by Tami Charles
I could stay like this forever, dancing to the music, smiling like I’ve never smiled before, tasting the air of dreams and possibility trapped in that room. But just like that, the final move takes it all away. The music cuts, and the judges at the table clap and hand the choreographer a sheet of paper.
“We would like the following dancers to stay: numbers 306, 320, and 312.”
Three dancers step forward. Poised. Experienced. Older. Not me.
I refuse to breathe. If I do, I’m sure I’ll shatter into tiny pieces right there on the stage.
We are rushed out of the auditorium after that. No second chances. Just a thank-you and a good-bye. Hope floats itself right out of me. But I don’t want it to leave. I want to run back in there and feel the music again and again until they really do remember my name!
“Hey, now.” Nasser grabs both of my elbows and pulls me in to his chest. Even his sweat smells good. “Chin up. You were amazing.”
“And so were you,” I say in a half whisper.
“That’s show business, you know. You win some, you lose some. But at least you’re back in the game.”
We pull our warm clothes over our dance clothes, put our jackets on, and prepare to brave the cold streets of New York City to head back to Penn Station.
“You did a good job back there.” A dancer stops us before we leave. “I’m Alejandra. What’s your name?”
As soon as we introduce ourselves, I recognize Alejandra.
“You were picked from the group before ours, weren’t you?” My eyes light up.
“Well, for the next round, but who knows what’ll happen after that. They might make us do a style of dance I’m not so good at, like tap. The last three times I auditioned for Fame, I didn’t get called. Maybe fourth time’s the charm?” She winks at me.
The reality sets in that I got a long road ahead if I’m gonna keep following this dance dream. I just don’t know how long I can keep all this under wraps.
“I hope you guys don’t give up,” Alejandra says.
“She won’t,” Nasser says.
“She? What about you?” Alejandra asks.
“I’m more of a ‘jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none’ kind of guy. I dabble in a few different forms of art. But Beatriz has dance flowing through her veins.”
“Yes, I saw that. Where do you study?”
“Well, I took a few classes in South Orange when I was younger, but then I stopped.” I hesitate. “Because things got busy…with school.” And being in a gang.
“But she’s back at it now. She’s studying with me at the Newark Community School of the Arts.” Nasser throws that in.
“You guys are from Newark? That’s dope. Me too!” We all slap high five.
“When I was in high school, there was this contest I did, and it had all these different categories. One of them was dance. I even won the gold medal for it. You ever heard of ACT-SO?”
Ding! Ding! Ding! There’s those familiar letters again!
Nasser loses his cool and throws his arms up. “Yes! That’s what we can do next. Remember I told you about this a while back, Beatriz? I can enter the poetry category, and Señorita Amaro can choreograph something amazing for you. You might have to switch your days though, for private lessons.”
Alejandra points at us and says, “Definitely do it. It’s a good line on college applications. Plus, if you win the local contest, you get to go to nationals. And that’s like nothing I’d ever experienced. I’m telling you, folks like Magic Johnson from the Lakers were there, and I met Sheila E. This was a few years ago, before she made it big. Doing ACT-SO will get you ready for more auditions like this too. Think about it.”
“Yeah, I definitely will.” I sigh out a mix of worry, pride, fear, and hope all over again.
When they didn’t call my name for the next round of Fame auditions, I started to tell myself that this is it, back to my normal life as a Diabla. But it’s looking like this dance dream won’t die out just yet.
SUSPICIONS
CAREFULLY, I CLOSE THE front hallway door behind me before heading upstairs to our apartment.
“Where you been?” The darkness covers us both, but I can make out DQ’s voice from anywhere.
“Yo, don’t sneak up on me like that.” The pace of my heartbeat dances a fast eight count.
The floor beneath his feet creaks as he walks closer. Outside, the street lamp flickers, flashing a piece of light right on the side of his face.
“You miss a couple meetings ’cause you got stuff going on here that needs taking care of. I can live with that. Earlier, tú me dijiste que estabas enferma.” DQ raises his fingers and does air quotes. “But you looking pretty healthy to me, creeping in late, coming from…where are you coming from, princesa?”
Most of the time, the big-brother act is cute. Amusing. Welcome. But not today.
“Took a walk. Needed to clear my head.” I fix my best no-estoy-mintiendo expression on my face and fumble with the keys to open the mailbox.
But I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“Must’ve been a loooong walk.” DQ takes one hand and sticks it in his coat pocket.
I stop breathing for a second, maybe ten. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My lips quiver out the words. “I’ll be at the next meeting. Promise.”
DQ strokes his goatee with one hand, his other still tucked in his pocket.
“I hope you mean it, ’cause we got some big scores coming in. Y ¡mira! If you don’t want in, I can think of someone who will.”
DQ reaches out and grabs me by the elbow. Not rough, but not gentle either.
“Is there something going on that you ain’t telling me?”
“Nothing’s going on. It’s all good.” The lie comes out easy as I yank my arm away.
“Cool.” He nods. “Tell your abuela that she should be more careful about leaving the door unlocked.”
DQ slams the door and leaves me standing in the hallway. Alone.
After taking a shower and rifling through my bag and a pile of school stuff, I find what I’m looking for. I sit on the floor next to Junito’s altar, staring long and hard at the ACT-SO form. Am I really gonna do this?
And on the inside, a tiny voice whispers back, Of course you are.
* * *
THE ART OF HIDING
HIDING IS AN ART FORM in itself. To be good at it, you almost have to find the perfect balance between making yourself visible and invisible at the same time. For the next few weeks, that’s exactly what I do.
Slip into school and make myself seen by Mr. Hankerson, Mrs. Ruiz, and especially Dr. Brown. Study in the late-night hours when the world is sleeping. (I’m actually starting to like it too!) Distribute the product like a chameleon. Hide from Nasser at school, which, given how big Barringer is, ain’t a problem. Finish that ACT-SO application, slap a stamp on the envelope, stick it in the mail. Go to meetings, now at DQ’s spot, since the basement is “under construction.” Show up to dance classes…late. Retreat to the storage room when Mami and Abuela are asleep and practice everything I learn from Señorita Amaro. Leave everything I’m hiding right there on the floor. Let my feet, my arms, and my hands do the talking and the dreaming.
But all good things come to an end. Even hiding. The phone rings at five after nine, just after Fame ends, after I get Mami to bed.
“I’m sorry, Beatriz. Is it too late to call you?” It’s Nasser.
“Well, you know a girl does need her beauty sleep,” I say.
“What’d you think of tonight’s episode?” he asks.
“Dr. Scorpio was on an ego trip. Did you see those alien costumes?”
We both start laughing at that.
“Say, Thanksgiving is coming up.”
Talk about changing the subject. I don’t need the reminder. It’ll be our first Thanksgiving
without Junito. There were other holidays before this one, obviously, but this will hit hard. Thanksgiving was always a big deal in our house.
“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it,” I lie.
“You should come to my house for dinner,” he says. “You can bring your family.”
So they can freak out when they find out that I’ve made nice-nice with someone from the same culture as the person who killed Junito?
“I don’t know about that.” Even the thought of all of this might be too much for me.
“Just think about it. I want you to meet my family.”
I pause for a while, not responding.
“Beatriz?”
“Yeah?”
“When are you going to let me in?”
“Into what? What are you talking about?”
“I want to get to know you…. Like, the real you. We’ve been dancing together for a while now, and when we do it’s like you’re releasing all this pent-up emotion, except I don’t know what those feelings are. You tell me we can’t talk at school. I don’t know your friends, and they don’t know me beyond calling me nerd boy when they see me in the halls. But when we’re alone, it’s a different story.” He finishes his long speech and the line goes quiet.
Everything he is saying is true. I haven’t told my girls anything about Nasser past that one time they saw him trying to step to me at my locker. And with the way DQ is acting these days, telling him is out of the question.
“I can hear you breathing, Beatriz. I want to get to know you better. What are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing,” I say. Everything. I’m hiding everything.
“If you change your mind, I’m at 823B South Sixteenth Street. Six o’clock, Haitian time.”
I laugh at that one. “I’m pretty sure Puerto Rican time is the same thing. So if I come, I’ll see you at seven thirty.” Nasser laughs too. “Whatever you decide, I hope you have a good Thanksgiving, Beatriz Ayita Mendez.”
The hope in his voice remains in my ear long after he hangs up.
AN UNLIKELY THANKSGIVING
ABUELA AND I GIVE Ms. Geraldine and her daughters Thanksgiving off. They’ll join us later for dinner, since the rest of their family is back in the Philippines. Abuela and I open up the bodega only until five. Even DQ is in the holiday spirit. He tells the Diablos they can take a couple of days off to spend time with family. No standing outside hugging brick walls. No drug deals. No Friday meeting. Just quality time with the ones they love.
We barely get any customers in the bodega, but like always, we stay open for those who forgot eggs, bread, or milk.
I woke up at the crack of dawn to get the turkey going in the oven in the bodega and put the pernil in the oven in our apartment. That pork shoulder and turkey will be falling off the bone by the time dinner rolls around. All that’s left to make is rice and beans and tostones.
Mami stays inside the apartment all day now, milk crate planted by Junito’s altar, staring out the window.
Five o’clock comes fast, and we start closing up shop. Abuela sweeps the floors, empties the cash register, and lowers the blinds on the windows. I grab the keys to lock the door. As soon as I turn off the lights and start to walk away, I hear a swishing sound.
“¿Qué es eso?” Abuela stops in her tracks.
Even though the store is dark inside, the flickering streetlights show exactly what was just slid under the door.
A Polaroid picture.
“It’s nothing, Abuela,” I lie. “Vete arriba.”
She leaves for the apartment upstairs, and I race to unlock the door and dash outside. No one is running. All I see are cars driving by and an older couple holding hands at the bus stop.
I go back inside, lift the picture off the floor, and damn near drop it when I see the image staring back at me. It’s Mami, sitting outside—milk crate pressed against the brick wall, face pointed to the sky. She has no clue that someone is taking a picture of her. And what’s even more strange is that there’s another message written in Creole: “Kisa ou genyen deja.”
The last picture of me and Nasser had “Kisa ou vle” written on it, meaning “what you want.” I’ve memorized that phrase by now. Kisa and ou are the same. So this is “what you something.” And it’s all too much.
Not to mention the words the dude whispered to me all those months ago: new pop blay. I need to ask Nasser what those words mean. But how, without telling him where I heard them? Now this photo has Mami in it. What does this all mean?
I had stopped worrying about all this, but something about this picture rattles me to my core. I close up the store again, head upstairs, slip the picture in my coat pocket, and don’t say a word to Mami or Abuela.
Ms. Geraldine, Liezel, and Ninita, arrive for dinner right on time. They bring a pot of pancit, a Filipino noodle dish, to add to our holiday meal.
When six o’clock rolls around, the bell rings. I’m not expecting anyone else, but I shiver at the thought that whoever slipped that Polaroid under the door might be back. Maybe this time for something more face-to-face.
“Who is it?” I ask through the buzzer.
“It’s Daniel Martin…. I just want to drop something off for your mother and wish her a happy Thanksgiving before I travel tomorrow.”
Abuela mouths, “¿Es el poeta?”
“Yup, it’s that wanna-be Langston Hughes.” My words come out annoyed.
“¿Quién?” Abuela’s confused as all get-out. But then her eyes brighten and she squeals, “¡Invítalo!”
“Come on up, Mr. Martin.” I press the buzzer to let him in.
She rushes to open the door and stands in the hallway, waiting for Mr. Martin like a little kid waiting for Santa Claus. I stare at her, thinking of her backcountry mindset, of “mejora la raza.” How that’s had me confused all these years.
In true Abuela fashion, she whips her neck at me, probably reading my mind.
“¿Qué? I didn’t say anything.”
“No estoy ciega, Beatriz. But you know what is blind? El amor y la amistad. Even an old lady like me can see that now.”
Mr. Martin heavy-foots his way to the top of the steps, and Abuela greets him with a big hug and a thousand “mi amigo lindo” kisses.
Mami’s face lights up as soon as Abuela leads Mr. Martin inside the apartment.
Abuela speaks in her best English: “Mirta, she waiting for you every day!”
“Sorry I haven’t been coming as much. I’ve been doing a lot of overtime hours at work.” The whole time, Mr. Martin’s bending over and hugging and greeting Mami, Ms. Geraldine, and her daughters, and it’s like I’m not even here.
“Would you like to eat with us?” I ask.
Abuela doesn’t even give the man a chance to say no. It’s a funny sight, seeing her little self yank Mr. Martin into a seat at the table. Next thing I know, we’re taking turns saying prayers in English, Spanish, and Tagalog, and passing around our plates.
Nobody says much, and I’m not sure if it’s because this is completely awkward or if it’s that the food is just that dope. So I decide to break the silence.
“Where’s your family for the holiday?”
Mr. Martin’s black eyes pierce right through me. I already know where TJ is. San Francisco, where Junito should be.
“Pop is out like a light. Ate his dinner early.”
“And your daughter?” I still can’t bring myself to say her name, especially after what went down between us last year.
“Vanessa’s at a chorus competition in Florida. I’m flying out tomorrow after work to see her compete.” He looks at me straight on.
“Wow, she’s really doing her thing, huh?” I’m not really that shocked.
“Yeah, straight A’s, still singing, doing great.”
All of that cuts me…deep. She did exactly what she said sh
e was gonna do. Follow her dream. Do something with her life. I made those same promises to myself. But at some point, I just…gave up.
When we’re done with the food, Abuela starts washing the dishes and putting them away. Ms. Geraldine and her daughters head back home.
Mr. Martin and Mami are seated on the couch. He hands her a journal, covered in pressed flowers.
“What’s in that book?” I ask as Mami turns to the first page.
“A poem written by my daughter, with some blank pages for Mirta to fill in, if she wants. Just a little something to get her through. Vanessa wanted her to have it.” Mr. Martin looks up at me.
I lean over and take a peek, but Mami speed-reads and turns the page before I can finish. That fires me up something good, but I refuse to show it. I’ll just look at it later when Mami goes to bed and Mr. Martin is long gone. Of course Vanessa would do something nice like write my mother a poem, even after what I did. Once upon a time, Mami loved Vanessa like a second daughter—made dinner for her, gave her pads when she got her first period, helped her with her Spanish homework. Even after all this time, after the loss of her own son and the silence, I’m certain Mami still cares for Vanessa.
Together, Mr. Martin and Mami look through the blank pages, each one bordered in a different type of flower. With her fingertips, Mami traces the shapes of pointy sunflowers, purple bell flowers, and rounded wishmaker flowers with their petals floating down to the end of the page. She does this for a while, silent and hypnotized, until she falls asleep with a smile planted on her face, journal pressed to her chest.
Mr. Martin stands up and starts to put on his jacket. “Well, I better be headed off to work.”
Abuela yawns and thanks him for stopping by.
It’s still early for me. I don’t want to go to bed. Plus, I got something I need to take care of and it can’t wait. “Mr. Martin, think you can give me a lift?”