Becoming Beatriz

by Tami Charles

  I sneakily pull out the newspaper article. As soon as she sees it, she starts to clap. She wants to talk—I can feel it—but her body says all the words that are important. She wants me to give it a try. Give myself another chance.

  “¿Crees que debería ir?” I ask her.

  More nods, more claps. This is the Mami I miss. If only I could hear her voice once more.

  Out of nowhere, I see Rico, one of our Clinton Ave runners, round the corner of Grafton. Feet flying, huffing and puffing until he reaches DQ at the table. He bends over and whispers something in DQ’s ear that ends the game immediately. DQ bolts up, darn near knocking the table to the ground.

  “Yo, 911, gotta make a call,” he announces.

  I spring up off the milk crate, tucking the article in the pocket of Mami’s bata. She rises slowly and flings open the bodega door.

  “What’s the emergency?” I ask, walking over to him.

  “Not sure yet. I’m gonna use the pay phone and see what’s up.”

  It turns out that someone is going around asking one too many questions. DQ tells Rico to get the word out to everyone in the crew. Missing today’s meeting is not an option. Five o’clock. Don’t be late. We got some nosy cats sniffing around a bit too much, and this needs to be taken care of.

  But first, he’s gotta make a run.

  “I’ll go with you,” I insist.

  “Maybe you should hang here.”

  “You’re the one who said I need to be a little more Diabla and a lot less princesa, remember? Take me with you.”

  DQ pulls the toothpick from his lips, nods his head, and says, “That’s what’s up. Be back in a minute.” He runs down the hill to get his car.

  I head inside to grab the essentials—sneakers, Vaseline, my heavy three-finger ring. If it’s gonna be a brawl, I’ll be ready. Abuela catches me just as I’m geared up and about to go back outside.

  She grabs my cheeks and pulls my face to her lips for a big smooch. “Princesa, mi amor. ¿Vas a bailar de nuevo?”

  Mami must have shown Abuela the article. Dios mio. A pain stabs right through me. I have bigger problems right now.

  “I’m not sure, Abuela. I’ll try my best.”

  Abuela squeezes my arms like she’s trying to shake some good sense into me. “Ahora escúchame bien. Today, Mirta’s happy. You should dance for youself, pero hazlo por ella también.”

  Truth is, this is something I want to do…but I made a promise.

  “Sí, Abuela, I’ll go.” I tell her and myself, and this time it doesn’t feel like a complete lie.

  DQ drives me, Fredito, and Paco down to the South Ward. Bass thumping, Run-D.M.C. blasting. I’m in the back seat, the pace of my heart in rhythm with the beat, my palms growing clammy. I glance over and look at Paco. He spits in a washcloth, pulls a Glock from his boot, and starts shining it like it’s a pair of penny loafers.

  “Junito never showed you this side of Diablo life.” Paco’s top lip rises while the rest of his face remains still.

  DQ lowers the music a bit. “Oh, don’t you worry. Beatriz is all in now, right? We might as well start calling her Junita.” I notice DQ’s eyes squinted at me through the rearview mirror.

  “All in.” I give him a hard stare back. “Pa’ siempre.”

  We pull up to the alley behind RL Liquors, and the second we see Miguel it’s pretty obvious what happened. He was approached by someone asking questions. Judging by the chichón bulging above his eye, I’m guessing that person didn’t like what Miguel had to say. Still, he honored the code. No talking about connects, even if it leads to getting a beatdown.

  “Yo, DQ, I ain’t said a word.” Miguel is trying to look as tough as possible. But that’s hard to do when you got a mountain growing on your face. I know all about it.

  “What’d they wanna know?” Fredo’s in Miguel’s face now.

  “Who’s running the Diablos, you?” Miguel’s breathing speeds up.

  “What did they look like?” DQ asks.

  “Some kind of accent, maybe Jamaican. Brown skin. She was a little darker than you, Beatriz.”

  “She? Wait, it was some chick?” DQ folds over and laughs.

  Miguel won’t even look at us.

  Then Paco adds in more fire. “Yo, you let a girl house you?”

  “It wasn’t like that at first! She was all batting her eyelashes and junk. She caught me off guard and then drove off.” Miguel is falling all over himself to explain.

  “What kind of car?” I ask.

  My pulse starts to skip before he answers.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a Pontiac or Trans Am,” Miguel says.

  Terror rises up in me. Maybe in DQ too, ’cause the way he’s looking at me says so. He was there that day. For the first part of the drive-by.

  Say something, Beatriz. Tell him what happened in the empty lot. The threat that guy said. The chick with the dreads. The words do a slow crawl up my throat, morph into an image of homeboy sending somebody to come back to carry out his promise. That right there kills all the words I planned to say.

  DQ arranges for Miguel to lay low somewhere for the next couple of days. Even if it was a girl, he says he can’t be too sure that she’s not working for someone else. In the meantime, he doubles up our runners on each corner, and we speed back to Broadway to hold our meeting.

  Everyone shows up on time, many of them dressed in costumes for the Barringer Halloween dance.

  “I can’t believe you’re not going,” Julicza says to me as she walks to an empty seat.

  I don’t respond. I’m too busy looking at the clock, and each move of the second hand hits me with too many thoughts. Like how I should keep my behind home and do what I do best: protect my family. But also how bad I want to go. Hop the bus downtown, walk through the doors of the dance studio, breathe in the rhythms and dreams I’ve almost forgotten about. Breathe out the fear, the emptiness, the hope for something I might never have again.

  Everyone drops their cash on the table. No leftovers, no shortages. Even Juan is on point today. The money piles higher and higher in perfect neat stacks.

  Everyone is talking over each other as they sit down. DQ bangs the mallet against the table to get the meeting started.

  “It appears we may have some people out there asking about the Diablos again,” he begins.

  “Five-o?” Julicza calls out.

  “Maybe undercover, maybe not.” That revelation starts a low rumble.

  DQ says one thing is clear: we gotta start running a tighter operation. It’s time to do away with wearing full colors, at least for now. Only one red item of clothing is allowed. Nothing more. And we gotta be more careful with delivering product to our customers. Be more discreet. Not out in the open. Stick to alleyways and abandoned buildings. Even better, anywhere behind closed doors.

  “And in the meantime, I think I’ll have some of the crew in lockup teach the Macoutes a lesson about what happens when you try to step to the Diablos.” DQ looks straight at me, his words singing like a poem in my head. But a tiny voice whispers back: Is that really what you want?

  Ricky Gonzalez, runner from the Central Ward, calls out, “And if they come after our territory again?”

  DQ runs his fingertips across his thick goatee. “Well, their aim better be immaculate, because this time I won’t miss.”

  Everybody starts snapping after that.

  “I’m gonna call it a wrap for tonight, everyone.” DQ looks at his watch.

  It’s almost five forty-five. Dance class starts in fifteen minutes and it takes twenty-five minutes to get downtown.

  Everyone collects their share from Paco and leaves out the back exit, just as quietly as they entered. DQ is the only one who stays behind. He starts walking around, cleaning up.

  “You know what, DQ, I’m good. I can handle this.” I speed w
alk through the room, collecting used cups and napkins.

  “What’s the hurry all about, princesa? You act like you got a hot date or something.”

  I don’t need a mirror to see the red surfacing on my cheeks. DQ stops cleaning and leans straight into my face.

  “Beatriz Mendez, ¿tienes novio? Don’t make me have to give somebody a beatdown.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.” It’s the truth.

  For a second I consider telling him about the dance class. That I have a chance to audition for Fame, but first I need to practice a little. Actually a lot. But what if DQ thinks that wanting to dance makes me look weak? Especially with everything going on right now? What if he thinks I’m losing my focus? And that’s technically not the truth. My job is to take care of Mami and keep my promise to Junito. Everything else—dancing and novios—isn’t as important.

  “I was thinking about something you said during the meeting,” I say.

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?” DQ throws a few plastic cups in the garbage.

  “I’m not sure about the hit. At least not now. Can we wait a little longer?”

  Paco peeks his bearded face through the back door, looks at DQ and points his nose up. “Let’s roll,” he says.

  DQ smiles and immediately stops playing housekeeper. “We’ll talk about that later. I gotta run.”

  “Oh, why the rush, DQ? Got a hot pre-birthday date?” Now I’m up in his business.

  “Something like that, but hey, I’m turning nineteen this weekend. So I’m a grown man. You, Beatriz, have a long time to go before you’re allowed to date. I’ll let you when you turn thirty.”

  “Oh, let me, huh?” Sometimes the pain of missing my brother hurts so bad, but it’s still nice to have DQ around.

  “Stay safe, Beatriz.”

  “Happy early birthday, DQ.”

  And then he slips through the door.

  I wait a good five minutes, though the passing of each second causes my anxiety to go through the roof. When I think I’ve given DQ and everyone else enough time to be gone, I stuff a big wad of cash in my pocket. The second I do, I’m having a Beatriz versus Beatriz argument in my head.

  Me: What are you bringing money to the dance school for, Beatriz?

  Also me: Ain’t no fighting it. You know exactly why.

  I gather up what I remember I’ll need for class: a small towel, bottle of water, and my old dance shoes. As for the blade in my cheek? Yeah, that’s gotta go. I slide it in its holder and place it in my jacket pocket. Then I head outside and make my way toward the bus stop. Broadway is alive tonight with the excitement and mystery of Halloween. Folks walk around dressed in costumes of all kinds—an angel, two Cabbage Patch Kids, a crew of Ghostbusters, and up ahead, a devil…I think. Red cape, brown bodysuit, red horns, and over the face, a random hockey mask, like in those Jason movies. Looks like somebody didn’t think their costume all the way through. The hockey-devil bumps right into me as we pass each other.

  “Watch it,” the person whispers, not stopping to look me in the eye.

  “No, you watch it!” I whip myself around, but the devil is already gone.

  FIRST TO DANCE

  BY THE TIME THE BUS pulls up and stops around the block from the Newark Community School of the Arts, I’m already more than a half hour late.

  The music hits me before I even get to the door. I feel it vibrating against the sidewalk. For a moment I hesitate and ask myself what the hell I’m doing here.

  Through the glass windows, I see Nasser standing among the rows and rows of dancers, dressed in the type of clothes that make him look like he’s serious about his art. White tank top showing off muscles I didn’t know he had. Black dance pants, loose where they should be and tight where it matters most. And here I am in my baggy sweatshirt, stirrup pants, and red Reeboks. My hair is at least five inches too long, begging to be cut, combed, relaxed—something.

  In the corner, a drummer beats his drum. In the center of the floor, a dance teacher twirls like there’s no tomorrow. Even the tips of her fingers have perfect rhythm. She’s short like me, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she’s moving, like her legs could touch the sky if she tried.

  I can’t go in there. What was I thinking? Just as I get ready to turn and head straight back to the bus stop, Nasser catches sight of me standing outside the glass door. He runs outside.

  “Glad you made it. I was starting to think you weren’t coming. You’re gonna love it. Señorita Amaro is amazing!” He’s got starlight gleaming in his eyes.

  I chew on my bottom lip and try to come up with my best excuse. I’m not prepared. I’ll look wack like that. Everybody else clearly knows what they’re doing.

  “Look, I can’t stay. I got a lot going on back home. I just came to tell you that.”

  Nasser doesn’t care. He just grabs me by the wrist and pulls me inside.

  The teacher sees me and cuts off the music. “Why, hello there…you’re late.”

  Rows and rows of dancers dart their eyes at me, hawking me up and down, probably wondering why I even bothered to come, since class is basically over. No worries, ’cause I’m thinking the same thing.

  “On your feet! Miguelito, from the top!” Señorita Amaro screams.

  The drummer attacks the drum like a fire is burning inside of him.

  “Try and keep up.” She cuts her eyes at me and yells, “A five, six, seven, eight!”

  The class begins the routine. Yeah, the one I would have learned had I showed up on time. They’re kicking and jumping and spinning and soaring through the roof. And there I am, mimicking every other move, wishing I could spin the earth backward. They go left, I go right; they go up, I go down. The awkwardness of how rusty I am hangs in the space between me and Señorita Amaro, and all the while I catch her looking at me—too much.

  She throws her hand in the air, a signal to cut the music. “Good work today, everyone. Same time next week! Class is dismissed.”

  And just like that my whole world crashes. The room empties out, and I’m ready to follow right behind everyone as they exit. But Nasser won’t hear of it. He makes me stand right alongside him.

  He waits for the teacher to come over. “This is the girl I was telling you about, Señorita Amaro.”

  I stand there, begging my body not to burst out into a cold sweat.

  “Nasser tells me you dance. That it’s in your blood—in your name, even,” she says.

  “I used to dance…. I took classes for a while at Maria Priadka’s…. And my mom taught me the dances of Puerto Rico. Almost competed in a pageant once…but it didn’t work out.”

  Every word is dressed in fear. I want to escape. I want to stay. I want to run. I want to feel that music again and get it right this time.

  “Well, that’s too bad. I think the pageant world could use some spicing up with a good dancer. So you like competitions, huh?” She takes a sip from her bottle of water.

  “I haven’t danced in a long time.”

  “What happened?”

  I hesitate before speaking. “One day I just lost the music is all.”

  “Well, we just have to help you find it again. Miguelito!” Señorita Amaro sticks her thumb and index finger in her mouth and whistles loudly. “¡Música, por favor!”

  Next thing I know, the drummer starts to play a beat, a different one this time. Slow at first, then climbing and climbing to a pace that my heart can barely keep up with.

  “You feel that? That’s the rhythm of Africa. Spain wasn’t your motherland. Africa was.” She points to Nasser. “And yours.” She points to me. “And mine. It’s where we come from. We are no different, you and I. Haiti, Puerto Rico, Cuba…one people connected to Africa, our motherland.”

  Haiti? Nasser is from Haiti?

  I don’t have time to ask because Miguelito is pounding the timbales no
w. I feel a tingle in my toes. It begs the rest of my body to move, but I fight the urge. I don’t want to be here. I tell myself that over and over again. This is not where I belong. But then that beat sinks in so deep, I forget I have knees. By this point, Nasser is flailing his arms and kicking his feet. And it looks like he is kicking away whatever pain he’s got locked up inside him too. My back arches, my hands take flight, and it’s like I’m flying through the roof.

  The rhythm quickens. Lion. Tiger. I am a hunter searching for its next meal. All three of us are moving, releasing, connecting to the rhythm that bleeds from Miguelito’s fingers to the skin of the timbales. Nasser clasps his hands into mine, and Señorita Amaro takes a step back. Together we soar. My hands lock in his, like everything and nothing at the same time. He spins me round the globe, and my legs flick straight and back with precision.

  When Miguelito taps out a final pam pam, my body goes limp, and I collapse to the floor.

  Señorita Amaro claps wildly. “Now that’s what I’m talking ’bout!”

  But Nasser is scared out of his mind. “Beatriz, are you okay? Say something.” His hands graze my sweaty face.

  “She’s fine, Nasser. I know exactly what she’s feeling. When you’re a true dancer here in the corazón”—she points to her heart—“you can’t escape it. And when you ignore that desire, that passion, even for a day, it can exhaust you once you finally revisit it.”

  Nasser helps me stand on my two feet. Señorita Amaro walks to the far end of the studio to chat with some of the other staff members. We’re putting our regular shoes on when she walks back over to us.

  “You two make a nice couple,” Señorita Amaro says.

  Nasser and I look at each other and smile weakly.

  “He’s not my—”

  Señorita Amaro cuts me off. “Well, I don’t mean in that way! I mean the dancing. The chemistry. I saw a fire in both of you tonight. Now Beatriz, you need some more work, though, on your feet and hand positioning, especially if you’re auditioning for Fame.”

  “I know.” I chew on my bottom lip.

  “Of course, we can get you some proper training. Two weeks isn’t enough time, but we can at least straighten out your lines, work on your form in time for the big day.”