by Tami Charles
“¿Quién es?” I ask, thinking up an excuse to not let Abuela in.
“It’s Juan,” he says.
Juan Diaz strolls in late, dressed in a Knicks jersey and smelling like he might’ve broken Diablo rule number three: never get high on the supply. If the smell doesn’t give him away, those red-streaked, cloudy-looking eyes of his scream, “Bingo!”
“You’re late. Dinero. ¡Ahora!” DQ orders him to pay up.
Juan starts slapping his hands against his chest, searching for pockets that don’t exist. He pulls out a wrinkled-up five-dollar bill from inside his boot and slowly places it on the table.
DQ nods his head at me, and I swear I can see fire shoot straight from his ears.
“What happened, bro?” DQ asks.
Juan half laughs, half sniffs. “Didn’t have much luck pulling customers this week. I got you next time, though.” He wipes the sweat growing on his forehead.
Paco looks at DQ and starts cracking his tattooed knuckles. My stomach does a little spin, remembering what DQ made me promise: if I was gonna come back, I’d have to be a little less princesa and a lot more Diabla.
“We’ll talk after the meeting,” DQ says through clenched teeth.
By now everyone’s in their seat, and I know we gotta get started and get done soon, before Abuela really does come looking for me.
DQ stands up and begins. “We now call this meeting to order.”
Everyone stands, pounds their chest twice, raises one fist to the sky, and recites, “Blood in, blood out.”
Those words have been etched in my mind ever since I was twelve years old.
Everyone sits, and DQ announces, “As you know, a lot of time has passed since we lost our soldier, the original chief of this whole operation.”
The room grows real quiet. It’s like I can see everyone’s face inch downward toward the floor as we relive the memory.
“He was a real leader who made sure we were all taken care of, that our pockets stayed full. But his spirit lives on in me, in you, and in his sister!” DQ’s all in his feelings.
Folks start snapping their fingers. It’s good to see DQ kept one of Junito’s rules. We’d never clap during meetings because Junito didn’t want folks upstairs to hear us causing a ruckus.
“To carry out the Diablo legacy, I’ve picked up where things left off. The older Diablos will handle the sales of all the hard stuff—dope, cocaine, whatever the people want, we got it. Y’all in school, take care of the light stuff—Mary Jane, reefer, weed, whatever you wanna call it—”
“¡Wepa!” One of the guys sings out like it’s a party, and everybody starts cracking up.
There’s a pull in my stomach, though I laugh along too. It’s these drugs that keep food on the table, but in reality, it’s those same drugs that took my brother away.
DQ continues. “Word on the street is there’s a new strain of reefer coming down the pike, so stay tuned for that. And now that the princesa herself is back in full effect, I’m gonna have her hold down sales at Barringer.”
Everybody starts snapping again, and I rise up from my seat to hug DQ, stomach rumbling loud as all get-out.
“Say something,” he whispers in my ear. “Make it quick.”
I swallow hard and clear my throat. “Um, it’s good to be back.”
There’s more words trapped inside, but that’s about all my heart—and DQ—will allow me to say.
“That’s my nenaaaaa!” Julicza draws out the “a” extra long.
I take a seat, feeling the red rise in my cheeks.
DQ lays out the plans for us moving forward. “Now that Beatriz is back, she’s gonna need a little help holding things down at Barringer. We need two runners for the junior class. Two folks who can keep their nose clean and mouth shut, sell the product, and pile up the stash. A win-win for everyone.”
Julicza shoots up out of her chair. “I don’t mind taking on that job…solo. I’m trying to get out of my mom’s crib as soon as I hit sixteen.”
Julicza slaps five with Maricela. I smile weakly, knowing that getting out isn’t gonna be an option for me no time soon.
A few guys eye Julicza’s round backside, and I hear mumbling to the effect of, “You can come stay with me anytime.”
Julicza blushes and slowly falls to her seat.
DQ gives Julicza the job and carries on with the rest of the details. “A bit about the 4-1-1 on our setup. Some things might change, but a lot will stay the same. Deliveries on Mondays, drop-offs on Fridays. Once a month, I’ll do a New York run to restock, twice if sales are really booming.”
My skin shivers hearing all of this. It’s a life I’ve mostly ignored. Let Junito manage stuff, más o menos. As I sit there, I wonder what’s going on upstairs in the apartment. Is Mami okay? Does she need me? Maybe I came back too early.
Five months is a long time away, princesa. I can hear Junito in my head.
“As for initiations and compensations…” DQ says more, but I don’t really hear him because I’m too busy looking at Juan.
He sits in the crowd with his shoulders tight, knees all shaking. His major screw-up tonight means he’ll definitely be kissing DQ’s fist when it’s all said and done.
Through the small basement window, I can see the sky growing dark. Time to wrap things up.
DQ bangs the mallet twice to end the meeting. Everybody grabs the last of the lemonade and pretzels and this week’s cut from Paco before heading out through the back door.
Juan files in line right with them, hoping to go unnoticed. But DQ is too quick for that. He reaches for Juan’s arm and grips it tight. “You know this was supposed to go down the second you showed your face. It’s either now or later, Juan. Later’s always worse, though.”
“You gotta take it outside,” I warn DQ. “Abuela will hear.”
“Me?” DQ smirks. “You mean we.”
My tongue suddenly feels too big for my mouth. Paco opens the back door. Juan gets loose from DQ’s grip and goes flying down the alley. But DQ is right behind him. Yanks him by the jersey and slams him to the asphalt, just in time for Paco to catch up.
I don’t want to be here. Don’t want to see what comes next. But it’s too late. DQ and Paco are already taking turns punching Juan, throwing threats with each blow.
“You don’t come up in here without my money.” DQ is ferocious, thick veins weaving from his neck to his bald head.
I stand in the alley, watching each hit, until DQ throws me a look that says, Get in here, now!
Next thing I know, I’m doing as I’m told. Arms flying, fists tossing, feet stomping Juan in perfect rhythm with Paco and DQ. Blood sprays from Juan’s mouth, some landing on my shirt, some spraying on a cluster of wishmaker flowers sticking out of the asphalt. It’s a scene that brings up unwanted memories for me: the fights and beatdowns I’ve ordered over the years—one in particular that I still think about to this day—and of course, Friday the thirteenth. The sound of fists on bone, the click of a trigger, the sirens screaming over my voice as I called Junito’s name.
I’m starting to sweat, and whatever I’ve eaten today is slowly rising up from my gut. Any second I’m gonna blow. I can’t do this. Not right now. Not when the memories are still too raw.
“Stop it! Enough!” I push DQ against the brick wall, which makes Paco stop immediately.
Juan dares not whimper. Not a single tear. He just lies in the fetal position, each breath fighting against the next.
“Let him go!” I order them both.
Paco lifts Juan, with his torn-up jersey, and shoves him down the alley toward Broadway. Even though Juan stumbles with each step, the world continues to move. Cars zip by and people walk past, ignoring the bloody sight.
“What was that all about?” The corners of DQ’s mouth are doused in spit.
“I think we need to
rethink initiations and compensations. Find another way, you know?” I say, not looking at DQ.
“Who are you, Beatriz? Dr. King or something? You’re the girl who was always down for a good fight. How soon you forget the beatdown you ordered last year. Grafton Ave. Top of the hill. The Diablos against TJ—and his fat cousin, that wannabe beauty-queen chick, got in the mix. What was her name again?”
I really do feel like I’m gonna throw up. “Stop it! Just…stop talking, DQ.”
DQ zips up his jacket and starts to walk away, but not before getting in one last jab. “Let’s not forget who’s in charge now, Beatriz.”
I stand there, alone in the alley, trying my best to forget the me I once was, trying to figure out the me I still am. Truth is, I’m not sure I like either one.
GAME OF LIES
“SO YOU THINK YOU CAN just roll up in here after missing nine days of school when the month’s not even over yet?” Dr. Brown is giving me a look I don’t like.
Even though I’m across his big wooden desk, I can feel the steam rolling off his tongue. I’m sitting in the chair, slouching, my body language showing every bit of I don’t care, bro.
I been here all right, for drop-offs. In and out before the bell even rings to let the students in.
“Sit up, young lady, when I’m speaking to you!” He throws more fire into his voice.
Mrs. Ruiz gives me a pinch on my elbow, and I do it. Just for her, though.
“Where have you been?” By this point he’s having a by-himself conversation.
Hustling this reefer. That’s what I really want to say.
“Sick.” Somebody oughta give me an award. My fib game is tight.
Mrs. Ruiz tries to calm the situation. “Do you have a doctor’s note, Beatriz?”
“Oh, no, we don’t believe in doctors.” I thicken my accent and add to the lie. “My family comes from a long line of curanderas.”
Dr. Brown looks confused as hell while Mrs. Ruiz explains to him how certain cultures believe in healing the body through the earth and not with modern medicine. I’m smart enough to know that the principal questioning my spiritual and cultural practices is a no-no.
I ain’t been staying at school because I got better things to focus on. Like supply and demand. It hasn’t been easy lying to Abuela, though. Every day when I head out in the morning, she thinks I’m going to school. I been going—to check on my runners. And on days when I stay home, I just make up any old holiday to say that school is closed. Yesterday was National Rap Song Observance Day. Next week it’ll be something else.
“Well, now that you’re feeling better, I’m going to need you to come to school more often if you expect to make it to tenth grade,” Dr. Brown says seriously.
I can’t control the little smirk that grows on my face.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” Dr. Brown says.
“No, sir.” I think school is a complete waste of time, actually.
“Perhaps I’ll need to conduct a home visit with your parents.”
Boy, that smirk fades faster than a dying cigarette butt. The last thing I need is Dr. Brown rolling up on my operation so he can get a peek at my spaced-out mom sitting on a milk crate, staring at the ground. Or even worse, see her having imaginary conversations with Mr. Martin. Nope. I’m good.
“I called your former school, you know.” He clears his throat and waits for me to react.
Here we freaking go.
“And?” I try my best not to suck my teeth.
“And I know about the fight you set up against a Barringer graduate last year. I surely hope that you have evolved, young lady.”
Eighth grade is like a permanent stain on my rep. Mrs. Ruiz shifts in her seat, looking all uncomfortable. There’s no way she ratted me out.
“You don’t have to worry about me or any fights or my attendance. I’m back and feeling better. And I hope you won’t judge me on what happened in the past…sir.” I almost want to believe that last part.
Dr. Brown fastens the buttons on his jacket as he rises. “Let’s just try to have a good school year.”
Mrs. Ruiz nudges me to stand. “She will, Dr. Brown. We’ll schedule some appointments to get her on track. I’m thinking the peer tutoring program might be good for her.”
I return Mrs. Ruiz’s smile but whisper in my head, En tus sueños. I have zero time for some program.
Together we walk out of the office, not saying a word. I can smell the disappointment steamrolling off of Mrs. Ruiz’s shoulder-padded blazer.
As soon as Dr. Brown’s door closes behind us, she whips me around hard to face her, just like Mami used to do when she was mad at me.
“Esta es tu oportunidad. Don’t blow it!” She gets right up in my face.
I see that look in her eyes. The hope fading. And for a split second, I don’t like it. Especially since she had my back in there. It’s the same look Mami gave me when she noticed I was spending less time on the dance floor and more time with Junito and his “friends.”
Mrs. Ruiz sashays her way toward the guidance office, that purple blazer floating behind her like eagle wings.
I hear a voice behind me. “Well, that’s quite the strut Madame Ruiz has. What’d you do to make her incensed?” It’s homeboy with the bow tie from the first day of school, with a mixed-up French-Jamaican sounding accent. Looking like a staff member with his business suit, tie, and those shiny-ass black shoes. He leans in and stares deeper in my eyes, all up in my business.
“And you are?” I ask, moving the blade around my inner cheek with my tongue.
He cracks a smile, stands up real tall, and shows off the broadest pair of shoulders I’ve ever seen on a nerd.
“Just making conversation.” He extends his hand to shake mine, but I don’t return the favor.
“The name’s Nasser.” He pushes his hand into his pocket. “I’m new here, from Miami. Junior class.”
The way he speaks is different but somehow familiar. “Nasser? Is that Arabic or something? Is that why you talk funny?” I don’t even try to be polite.
“Ah, you know your etymology.”
What the heck is that? Some kind of disease? “Come again, bro?”
He laughs, and all of a sudden I feel three levels of stupid. “Word origins, like where names come from. Mine means ‘victorious one.’ What about your name?”
I didn’t hear what he said because I’m staring at his smile the whole time. This dude’s got the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, surrounded by a pair of fluffy lips. Not too big, not too small. And in my head, I’m asking him the dumbest question ever. What kind of toothpaste do you use?
“Have I said something wrong?” Mr. Arm & Hammer knocks me out of my thoughts.
“Huh?”
“Your name? Unless asking is a crime or something.”
My skin turns uncomfortably hot, and I start to wonder if he sees the same face I still see when I look in the mirror. Doesn’t matter how much time has passed. One side is permanently larger than the other. My hand finds its way toward my hair, and I shift it forward to cover what I don’t want him, or anyone else, to notice. I don’t have time for this right now. The bell’s about to ring.
“Beatriz…Beatriz Mendez.”
“Ahhh. Bee-ah-treez.” Nasser pronounces it in a perfect accent. “Derived from the late Roman, meaning ‘voyager’ or ‘traveler.’”
My whole body ignites, and I have no clue why. Then Nasser flashes that white, expensive-toothpaste smile, and it circles its way around his face.
“Yeah, traveler, that’s me.” The bell screams, and my fingers start to tap the air. “And on that note, looks like I need to be traveling to class.”
“I’ll see you around, Bee-ah-treez.” He says something else, but the hallway fills with students and chaos. The noise and the movement and the rhythm of it all swallow
s me, and Nasser’s words, whole.
FAME WANNABES
I DECIDE TO STAY at school for the rest of the day, especially since fire-breathing Brown’s got his mal de ojo on me. Every single class is teaching garbage that I’ll never use when I’m an adult. Polynomials? Dumb. Citizenship? I’m already a citizen.
Somehow I survive until last period. I stop at my locker because I left my schedule there. Had I been coming to school for the past two weeks, I would’ve had it memorized already. I take a look at my last class: mixed gym. In other words, some intensified version of hell…featuring boys and girls from different grade levels…in matching Barringer Blue Bears gym uniforms. Aren’t I so lucky?
I head to the girls’ locker room to get dressed. The second I put on those tight, booty-showing shorts I already know how this is gonna end. With me slipping out when no one is looking.
When I get to the gym, it’s packed with at least forty students. A swarm of butts and balls suffocating in these god-awful shorts. And then there’s Mrs. Howard—way too frumpy, with long, stringy hair and dressed in sweatpants, a hoodie, and heels. Is it me or do all gym teachers look like they’ve never actually been to the gym?
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, for the past couple weeks our theme was volleyball. For the next couple of weeks, we’ll move on to social dancing, so no need for sneakers. Bring your dancing shoes to the next class.”
My heart stops at that word: dancing. There is no way on God’s green earth that I’m gonna dance in gym. Not with my big behind looking like it’s snacking on my shorts. Not when the last time I danced was Friday the thirteenth. Dancing no longer exists in my world. Besides, it ain’t even a sport. Shouldn’t we be playing basketball or something?
I’m sitting on the bleachers, scanning the exit behind Mrs. Howard and planning how I’m gonna leave without this woman seeing me. I promise myself that the second everybody gets up and she turns her back, I’m out.
I tried, Dr. Brown, I really did.
But Mrs. Howard stands there, pushing up her glasses on her nose. Then she turns the page on her clipboard and announces, “I’ll be mixing you up by grade and gender.”