by Tami Charles
He looks at Abuela, waiting for her to object. “Where to? I’m not sure if your mother and grandmother would want you going out this time of—”
“Abuela, ¿puedo ir a la casa de mi amigo Nasser?”
Of course she gives me the full interrogation: ¿Quién es ese amigo? What kind of name is Nasser? Why haven’t you told me about him before? And who leaves their family on Thanksgiving night?
I tell her everything she wants to hear: that he’s the smartest student at Barringer; that I’m going to be with his family, not just him; that he takes dance class with me; and that he tutors me in math and helps me learn big fancy English words like pulchritude.
That’s enough to satisfy her.
“She said it’s fine, Mr. Martin.”
“That was a lot of Spanish for just ‘it’s fine.’” This dude annoys me to no end.
“If you can’t take me, I can just catch the bus.”
“Buses never run on time on holidays. I left my car parked down the hill on Grafton. Let me grab it, and I’ll meet you back here in ten.” He walks toward the door to leave.
“Thanks, I’ll be right down.”
Mami’s closet is full of beautiful skirts and dresses of all colors, heels and platform wedges sitting on her shoe rack, collecting dust. Her dresser is stacked with lip gloss, blushes, and bottles of flowery perfumes that haven’t touched her skin—or mine—in months. The second I start transforming myself, I’m asking myself why. I smooth some gel on my edges, run a brush through my forest of hair, and tie it up into a ballerina bun. For the first time in a long time, I like the image that’s staring back at me in the mirror.
Mami clutches her flowered journal to her chest as I tuck her into bed. I kiss Abuela good night before she heads into her bedroom.
“Tan bella, princesa.” She rubs her fingertips across my face and I feel the beauty in her touch.
“Nasser’s phone number and address are in my drawer. If anything happens…” I suddenly realize I shouldn’t be going out. That’s it. I’m staying.
“Nada va a pasar, Beatriz. Now go, enjoy.”
“Be home by 10:30,” I promise.
I shut off the lights after she walks away, slide the blade in my cheek, triple lock all the doors, and slip away into the dark.
BETTER LEFT UNKISSED
WEIRDEST. RIDE. EVER.
Mr. Martin and I don’t speak beyond me giving him the address. Luckily the roads are mostly empty, and we get there in no time.
I thank him for the ride, and the car hovers in the middle of the street because he’s refusing to move until he’s seen me go inside.
The first thing I hear when I ring the doorbell at Nasser’s house is music. Soul-stirring, hip-swaying, earth-spinning beats that sound so similar to the sounds of my island, but I don’t understand the lyrics.
The door swings open and it’s a girl, probably about eight or nine years old. As soon as she sees me, she says, “Are you Ayita?”
“Umm, yes, Beatriz Ayita,” I clarify.
Then she screams over the music, “Nasser’s girlfriend is here!”
I stare at her.
Nasser hops down a whole flight of steps, loses his balance, and pushes the poor girl out of the way.
“Hey, you’re here.” He stands tall and adjusts his tie, like he didn’t just almost bust his ass.
“Ooooh, she has on lip gloss and a dress!” the little girl says.
“Don’t mind my little sister, France. Come in.” He deepens his voice and leads me to the second-floor apartment.
The smell of pure heaven hits me hard the second he opens the door. Pork, rice, plantains—the aromas of the Caribbean. His house is packed with people dancing, singing, and eating.
“You have a big family, Nasser.” I get close to his ear so he can hear me over the music.
“Honestly, I don’t know half of these folks. My mom invited every Haitian she’s met from here to Elizabeth since we moved to Newark.”
I hold my breath for a count. Shit. Could there be Macoutes here then? The girl with the ice-blonde dreads? But I don’t have time to worry because Nasser starts introducing me to everyone. There have to be at least forty people in the house. Two Uncle Jeans, three cousins named Esther. By the time we get to the fifth Aunt Marie, I’ve already lost track of who’s who. That doesn’t stop me from greeting them with a hug and a smile.
Nasser’s mom lights up when she sees me. Pulls me in close for a hug and sways back and forth to the rhythm. Then she grabs my face with both of her hands and speaks in Creole.
I look at Nasser for a translation.
“She says she’s heard so much about you, that it’s nice to finally meet you, and she hopes you enjoy the food and kompa music.”
I feel the pink in my cheeks surface. Nasser’s family sure knows how to make a girl feel special. Little France offers to help me make a plate.
I place some fried chunks of pork on my plate.
“This is called griot.” France is having a good time playing teacher. She adds a large spoonful of black rice—diri jon jon—and fried plantains that we call tostones, but Haitians call banan peze. When we get to the end of the line, I see a bowl of something that looks like a salad.
“You like pikliz?” France asks.
“Pickles?” I ask, thinking that is what she’s saying. But it doesn’t look like pickles. It looks more like cabbage.
I grab a few shreds from my plate and take a bite.
“Wait, that’s not what you think it is, Ayita!” France squeals.
Flames shoot up my nose the instant the pikliz hits the back of my throat. I scream with my mouth open so wide, the blade falls out and lands in my hand. I look at France to be sure she didn’t see it. She’s already headed for the kitchen. No one else notices either. Someone shuts off the music and turns on the lights.
“Quick, get her something to drink,” Nasser yells, while a crowd gathers around to stare like I’m possessed. I don’t need a mirror to know that my skin has turned devil red and I’ve grown a sweat mustache. I’m coughing while carefully slipping the blade into my dress pocket. Mrs. Moreau grabs a Bible and starts fanning me with it. France pushes back through the crowd and hands me a cold glass of milk.
The whole room grows silent, waiting to see if I’ll pass out and be labeled the first case of “death by pikliz.”
“Woo-hoo! That was good and spicyyy!” I yell, in spite of my scorched throat.
Everyone starts laughing and clapping.
“Oh yeah, she’s an honorary Haitian now!” Aunt Marie number four calls out.
The music kicks in again, and everyone is back to eating, laughing, and dancing in the darkness. I can’t remember the last time I had lots of family over like this to celebrate. Actually I do remember. April. Fairmount Cemetery. Tearstained faces on cousins, aunts, uncles, Abuela, Mami. No Papi, of course. Don’t even want to think about all that. Not here, while the kompa music pours into me.
Nasser reaches his hands out for mine. Our foreheads press together. I can feel the heat on his skin. His eyes are closed. He extends our arms out together, and leads us against the rhythm. Round and round he spins me, never loses count. He dips me low, and my ballerina bun comes undone and my hair whips against my shoulders.
I transport myself to the audition for Fame. Those lyrics from the song that breathe life into this very moment: I’ll learn how to fly. And those moves that sent me spinning, kicking, soaring. That feeling of wanting the beginning to begin again. On the dance floor, I can empty out everything that is bottled up inside of me—anger, pain, joy. Tonight, right there in the middle of Nasser’s living room, dancing among his smiling aunts, uncles, and cousins, I choose joy.
Next thing I know, Nasser’s family makes a circle around us and cheers us on. I hear Nasser’s dad telling them that we auditioned for “that
famous television show,” and how next we’re going to do a big competition called ACT-SO. Everyone oohs and aahs and smiles in approval.
I lose count of how many styles of music we dance to. All I know is, my feet are pulsing in these heels, I’ve sweated out Mami’s best dress, and it’s already past ten thirty. Nasser leads me to the bathroom before I get ready to go. I wipe the sweat off my face, rinse the blade in the sink, and slide it back in my mouth.
Nasser’s mom won’t take no for an answer when I try to turn down the tray of food that she wants me to bring home to my family.
“Pran li, no!” Mrs. Moreau says.
Nasser nudges me in the ribs. A subtle warning that this will be a battle I’ll lose if I don’t give in quickly. I thank Mrs. Moreau for the food and hospitality. The room is swollen with even more people now. I make my rounds, hugging almost every single person, until I get to the last one, hidden in the darkness. She’s not looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on Nasser. As soon as I try to lean in and get a better look, a dancing couple bumps into me. And the girl slips down the hallway, toward the bathroom.
“Who was that chick running away like that?” I ask Nasser as we walk to his dad’s taxi.
“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her…your original tutor,” Nasser says with a laugh.
“No way! Oh my goodness, what was her name again?”
“Ha! You think I remember? I was kinda’ busy charming you that day.”
Damn. There’s that smile again.
“Please don’t tell me that you’re related to her!” Now I’m laughing and reliving the memory of her morphing from a human turtle to a North Pole explorer during our failed tutoring session.
“That’d be a hard no. I don’t know when she showed up. I told you my mom found every random Haitian in a twenty-five-mile radius and invited them over. Now all of a sudden I’ve got a host of fake aunts and cousins. A lot of my actual family is still back in Léogâne.”
“Well, she sure was staring at you like she wanted a piece. I think someone has a secret admirer!” I start tickling Nasser’s neck.
His laughter starts up again, sending his breath swirling up to the cold, late-night sky.
Nasser walks to the passenger side, opens the door, and laces his icy, gloveless fingers into mine. “There’s only one person I admire.”
I’m not sure what to do with that, so I just stand there telling myself, Don’t look at his eyes, don’t you dare take a peek! But my hardheaded self doesn’t listen.
He’s absolute night-sky-coated, moon-speckled perfection.
“After you.” Nasser holds out his hand for me to take a seat.
By the time he reaches the driver-side door, I can finally breathe again. He starts the ignition and turns on the radio. Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You” comes on.
Nasser starts singing with the music. High and super loud, it sounds like a wolf’s mating call. Laughter rolls out of me, hard and nonstop.
“What? You don’t like my voice?”
“I thought you said you could sing. You should stick to dancing.”
With his eyes fixed on the road, Nasser leans sideways toward me so I can hear the words loud and clear. “My folks really like you, Beatriz.”
“Well, I like them too.”
“And what about me?” he asks.
My stomach starts to dance that flip-flop move. He slows the car at a red light and locks his fingers in mine, wrapping me in his warmth.
“I’m falling for you, Beatriz Ayita Mendez. And I’m just wondering when you will admit it.”
“Admit what?” I ask, not letting those fingers go.
“That you like me too.”
I’m laughing all over again. But I’m not making fun of him. It’s more like I hate that you’re right so I’m gonna fake-laugh my way through this ridiculously uncomfortable moment.
Nasser makes a right onto Springfield Ave, and the car behind us makes the same turn.
“I do like you, Nasser. I just need to take my time right now. I have a lot on my plate.”
“No pressure here. I’ll wait as long as it takes, so long as I know you feel the same. I want to get to know you. I want to meet your family and get to know your friends at school. No more hiding.”
The car is still behind us, inching closer and closer. And then all of a sudden the driver shuts off the headlights.
“Nasser, I need you to take a detour.” I turn to face the back window.
“Oh, you’re playing this take-the-long-way-home game again?”
The car moves in closer.
An icy chill runs through me. “Make a sharp left. Step on it!”
He does, confused as all get-out, until he also notices the car tailgating us.
“Do you know this person? My dad will kill me if I get so much as a scratch on this taxi.”
I wish I could say that it was DQ acting all loco because I’m in a car with a guy who’s not a Diablo. But I know that’s not the case. DQ is in Brooklyn, having dinner at his abuelo’s house. I try to make out who’s behind us. Look for the slightest trace of something familiar. A yellow bandana? A halo of dreadlocks outlined in the shadows? Nope. Nada. Just a soft glow of moonlight around the driver’s faceless head.
I’m not even sure what to tell Nasser. The truth? He doesn’t know about Junito or the gang or any part of my drug-dealing life. I can’t. I can’t let him know that stuff about me. Not after I just told him I like him and that maybe we have a chance to be more than friends. I wouldn’t know what to call it. A relationship?
“Just turn here, up Jones Street. It’s probably like a drag-race challenge.”
Nasser slams off the radio button and starts speaking real fast.
“You know, I saw on this show 20/20 that gangs do this sort of thing. They turn off their headlights and chase people down the street, trying to cause them to get in an accident. It’s like some gang initiation or something.”
I feel sick the second he says the word gang.
We’re real far from Broadway now, heading down Route 21, yellow reflectors on the road zipping past us. I tell him to get off at the next exit. That doesn’t throw the car off one bit. Ahead I see the flashing lights of cop cars. Only then does the driver swerve left and leave us alone on the road.
Nasser slows the car and parks a few feet away. He feels safer here, I guess. Me? I don’t do police. The quicker I can get home, the safer I will be.
Nasser shakes his head and grabs my hand. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that just now.”
Bro, I’ve been through worse. “It’s cool. We’re fine.”
“No, it’s not cool. Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy my family moved here, because I would’ve never met you—but the gangs, the drugs, the violence, is just as bad here as it was in Miami.” He says that last part with disgust in his voice, and suddenly I feel like the lowest, foulest creature that’s ever existed.
“And you’ll never believe what I heard at school.”
“What’s that?”
“Barringer High has its own drug ring going.”
I almost spit my blade out of my mouth—again, twice in one night. But instead I cough real loud.
“Can you believe that?” Nasser slaps me on the back. “That’s what I get for keeping to myself. What idiots would have the nerve to sell drugs right on school property?”
I wish I had an answer for him. Something to explain why I’m in that life. And why I can’t easily get out.
Instead I mumble, “Well, you can’t believe every rumor you hear.”
“Ha! Rumor? I saw it with my own eyes in the boys’ locker room. Some kid named Tony Pedros was doing a trade-off. I couldn’t believe it!”
I try to stop the cringe before it reaches my face. Note to self. Give Tony a friendly reminder to be more
careful.
“Speaking of lockers…” I change up the convo real quick. “I got another Polaroid. Only this time I didn’t find it in my locker. Someone slipped it under my door at home.”
I pull the picture from the pocket of my jacket. “I’m sure it’s not the yearbook committee who took this photo.”
Nasser turns on the light and takes a look.
“It’s a picture of my mom.” Looking crazy as hell, I want to add.
“I see where you get your beauty from. Do you understand the caption?”
“Not really, that’s why I wanted to show you. I know the kisa and the ou are ‘what’ and ‘you.’”
“Kisa ou genyen deja. ‘What you have,’ as in, what you already have.”
“I don’t understand any of this. First a picture of me and you that says ‘what you want.’ Now one of my mom that says ‘what you have.’”
“Actually, this is kind of sweet, if you think about it. Maybe one of your friends took the picture when you weren’t around?”
“But my friends wouldn’t do that without telling me. They know better.” Not to mention I don’t have any friends who know Creole. Other than Nasser, that is.
I take in a deep breath and beg myself not to cry.
“My mom hasn’t been herself since…” It’s a release to start to admit it, even though my tongue stops me from saying the rest. And then suddenly I can’t stop the tears.
“No, no, no. Don’t cry.” Nasser wraps his arms around me, pulls my head to his shoulder, and I swear it’s like that shoulder was made just for me. A perfect fit, my face nestles in the softness and hardness of it all.
We sit there in silence, him letting me cry and whimper without asking me one question. How is it possible that he hasn’t heard about my brother’s murder? Granted, it’s been a while since the papers have written about it, probably because a trial date hasn’t been set yet. Plus, I guess keeping my distance at school is working—nobody notices we’re friends, so nobody’s fed him that little tidbit.