the dances I’d learned from our island—salsa, plena, bomba—and the ballet, jazz, and ballroom styles I’d learned from Ms. Maria.
Fame’s theme song comes on, and Debbie Allen, who plays the dance teacher, Lydia Grant, appears on the screen.
“You got big dreams? You want fame?” She’s got this big, booming voice for such a tiny lady. Walking stick in her hand, shoulders squared out in her red cut-off shirt, plus her name is listed in the opening credits as producer. That means she runs shit. You can’t tell me that she ain’t got a little Diabla inside her too! Any other fan would be all about Jesse or Leroy with their fine selves, or maybe even Coco (she’s a brown girl too). But for me
, no one but Debbie Allen exists. I swear she is talking to me—her words punching me right in the chest, making me want to scream, Yes, I do have a dream…and this ain’t it!
Abuela can’t understand much of the show, but music and dancing are a universal language that makes her just as happy as it makes me and even Mami. For an hour, we all escape to a place where there is no sadness, no loss. Just a group of New York kids using song and dance to burn trouble out of their systems.
When the show is over, Mami and Abuela kneel at the altar in the corner of the living room, praying to a God I’m no longer sure exists. When they’re done, I help Mami get to bed. I haven’t let her sleep alone since we buried Junito.
The streetlights pour in through the open curtains. I walk over to the window to close them, and see a single car parked by itself with the headlights still on. As soon as I close the curtains, the car pulls off down Broadway.
It doesn’t take Mami long to drift away. Once I hear Abuela snoring in the next room, I sneak down the stairs, past the bodega, and straight to the locked storage room in the basement. Years ago Junito told Mami to not rent it out. Made up some lame excuse that he would use it as an art studio. But really it was the meeting spot for the Diablos…and a few other hidden activities.
I stand in the middle of the room, looking at the empty chairs scattered about, willing Junito to come back to me. To us. This Friday will be the first Diablos meeting I’ve been to since Junito died. He used to run those meetings, and I’d sit and watch him, so in control. I wanted to be everything like that, to have power and admiration that made everyone in the whole neighborhood respect, love, and fear me the way they did Junito.
But now the crown belongs to DQ. Maybe DQ was trying to be nice when he said we could start holding meetings again here. This is what Junito would’ve wanted anyway. All of us—Diablos y Diablas—together like old times. So I’ll spiffy up the room. Put some posters up with our Diablo signature. Add some red decorations to brighten things up. Tag the wall to match my very first graffiti art: ¡Fama! ¡Voy a vivir pa’ siempre! Only this time I’ll leave off the fame part. I can’t have that. At least not now. No such thing as a gangbanger turned famous dancer. But the living forever part? Yeah, I want that. Need that more than ever.
The steps haunt me as I climb back up and into bed with Mami, knowing what comes next. Sleep. Half blessing, half curse. For months now, I’ve replayed different scenes from my life in my dreams. It’s like a mixtape, each song playing out, each dream unfolding in dance, every style I ever learned back in Puerto Rico and here in Newark. And when I get to the end of the tape, my fingers curl to the rhythm, press rewind, and then it starts all over again. I call the album that my dreams have become “Songs in the Key of Dance.”
* * *
Track One: Dance of the Bomba, 1974
Five years old. Aguadilla, Puerto Rico. Island of my childhood.
Our casita is no bigger than two rooms, with a tin roof that threatens to collapse as soon as a hurricane hits. Aguadilla smells of sunshine and ocean waves and palm trees, and on this day, rain. First as light as teardrops falling from the sky. Not enough to keep me, Junito, and my cousins Elena and Xiomara from jumping rope outside.
Mi madre y mi padre
viven en la calle
de San Valentín
número cuarenta y ocho.
The rain thickens as we continue our schoolyard song. Mami and Abuela run around the yard, grabbing the clothes off the clothesline as we collect raindrops in our mouths and sing to the darkening skies. A car pulls up and it’s Papi and my tíos, but we don’t stop jumping rope.
Mi padre le dice a mi madre,
Señora, toque el piso.
Señora, de una vuelta.
Señora, coja las maletas.
Señora, márchese de aquí.
Tío Leoncio gets out of the car first, then yells out, “Junior is pretty light on his feet, eh, Juan?”
Through the rain, I can see Papi’s deep brown cheeks turn red as he slams the car door behind him. He hobbles over to us, drunk as hell, and yanks Junito from the ropes, mid-jump.
“Adentro, a la casa…ahora mismo.” Papi orders Junito inside, his voice adding to the rumble of thunder in the sky. Loud and powerful, lighting ready to burn anyone who dares challenge him.
Abuela dumps a pile of clothes in a basket. My cousins drop the rope on the ground and run off to their casita a few doors down from ours.
Papi stumbles into the house, Junito dangling at his side. His scent—a mixture of coconuts and rum—bounces back and forth around the four tin walls.
Mami runs behind him, trying to free Junito from his tight grip.
“¡Déjalo, por favor!” she begs, but Papi tosses Junito on the sofa like a rag doll. Junito bites down on his bottom lip, like he’s fighting against himself to not scream. That doesn’t stop the thick stream of tears coming out of his eyes.
“How many times I have to tell you about ruining my name by playing with girls?” The devil has made its way through Papi. It’s not the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. So I do what I do best. Hide.
Behind the curtain that splits our casita in two, I see their shadows. I place my hands over my ears. Cover the sounds of the screams, the cries, the threats. None of this exists. Except for the music. The bomba builds inside of me now. I tap my foot silently in counts of four, with the tambor calling back in response, just the way Mami taught me. I twirl to the beat of the drums, the constant swish of the ocean nearby, hypnotizing me with the rhythms.
“You can’t keep treating him like this. Just let him be.” Mami’s voice clashes against my inner song.
Papi throws her against the wall. The tin roof vibrates, threatening to cave in any second.
“I’m not raising a maricón!” Papi yells.
“Enough, Juan! He’s only eight years old.”
He gives Mami a backhanded slap across the face.
This is normal in our house—Papi doing whatever he wants to Mami and Junito, but never laying a finger on me. Is it because I am his princesa? Is it because he loves me more?
Papi finally turns on the radio to cover his awful words so no one in the barrio hears, though it’s already too late. The music fills me up. I want to move and twirl and dance away the ugly. But I can’t. Not like this, when Junito and Mami are hurting.
“No te preocupes.” Papi lets Junito go and gets all up in Mami’s face. “I signed him up for the fights next week. I’ll make sure he’s not gonna turn out to be a maricón.”
The fighting arena is a staple in Aguadilla. Sometimes people fight roosters against each other for money. Other times, it’s grown men. And every now and then there are children. Fathers who enter their sons to toughen them up, hoping to score a few bucks and bragging rights. For years Papi threatened that he’d make Junito do it. Now that time is coming, sooner than we’d hoped.
A rumble of thunder echoes above. The vibrations make their way down through the four walls of our casita, spread and fester through Mami, Papi, and Junito, until they finally find me hidden in the shadows.
I wake up gasping, my eyes wildly scanning the room for the family that once was. But there is no Junito and no Papi. I am safe. I think.
A CALL TO ORDER
FRIDAY NIGHT COMES FAST. I slip downstairs to make sure everything is perfect as the way I set it last night. Chairs organized neatly against the walls. Long table in the middle of the room.
Whip out Junito’s mallet, his favorite way of shutting folks up. Then I start second-guessing myself. I’ve been away so long. Maybe DQ changed the way things are handled. Will he like the graffiti art I made? Will he think the lemonade and pretzels are stupid? This ain’t a party, princesa. This is business. I imagine him picking apart my every decision. The tick of the clock tells me I don’t have time to worry about none of that.
&nb
sp; I prop the back door open with a brick, just like Junito used to do. One by one, everybody’ll start to trickle in, while I keep a lookout upstairs.
“¿Que esta pasando?” Abuela catches me stone-cold as soon as I reach the first floor.
“Just gonna hang out with some friends is all.” I press my back to the basement door and look her square in the eye.
Abuela leans in close enough for me to smell the butterscotch candy melting on her tongue. “Yo no soy ciega como tu madre,” she warns. “Tengo cuatro ojos.”
How is it even possible for an old lady, barely five feet tall, to make me shudder? She’s right about one thing. She’s not blind like Mami at all. And she’s not the only one who’s gonna have to keep her eyes open. I gotta make sure her and her four eyes stay outta my business.
“All you see is a group of friends who haven’t spent much time together since…you know. Necesitamos el apoyo de cada uno.” I beg her to understand where I’m coming from.
We need each other. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Saying all that is enough for her to walk back into the bodega. Not before giving me the evil eye, though.
I lock the door behind me and the storage room back door too, in case Abuela gets any ideas.
“You sure you ready?” DQ gives me one last chance to change my mind. I feel the silence and everyone’s eyes zoned in on me.
“Most definitely. It’s time,” I say clearly.
“All right mi gente, let’s get started!” DQ announces.
Everyone drops their cash on the table, one at a time, while Paco and Fredito count it up. The money stacks higher as each runner gets a nod that they’re good to go. All I can think about is how proud Junito would be if he were here right now.
There’s a tap on the back door, and for a second I think it’s Abuela with her nosy self.
Fredito walks over and looks through the peephole.