Becoming Beatriz

by Tami Charles

  Some of the students look happy. Some look terrified. I ain’t gonna lie. I’m one of them.

  “Today we shall waltz.” Mrs. Howard gestures for one of the students to press play on the boom box.

  A flute pipes through the speakers, followed by the sounds of violins and sparkles and freaking fairy dust. It’s the most boring music I’ve ever heard in my life. And judging by the looks of some of the students around me, they feel the same way.

  “Ahh, ‘The Blue Danube’ by Strauss.” Mrs. Howard starts talking in a British-sounding accent and does the most awkward by-herself dance.

  And it’s all…just wrong. The feet, the hand positioning, everything. I know I’m out of practice, but I could get up there and do a better job.

  In walks Dr. Brown, making his usual “survey the school” rounds. I know that principals do that every day, but so far this man has poked his head into three of my classes. Straight stalking me, yo!

  The high part of the song squeals. Mrs. Howard and Dr. Brown start to dance together…or should I say try to dance. If this is a waltz, I want no part of it.

  Dr. Brown scans the bleachers, sees me sitting there, and throws me a satisfied “nice to see you in class” smile.

  It doesn’t look like escaping is an option at the moment. Dr. Brown spins Mrs. Howard into a dip, and they do a curtsey and bow as the song ends. The students erupt in applause, even though we all know they both looked ridiculous.

  Mrs. Howard looks at us. “That’s all you have to do, students. Just flow with the music. And try not to step on each other’s toes.”

  I wanna scream so bad: That’s not how Debbie Allen and the kids on Fame do it. There’s more to it than that, lady! But I stay quiet. I’ve already gotten in enough trouble for the day.

  Dr. Brown waves at us and walks out of the gym. ¡Gracias a Dios!

  “First pair up is Queen Shakira Danielle Williams and King Michael Jermaine Ivery.” Mrs. Howard calls out everyone’s first, middle, and last names, throwing in a royal ranking to, I don’t know, make us feel special? A duke here, a duchess there. I get that she’s trying to stay in character and get us all excited, but this woman is plain loca.

  A different classical song starts playing, making me want to fall asleep.

  One by one, I see the students pair up until the bleachers empty out, and it’s just me sitting at the top and some dude with a business jacket over his uniform, way down in the first row. Wait, is that Mr. Arm & Hammer?

  “Princess Beatriz Ayita Mendez”—Mrs. Howard pronounces my middle name all kinds of wrong—“and Prince Nasser Kervin Mo…ree…aw…”

  “Moreau.” Nasser stands, pushes his glasses up, and looks my way. “Derived from the French, meaning ‘the dark one.’”

  Oh, heck no! I’m not being paired up with Señor Sabe’todo.

  Everybody is staring at me and the guy who thinks he knows everything. I let out a sigh that no one but me hears as I drag my feet down the bleachers.

  “Okay, everyone lock hands.”

  Then Mrs. Howard turns up the music, looking like she’s trying to impersonate Debbie Allen. She’s got the neck going, the fingers snapping. But she is waaay too uncoordinated (and white!) for that.

  “Now begin. Feel the music.” She lifts her arms in some horrible attempt at a ballerina pose.

  At first students are laughing, but it doesn’t take them long to at least try. Nasser places both hands on my shoulders, and I stand there, refusing to touch him back.

  “It’ll be fine.” He flashes me a smile. “Come on, at least try. We don’t have to be any good. I mean, look at the teacher.”

  But I don’t move an inch. I vowed to never dance again. I just don’t have it in me. Plus the song is straight boring. Who dances to this stuff?

  Mrs. Howard walks over to us. “Is there a problem here?”

  I’m expecting Mr. Goody Two-shoes to rat me out, but instead he says, “Oh, no, doing just fine. We’re discussing our movements…. Right, Beatriz?” He rolls the r in my name like it’s second nature.

  Mrs. Howard must believe him, because she walks away and doesn’t even look back. Fine by me. She’s got thirty-eight other kids who need her attention anyway.

  “You know, with a name like yours, I bet you have dance in your blood.” Nasser removes his hands from my shoulders.

  “I thought you said Beatriz means ‘traveler’ or something like that.”

  “Give me a second,” he says, running out the gym doors and straight toward the boys’ locker room.

  “Yo, what’re you doing?” I call after him, but he doesn’t hear me.

  So I just stand there, arms folded, foot tapping impatiently, while everyone dances around me looking dumb as hell. A minute later, here comes Señor Sabe’todo, breathing heavy, with a bible-size book clutched to his chest.

  With the music dancing between us, Nasser starts flipping through the pages like mad.

  “I knew it! I knew your middle name was special.” Homeboy is way too excited.

  “And let me guess…Ayita means ‘dance.’”

  Nasser shakes his head and laughs in tune with the violins. “According to my etymology book, the history isn’t entirely clear, but it seems it might mean ‘first to dance.’ It could also be a style of Nigerian dance. Either way, both have to do with dancing. See?”

  I lean into the page to see for myself.

  “Yeah, I used to dance a long time ago, and I was the first in my family to take real dance classes. But it’s not my thing anymore. Plus, I knew that’s what Ayita means anyway.”

  And the award for best liar goes to…

  Nasser places the book on the floor and starts laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” I can hear the cover-up in his voice.

  I cross my arms tighter and give him the stare of death.

  “Well, it’s just that Mrs. Howard is trying real hard to turn this gym dancing experiment into my favorite TV show.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Promise not to laugh?” I swear I see a sparkle in Nasser’s eyes.

  “I won’t. Now spit it out.”

  “Fame.”

  That one word changes my whole spirit. “Yo, that’s my joint too! Debbie Allen plays the heck out of Lydia Grant.” I don’t know why, but my feet lift up on their toes a little.

  Mrs. Howard lowers the music, and the class stops dancing. “Okay, that’s enough for today. The new physical education curriculum added social dancing as a form of exercise. So even though I may not be the best dancer—don’t get me wrong, back in the day I could do a mean Lindy Hop—we’ll just have fun with this. You don’t have to be any good. All you gotta do is show up and move, and you’ll get a passing grade.”

  The students clap in relief. I do too, since this might be the only class I actually pass. Assuming I keep coming, that is.

  The bell rings, and I walk back to the locker room to change out of these uncomfortable shorts. Once I’m done, I start making my way out the school exit, and I see Maricela and Julicza on the sidewalk with at least five other Diablas waiting at their side.

  “Hey, Beatriz, wait up.” Nasser runs after me, and I stop short as the sea of students continues to walk past us.

  “Why don’t you dance anymore?” he asks.

  “Long story,” I spit out fast. Dude is nosier than Abuela.

  “You should think about getting back into it. I dance too, you know.”

  My mind flashes back to Aguadilla. Waves crashing against the sand. Me, seven years old. Junito, ten. Family beach barbecue. Salsa blasting from the radio. And Junito trying to dance…with a boy from the barrio. Papi loses his cool.

  “Boys don’t dance with boys.” The memory of Papi’s voice booms me back into the present.

  “So let
me get this straight. You’re into word origins, you like to watch Fame, and you know how to dance?” This guy can’t be for real.

  “Poetry is my thing too. Oh, and playing the guitar and cooking. But shhh…don’t say any of that out loud.” Nasser leans in closer.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need all these Barringer ladies trying to hunt a brother down.” His wink lights me up. But that only lasts a split second, because I know better.

  “Well, isn’t that what most guys want?” I say, searching his eyes for the tiniest clue that he’s full of mierda.

  Nasser doesn’t flinch one bit. “Al contrario.”

  I swear I feel a slow burn start up right in my chest.

  “The poetry, the books I read, the dancing, I’m doing all of that for personal growth. My parents say every little skill I learn will look good on those college applications next year.”

  College? I can’t even think that far in advance. “I mean, if you like to dance, that’s pretty dope.”

  “Say, there’s this thing…coming up with the N double A—”

  Nasser is cut off when Maricela calls out to me. “Yo, Beatriz, it’s about to rain. Vámonos, nena!”

  She and the rest of the Diablas are already halfway down the block.

  “What were you trying to say? The end of a double what?” I face Nasser again. Those brownish, green-gold eyes pierce right through me.

  “Nothing. Nothing important,” he admits.

  It begins to grow dark and cloudy. A bolt of lightning pierces the sky.

  “Um, I gotta go.”

  “See you later, Beatriz Ayita Mendez.”

  I refuse to smile at this guy. Instead I run to catch up with my girls, and we cross the street toward the cathedral and head up the block to catch the bus.

  Black and brown kids gather in crowds to make their way home before the storm comes. We only got like a handful of white kids at Barringer. We’re mostly black and Hispanic, all with hair and eyes and skin in shades of brown and browner. Ahead, tucked deep into the crowd, I notice something that brings back a memory I pushed down so far and deep, I’d almost forgotten about it until now.

  Yellow shirt. Yellow bandana. Long, blonde dreads.

  I don’t know what comes over me. My feet rush me forward like propellers on a plane. Next thing I know, Julicza, Maricela, and the rest of my crew are following me through the crowd. My tongue moves my blade until it pierces my flesh. I taste blood as a drop trickles down my throat. But I don’t care.

  I’m running fast now, and so is the yellow bandana. Past the supermercado, past Frank’s Pizzeria, the wave of people still huddled around me, and the yellow scarf drifting farther and farther. When the thickness clears out, I see nothing but an empty street.

  The girls stop running, huffing and puffing like they haven’t exercised in years.

  “What was that all about, Beatriz?” Julicza asks.

  “And what’s up with the bloody lip?” Maricela says.

  I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. The number 25 bus pulls up.

  “Nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew.”

  BEATRIZ VS. BEATRIZ

  THERE’S AN ARGUMENT PLAYING out inside my head. Beatriz vs. Beatriz, and I’m not sure who’s gonna come out victorious.

  Me: Was that who I think it was?

  Me: Lots of girls wear dreadlocks. Hello, it’s 1984! It’s a style.

  Also me: Ice-blonde dreads. Yellow bandana. Wake up, girl!

  I’ve spent the past five months half dead, half fighting with myself. Do I open my mouth and tell everybody what really happened in the abandoned lot? And if so, what would DQ do? Start another war? Have me and Mami dodging bullets all over again? And what if he ain’t around this time?

  Get it together, Beatriz.

  Yeah, I’m just trippin’. The papers say the Macoutes are done. So do the streets.

  By the time the 25 rolls up in front of the bodega, the rain is coming down hard. Mami is in her usual spot. Mr. Martin is sitting right next to her, holding an umbrella large enough for both of them.

  Mr. Martin has a notebook in his hand, and he’s reading as Mami searches the sky for the sun. I stop and listen.

  There comes a time when tears turn to dust,

  rising like ashes, hot and dry.

  And so she’ll wait, hope and pray,

  for smiles, laughter, and songs of yesterday.

  When he finishes, Mami looks at me and smiles. For a moment I feel the good memories of long ago. When it was the three of us, braving it together when we first got here from Puerto Rico. I stand there, not knowing how to process what I’m feeling. All I know is there’s something in my eyes causing them to fill with water, and it’s not the rain.

  Mr. Martin rips a sheet of paper from his notebook and says, “Here’s another one to read…when you need it.” Mami slips it in the pocket of her bata, like it’s one of those expensive wooden saints from Puerto Rico. Then Mr. Martin hands her the umbrella.

  She’s still staring at me like something in that poem made her wake up. Mr. Martin, not caring about the rain coming down so thick, starts walking away. Like he always does whenever I turn up.

  “Mr. Martin!” I run after him, rain pounding against my face. “Who wrote that?”

  “I did.” He turns around and looks me square in the eye. That dark skin, the space around his mouth, creased with streaks of mean. That’s the man I knew from the way his daughter explained it to me when we were friends. Not this poetry-writing, Langston Hughes wannabe. Something is up.

  “I don’t get why you keep comin’ around here. I did what I did almost a year ago. If you’re trying to rat me out to my mom, now’s not the time.” I can’t help telling him off.

  “Funny how you say that so cool and calm. What you did was order your little punk-ass friends to jump my nephew, but your mom don’t know nothing ’bout that. And it ain’t my job to tell her. Like you said, she got enough to deal with.”

  “You think you’re helping my mom with your stupid poems and your sky gazing? Well, there ain’t nothing you can do to fix her.” I raise my voice a little.

  “I’m not trying to fix or help her. She got you for that. Shame you don’t see it yet.”

  I stand there, rain soaking through my clothes, trying to think of something else nasty to say, but there’s a tug in my gut. Tells me to simmer down, if only for a moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mr. Martin doesn’t even answer. He just presses forward and turns left, making his way down Grafton Hill to the projects.

  When I get back to the bodega, DQ has already taken Mami upstairs to our apartment.

  Before I can even climb the steps, Abuela appears in the hallway out of nowhere, scaring the living daylights out of me.

  “You can’t just sneak up on people like that!” I say. “¿Qué pasa, Abuela?”

  And like a scene from a horror movie, she leans in all close, and I swear her eyes change color.

  “Dime con quién andas, y te dire quién eres.” She speaks through tightened lips.

  Here we go again with Abuela’s out-of-nowhere warnings. What the hell does she mean, “Tell me who you hang around with, and I’ll tell you what you’re about”? She must be talking about DQ.

  Honestly, she didn’t like him from the second she met him, and the reasons just keep piling up the longer she stays. He has tattoos all over his body. He chews with his mouth open. And the best one of all: es un cobarde.

  She thinks he’s a coward for leaving Junito. For running into the bodega when the bullets flew through the air that day. Doesn’t acknowledge that he got Mami out of harm’s way.

  And as usual I stand there and take it all in. Let the old lady have her say until she tires of talking to my brick exterior. It’s not until she turns her back to me and walks
into the bodega that I head upstairs.

  Mami is already seated on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. DQ lit the candles at the altar, and Mami stares and stares at the glow. Lips moving, probably saying a prayer, but not a sound escapes. I wonder if she’s reciting Mr. Martin’s poem.

  “What’s your take on this guy sitting outside the bodega with Mami like that? Reading her poetry too?” I ask DQ.

  “At first I had a problem with him hanging with her. Like homeboy is pretty weird, you know? But then I figured maybe he’s lonely. His daughter bounced off to some boarding school. His nephew went away too. You took care of that.” DQ laughs and holds up his hand for a high five.

  I’m not so sure I’m proud of that anymore, but I slap his hand anyway.

  “But seriously, I see the way your mom is when he’s with her. It’s like she mourns a little less. Maybe it’s good for her.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I agree.

  I grab DQ’s hand to walk him to the kitchen so Mami won’t hear. “We’re good, right? I mean that argument over Juan…”

  “I get that you ain’t been around in a while, but there’s no negotiating when it comes to mistakes. Every move deserves a strategy. That’s where Junito messed up.”

  Pain sharpens in the space between my eyes. DQ’s hand is on my shoulder, heavy as lead, with no sign of warmth or cold running through his fingertips.

  He keeps talking. “Listen, I gotta do what I gotta do to keep this operation tight, even if it means reminding people who’s in charge. We’re finally in a good place. The cops ain’t sniffing ’round no more. And now that all this time has passed by, it’s time to up our game on the streets and behind bars.”

  That last part stings a little.

  “What are you gonna do, DQ?” I cross my arms, dig my nails into my damp skin.

  “Something I’ve been waiting to do for a long time.” DQ smirks.

  I hang on to DQ’s every word, images forming in my mind. The heat of that dude’s breath, the shivering effect of his words—new pop blay—and that bow. Deep, dramatic, knees bent in perfect form. And the ice-blonde dreads.