Becoming Beatriz

by Tami Charles

  “Do you know anything about Nasser Moreau?” Like, is he a gangsta dressed in a dork disguise?

  “Ah, very smart kid. Stays to himself and out of trouble, which”—Mr. Hankerson darts his eyes to Julicza in the hall—“I find refreshing.”

  I don’t know why, but something about hearing Mr. Hankerson say that brings up memories of our night together at dance class and on the ride home. The tension in my neck loosens up.

  “Is he on the tutor list?” I ask.

  “No, and even though I think you two would be a good study match…”

  That ain’t all he’d be good for.

  “I’m going to require that you be paired with Amy. She is in my AP class. Nasser just enrolled in my honors class and is a year behind Amy. Tutoring will take place after school in the library. Amy will be there with the other volunteers. I had her matched up with a sophomore, but I think you’ll be a better pairing. I’ll have to make a note of the switch. Anyway, sessions begin tomorrow after school in the library.” Mr. Hankerson hands me a schedule.

  As soon as it hits my hands, my eyes stank-roll on their own.

  “Ms. Mendez, this is not up for debate. I can’t pass you at this rate. And judging from your grades, none of your other teachers can either. Aren’t you a native Spanish speaker?” Mr. Hankerson asks.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Then there’s no reason why you should be failing that too. Listen, I can tell that you’re a smart young lady. But unless you do something soon, I can’t see you passing. And then you would have to attend summer school.”

  Part of me wants to tell off this dude with his funky-behind breath. I’m not trying to be stuck in no hot school in the summer. I don’t care how good sales are up in here. So I just nod my head and reluctantly promise that I’ll show up to tutoring.

  The late bell rings. Maricela and Julicza stick their heads in the door, and Julicza starts making stupid dragon-roar sounds.

  “I’ll write you a late pass for your next class, but not for your friends.” Mr. Hankerson darts his eyes at my girls. “You might want to be careful of the company you keep, particularly Ms. Feliciano.”

  Julicza and Mr. Hankerson have had this hate-hate relationship brewing since the first day of school.

  I thank Mr. Hankerson for the pass and join my girls in the hallway. As soon as we start walking, I see Nasser and some other dude going the opposite way. Two peas in a pod. Dressed like teachers, walking like they got steel rods rammed up their backs. At least he finally found a friend. I don’t hear their full conversation, but I can tell they’re discussing something that sounds intelligent. And in that moment all I see is our differences—my inner darkness to his outer light, my yin to his yang. His one lonely dork friend to my gang. We’ll never be alike.

  Nasser catches sight of me and says hi, but I refuse to look at him or speak.

  “I think dork boy has a thing for you,” Maricela says.

  “Sure does,” Julicza chimes in.

  We get to home economics just as the teacher, Mrs. Ross, is yelling at folks to pull out their notebooks.

  I stop the girls at the door before going in. “Look, I was thinking we should cancel the meeting on Friday,” I announce.

  Julicza twists her face. “Um, what you mean by we? We are not in charge, nena.”

  “It’s just that I got a lot going on Friday. Inventory for the bodega…” I think of some more lies. “And repairs in the basement. Can’t have the meeting down there.”

  Maricela shrugs and says, “I’m always down for a day off.” She walks into class.

  Meanwhile, Julicza stands with her arms locked in a who-do-you-think-you-are position.

  “You already know DQ ain’t canceling. He’ll just move the location. Business stops for no one. What’s up with you?” she asks.

  “Nothing.” I head in to home ec, keeping my thoughts and my business trapped between my lips.

  FIGURING IT OUT

  AFTER SCHOOL, WHEN I get to the bodega, Mami sees me, rushes my way, and hugs me like she hasn’t seen me in years. I let her hold me tight, wait for her to speak, mumble, whisper. I’ll take anything. I get nothing but a blank stare and a gust of cold air biting at my cheeks.

  “Mami, you’re gonna have to cut back on sitting outside all day.”

  She nods slowly, jawbone clenched beneath her skin.

  “I danced my heart out last week at that class, Mami. I haven’t felt that alive in so long.”

  She presses her hands together, like a prayer. She’s asking me to dance.

  “Right here? In the street?”

  More nods, slight smile. I look around to make sure no one is looking. Broadway is one big hustle, with moving cars and feet up and down the street. No one is paying attention to me, so I give it a try.

  Hands up, shoulders back, back straight, neck tilted, feet in third position, just like Señorita Amaro does it. I tap out the rhythms drifting up and down my ’hood. Two steps left, cha cha, hands clap as the traffic light flashes green-yellow-red, one, two, three. Knees bent in demi-plié, swaying lightly like the wind bending branches. My invisible partner rocks me forward, leans me into an imaginary dip, and then I take a bow.

  Mami claps uncontrollably, and in that moment I want the whole world around us to disappear.

  “I can’t wait to go back on Friday,” I say as I take a seat on the empty milk crate next to her. That’s when I notice the sun pouring its rays into the center of Mami’s empty eyes.

  “Mr. Martin hasn’t been coming around as much, huh?”

  Slight nod, weak smile. The wind picks up, and Mami tightens the shawl around her shoulders.

  “I have a new friend too. There’s this boy…his name is Nasser. He takes dance class with me.” I look at the ground, searching for what to reveal next.

  The picture I found in my locker? The fact that I might be falling for a Haitian boy? Even though everything about it feels like a betrayal to Junito.

  DQ pulls up in his car with Paco and Fredito just as I’m bringing Mami inside from the cold.

  “Yo, Beatriz, I gotta talk to you,” DQ calls out the window.

  Translation? Meet him in the basement in five.

  I get Mami settled upstairs before heading downstairs and cracking the back door open. DQ and the guys slip in quietly.

  “What up? We can’t stay here long….” I set up my lie. “The repairs aren’t done yet, so it’s not safe.”

  “This room don’t look no different to me.” Fredito adds his two cents though nobody asked him to.

  DQ scans the space and then runs his tongue across his teeth. “I just wanted to let you know it’s handled.”

  “What’s handled?” I ask.

  “No more interrogations. We ain’t had another incident since Miguel. Time is up for the Macoutes and Clemenceau ‘Soukie’ Mondesir. Who the hell names their kid that anyway? That’s just asking for a lifetime of ass whoopings!”

  That sends the guys into roaring laughter. My heart becomes dead weight and falls to the floor.

  “You did what?” My voice scares me.

  “Oh, it hasn’t happened yet, but it’s set up. Good things take time, princesa.”

  Hate is marinating inside me. That voice rises up in my head. New pop blay! You talk, we’ll be back!

  Say something, Beatriz! “You can’t go through with it! Call it off!”

  It’s the best I got.

  “¡Cálmate!” DQ is all smiles. “I got this, and I got you.”

  DQ places his hands on my shoulders to make me sit. “Here, look at this new product from our connect in New York. It’s called Sour Diesel. This, plus cocaine, will make us more money than ever before. Pretty dope, right?”

  Paco pulls his jacket off, unzips a pocket, and flips it over. Nickel and dime bags of reefer spill across the table
. I don’t want them here.

  “I thought you would tell me before you ordered a hit, out of respect for Junito,” I say.

  DQ pulls his face in close. “Just like you kept me in the loop when you thought you’d try to cancel this week’s meeting?”

  I lean backward, leaving a space between us. “I wasn’t trying to run things, DQ. I just got a lot going on here.”

  The heat of his breath makes its way toward my skin. “We sell all of this, and it’s gonna be a big payday for you, for me, for all of us. Can’t have nothing stopping our progress. And next time, before you think about changing things, talk to me first.”

  “You’re not my brother.” The words come out like a flame.

  I’m not even sure who I am right now. But I feel like running. Grabbing Mami and Abuela, a suitcase for each of us, and hopping on the next plane back to Aguadilla. Better yet, one of those countries with the fancy words Nasser always talks about. This isn’t what I ever wanted.

  “Listen, you’re gonna have to get with it. This is the life of a Diablo. We sell drugs to survive. Bills get paid off the backs of other people’s addictions. And that’s not our problem.”

  But what if I don’t want to do this anymore? The thought sinks deep in my heart but never makes its way out of my mouth.

  “You still in this, right? Don’t tell me you backing out. ’Cause you and I both know how that turns out.” DQ crosses his arms and stares at me.

  I wanna tell him I’m done. But what are the consequences? When Junito first started the gang, the rules were clear: blood in, blood out. To be a Diablo, you had to get jumped in. I remember mine like it was yesterday. Twelve years old. Right by the train tracks, far away from Mami’s protective eyes. Me versus Junito’s fake girlfriend. Nixida Vigo had me by three years and at least six inches. Kicked my ass something good too. Never laid a hand on my face, though. Junito’s request, of course.

  I survived being jumped in. But what would “blood out” look like if I wanted to leave? I decide right then and there that I can’t tell DQ nothing—not about dancing, not about Nasser, and definitely not about the picture in my locker. At least until I’ve bought some time to figure things out on my own.

  BEATRIZ VS. THE HUMAN TURTLE

  THE SCHOOL LIBRARY IS bustling when I show up for tutoring the next day. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it’s a hangout spot up in here. Each table is filled with students—talking, low-key rapping, doing everything but what they actually came here for. From the looks of it, Mrs. Ruiz and the librarian, Mrs. Arcentales, don’t have an ounce of control.

  “I’m so glad you could make it, Beatriz. You’re doing the right thing.” Mrs. Ruiz flips a page on her clipboard and checks my name off the list.

  “Yeah, well, Mr. Hankerson didn’t really give me a choice,” I admit.

  Sometimes I put on a front, like this whole school thing ain’t for me, but deep down I do want to do better. For me. For Mami too. And maybe making better grades is a start.

  “Sign your name on this sheet. Amy is the girl over there. New student, don’t know much about her, but her grades are off the charts. You’re in good hands.”

  Tucked in the back corner, there’s a brown-skinned girl at a table with half her face buried in a book, sitting alone.

  “Cool. Thanks, Mrs. Ruiz.”

  Amy spots me before I reach the table. All of a sudden she starts pulling at her hair—a short layered bob that touches the tops of her ears. Was she expecting some hot guy to show up?

  “Yo, what’s up? I’m Beatriz.”

  She doesn’t respond. Instead she tugs at her turtleneck and pulls it up until it almost covers her nose, literally transforming herself into a human turtle.

  What’s with this chick? I mean, damn, do I stink? I lower my chin and do a quick pit sniff. After all, I did have gym today. Nope—still fresh.

  “Mr. Hankerson told me I was tutoring some sophomore named Kareem.” She finally speaks, checking her log sheet.

  I fall into the chair across from her.

  “Um, sorry to disappoint you.” I shrug my shoulders.

  Just then, Nasser walks into the library. Earlier, I ran into him on the way to the cafeteria. When I told him I was signed up for tutoring, he got all huffy-puffy about it, bragging how nobody would be a better tutor for me than him and how he’s gonna crash my session. I told that boy to not come looking for me after school—or ever for that matter. His middle name should be Hardheaded instead of Kervin.

  “Well, what do you need help with? We could start with operations and variables,” Amy says.

  I hear her, but then again I don’t. Because Nasser has made his way to a shelf a few feet behind Amy. He pulls out that big-ass etymology book from his backpack and is now staring at me. With those eyes. Dark and light and everything in between. Hypnotizing me when I’m supposed to be getting my study on. Ugh!

  “Did you hear me?” Turtle Girl’s words come out like a grunt.

  Nasser places the book on his head and starts to do a shimmy dance. That’s when I lose it. Laughter spills out, loud and thunderous, blending in with the noise from the other students in the library.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, waving my hand to shoo Nasser away. A thought strikes me: no way this guy is in any way related to the Macoutes. He’s way too pure. And dorky.

  She turns around, but Nasser returns to looking like the model student that he is. Back all straight, ankles crossed, licking his thumb and turning the page of his etymology book. The boy is probably memorizing the definition of some little plant on Mars.

  “Is that your man or something?” Turtle Girl faces me just as Nasser starts dancing again.

  The answer gets stuck in my throat. I finally look more closely at her and notice a star-shaped pattern of freckles beneath her left eye.

  “He’s just some kid.” I ain’t letting this chick up in my business.

  “Wouldn’t think Haitian boys would be your type.” The accusation comes out in a whisper.

  “What’s it to you?” Turtle Girl’s got my attention now, but she’s already rising and collecting her things.

  “Where are you going? You didn’t even teach me anything!”

  “I don’t think this is going to work.” She pulls the furry hood of her coat over her head, turning herself from a turtle to an explorer in the doggone North Pole. Then homegirl marches straight out of the library.

  Mrs. Ruiz calls after her, but she keeps it moving.

  “What was that all about, Beatriz?” Mrs. Ruiz comes running up to me like it’s my fault that weirdo left.

  “Beats me,” I say.

  And here comes Señor Sabe’todo offering up his two cents.

  “That was quite a strange pairing, Mrs. Ruiz. Perhaps I can be of assistance and be a peer tutor for Beatriz?” Nasser sweet-talks the scowl straight off Mrs. Ruiz’s face.

  It’s getting louder by the second in the library. Mrs. Ruiz reminds everyone to keep it down. She looks through her clipboard, her cheeks turning burgundy with the passing of each noisy second.

  “If I’m going to try to improve, I can’t work like this. Can we study somewhere else?” I ask.

  “Fair enough, Nasser. I’ll mark you down as a tutor for Beatriz. Be sure to stop by my office this week and fill out the volunteer paperwork.”

  Nasser gives Mrs. Ruiz a nod as she walks over to a table of rowdy seniors.

  “Yo, what was with that girl? You know her?” I ask Nasser as we leave the library.

  “Nope, but does it even matter? You should’ve been matched with me in the first place. Now let’s get out of here. I know the perfect quiet spot to study.”

  REVELATIONS

  “BALLET IS THE FOUNDATION of every style of dance there is.” Señorita Amaro paces the large, open space with a long pointer in her hand.

  It’s the
same stick she has no problem using to pull our legs forward as we stretch on the barre.

  Rumba music plays from the boom box, a welcome, soothing way to end a busy week. We review each position, starting with our heels kissing in first, all the way to heel-to-toe feet in fifth.

  Then we run through other moves that my legs and feet and arms have almost forgotten from years ago when I used to take classes: pirouettes across the entire floor, turn-turn-turn—Keep your eyes fixed, Beatriz!—arabesque with the front leg bent and the back leg lifted toward the heavens. Point your foot, Beatriz—tendu!

  It is like this for an agonizing thirty minutes of class. A series of reminders of yesterday. A wake-up call of all I have purposely forgotten, given up. Of all I’ve missed that the other dancers, including Nasser, know as easy as breathing.

  Every move involves pain, and every pain feels like I’m one step closer to death. Each muscle pulls and stretches to the point that I feel like I’m turning myself into a human rubber band.

  Señorita Amaro doesn’t pity me one bit.

  “¿Quieres renunciar?” She gets all up in my face as my feet relevé to the tips of my toes, arms reaching for the stars.

  “I’m no quitter!” I let out a panting breath.

  The violins grow louder, faster. And though classical music ain’t really my thing, each note brings back memories of when I heard music in everything, everywhere, everyone.

  “Take two!” Señorita Amaro calls out, and we scurry to our bags to grab water.

  I take a long sip, and the coldness breathes life into every part of me that feels overstretched.

  “I told you she was intense.” Nasser grabs a towel and wipes the dampness off his face.

  “Intense, torture, death. All the same thing,” I say, half laughing, half serious.

  “You’ll get used to it.” A girl interrupts us. “I’m Shakira.” She holds out her hand for me to shake it.

  “Oh, how rude of me! Beatriz, this is Shakira. Shakira, this is my friend from school, Beatriz,” Nasser says.