by Tami Charles
He turns the radio back on. Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” is on. Our arms wrap around each other, not ready to let go, even after the song fades to a commercial. I want him to hold me like he’s doing and tell me that it gets better than this.
I lift my face up to his and on the inside I’m saying, Don’t kiss him, don’t kiss him, but my lips find my way toward his. Like two magnets, the force can’t be stopped. I could say this was my first kiss, but that would be a lie. In seventh grade, I kissed this boy Curtis on a dare. The only snaggletoothed twelve-year-old I ever met. Neither of us knew what we were doing. And boy did I ever regret it when he slipped his lizard tongue into my mouth!
But this? This is different. Natural. Meant to be. Our lips touch, and I part my mouth like they do in the movies. He slides his tongue into my mouth. But the second he does, I close in and he yelps. When he pulls away from me, I notice a tiny dot of blood on his bottom lip.
“I’m so sorry, Nasser.” I slide my blade farther back with my tongue and frantically search the glove compartment for a tissue.
“I’m good, Beatriz.” He places the tissue on his lip, and the speck of blood disappears. “First kiss?”
“Maybe.”
Maybe not. Ugh!
“It’s all good, but boy do you have some sharp incisors.” He’s laughing, but I want to disappear.
We don’t see the plainclothes police officer walk up to the car, but we sure hear him bang on my passenger-side window, startling us out of the moment.
I roll down the window, seeing only a bearded mouth beneath a large hat.
“You guys live around here?”
Nasser leans toward the window. “No sir. We actually thought we were being followed a few blocks back, and when we pulled in this area, the car went the other way. We’re just about to leave, sir.” He’s got that white-boy voice down pat.
Number one rule of the hood, Nasser. Never, ever talk to five-o. This boy from Haiti by way of Miami has a lot to learn.
“Following you, huh? We suspect there’s some gang activity in the area, so I suggest you guys—” And then the officer bends down to face us both.
He tips his hat up, and I recognize those bushy eyebrows right away. Detective Osario. Judging from the way he’s studying my face, I can tell he’s trying to remember my name.
“Don’t I know you?”
“It’s Beatriz.” Nobody asked Nasser to chime in.
“Ah, yes! Mendez. Well, surprise, surprise. It’s been a while.” A sly smile dances across his face.
I clear my throat and think about how to play this out. “Detective.” I nod.
“Oh, you know my girlfriend?”
My eyes widen. Wait, your what? And I swear I see that same question on Detective Osario’s face.
“Are you related or something?” Nasser says with a cheesy smile.
Detective Osario chuckles, but I don’t find anything funny. “No, son. Ms. Mendez, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about what’s going on around here, would you?”
Nasser looks concerned, and I guess he feels like he has to keep speaking on my behalf.
“Gang activity? No, sir. Beatriz isn’t into that. And me either.”
Detective Osario gives me a major eye roll that I pray Nasser doesn’t see. He taps the car door. “Yes, of course. You two should head on home. Stay safe now.”
Nasser extends his hand across me to shake the detective’s hand. “Thank you, sir. You have a happy Thanksgiving.”
The detective throws me a wink that says, I guess your little boyfriend is clueless, huh?
Nasser turns the car in the opposite direction and heads back down Broadway. The whole time I’m having a Beatriz vs. Beatriz moment in my head.
Thought #1: What would Nasser do if he discovered the real me?
Thought #2: It might be time for you and homeboy to take a break. He’s getting way too close.
* * *
Track Four: Dance of the Bolero, Winter 1977
In the battle to stay awake to cast out the memories, sleep wins. Always.
It never snows in Puerto Rico. But here in Newark, land of streets and cars and urban rhythms, the snow is falling outside our window. A tiny window in a tiny room in a tiny apartment on top of a liquor store in the Ironbound of Newark.
The same little apartment that was filled with at least twenty or thirty people when we arrived from the airport. Strangers who greeted us with worried smiles, served us a spread of Portuguese food, spoke to us in a language so similar to Spanish, yet so different. And when the sun left the sky and the snow began to fall, they wished us all the luck in this new place to call home as they left.
If only I could be outside with the snow falling on my face. I’d give anything for the coldness to melt into my tears, take away the heat building up fast and bold.
Mami and Junito are sleeping, folded into one another on a mattress on the floor, pressed against the window wall. Mami cried for hours until she ran out of tears. Junito pressed his face against her chest, not shedding one tear, looking at me as if he were made of stone, until he too closed his eyes for the night.
It is past two in the morning, long after the time I should be asleep. But the tears and fears and nerves take over. I’m worried about what lies ahead. New school. New people. A test. Failure?
What will the kids think of this Puerto Rican girl who looks like the people roaming the streets of Newark but can’t fix her lips to hold a conversation, let alone make friends?
The bedroom door creaks open, startling me out of my thoughts. A young woman’s face peeks through the door, whispering in Portuguese.
“Olá, sou Fernanda. Acabei de chegar e queria conheê-la.”
My brain tries to process what she means—I can sort of understand her. I didn’t see her earlier. Why, I’m not sure. Maybe she wasn’t here. It doesn’t matter anyway because the flight, the arrival, all of it is a foggy cloud hovering over me.
She walks slowly toward me as though she’s dancing the bolero, each step long and slow. Under the moonlight her ice-blue eyes and almost-too-blonde hair glow brighter as she comes closer.
“Não chore.” She kneels in front of me, wiping my tears with the back side of her hand.
“Pero…me…quiero…ir…pa’ casa.” I follow each word with a whispered sob.
She pulls a strand of hair behind my ear and draws me into her chest. “I remember when I first came here from Portugal. I was scared, just like you.”
“Yo…quiero…mi…papi…” Confusion and anger boil up inside my eight-year-old body. Old enough to understand why we left. But not enough to change how I’m starting to feel about Junito. We could have stayed. Junito could have tried harder to not make Papi upset. It could have been different.
“If it is meant to be, you will see your papi again.” She places my head on the pillow, pulls the blanket over my shoulders.
Ronaldo pokes his head through the door. “Fernanda, let her sleep. She has school in the morning.”
“Coming, uncle!”
She gets up, taking the moonlight with her, but stops short at the door and whispers, “I promise you it gets better.”
I wake up, tossing and turning in bed. I never laid eyes on her again. La blanquita with the piercing eyes and gentle words. But as I lie in bed, thinking through the memory, I realize that she was wrong about two things.
I never saw Papi again.
It didn’t get better.
ACT THREE: BECOMING
THE DAY WILL COME,
WHEN YOU REMEMBER
NOT WHO YOU ONCE WERE,
BUT WHO YOU ARE BECOMING…
—VANESSA MARTIN, SEPTEMBER 1, 1984
DEAR MRS. MENDEZ,
I ASKED MY FATHER TO GIVE THIS JOURNAL TO YOU
ON A DAY WHEN YOU NEEDED A REMINDER THAT THERE’S ALWAY
S
A REASON TO BE THANKFUL. I CALL THE JOURNAL DARLENE, BUT YOU
CAN NAME IT AS YOU PLEASE. MAY YOU FILL IT WITH SINGING,
DANCING, AND SPEAK-WORTHY WORDS.
—NESSY
ONE WORD AT A TIME
SALES ARE UP AT Barringer, just in time for the Christmas holiday. I have my runners to thank for that. It’s lunchtime and a crew of us are chilling at our spot behind the school. Past the parking lot, past the cluster of bushes, where a few feet away, a concrete wall stands between the grass and the highway. Far enough away from Mrs. Ruiz and nosy-behind Dr. Brown.
It’s cold as hell, but we don’t care. Tiffany is tagging up the wall with the Diablo signature. A red pitchfork with streaks of gold weaving from top to bottom, outlined in black. Maricela is flirting with Mooki, but what else is new? Julicza is blasting Whodini’s “Five Minutes of Funk” from a boom box. And in the midst of that bass pumping through me, I’m kicking it with Tony, showing him a sample of DQ’s new product, Sour Diesel.
“This stuff is gonna make us serious bank!” I tell him.
“Word.” Tony smiles, his teeth looking too big for his mouth. Then he pulls me in for a hug.
“Oh, that right there would make a dope pic! Hold up!” Julicza screams over the beat. She runs to her backpack propped against the cement wall.
I back away from Tony, cold air running through me. Next thing I know, Julicza’s got a camera in her hand. A Polaroid camera.
Like a magnet, my legs pull me toward Julicza, eyes fixed on the camera I never knew she owned. Skin tingling, insides twitching, my mouth is like a gun popping off in rapid fire.
“Where’d you get that?”
“What do you mean?” She takes a step back.
“The camera,” I snap.
Pause. Confusion. “Um, the store.”
Eyes roll. Not mine.
“When?”
Laughter. Also not mine.
“I just bought this.” More laughter. Julicza throws Maricela a look I can’t read.
Eyes back on the camera. Worn, scratched up. This chick is lying.
My hand becomes a claw, Julicza’s shirt and flesh caught in its grip. The crew is on me now, pulling me away, screaming, “Yo! Chill, princesa!”
“Why would you take a picture of my mother?”
Tears building. Lips quivering. Mine. Hers too.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
Music off. Voices, whisper-soft. Beatriz is losing it for real. Arms wrap around my waist, hands pressed in the arch of my back. It’s Tony. Again.
“Cálmate,” Tony says.
Inhala. Exhala. Just like Mami always used to tell me.
There’s a bend in the bushes. And out comes Nasser looking like a fake-ass Inspector Gadget. Our eyes lock. I die a little on the inside. How did he find this spot? He stands there, staring, heat building, until he finds the will to speak.
“Can I talk to you for a second, Beatriz?”
Tony loosens his grip. “Who’s this pendejo? You need me to handle him?”
Nasser’s leg is shaking now, palms pressed together.
I take one step forward, but Julicza blocks my path. “I didn’t take any pictures of your mother. Why would I do that? I mean, not with the way she…” Julicza can’t find a nice way to finish the words.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “I found a recent picture of her, and I don’t know who took it.”
“Well, it wasn’t me.” The red in Julicza’s eyes deepens.
Maricela steps in between us. “Julicza stole that raggedy thing from the quarter bin at the thrift store last week. I was with her. Are you okay, Beatriz?”
I blink and shift my eyes to Nasser. Julicza takes my hands in hers, squeezing them gently. Something about it takes me right back to when we were eight years old, skipping rope in the Grafton parking lot.
I look at my crew, pucker my lips up, and as if on cue, they all head back in the direction of the school.
I push my hair forward to hide the red in my eyes, the stain on my cheeks. I turn to Nasser, finally. “What’s up?”
And sure enough Nasser hits me with the full-on interrogation. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls? Why were you yelling at them just now? Why are you crying? And most importantly, why was Tony Pedros holding you like that?”
Questions mixed with sadness, concern, jealousy. But it’s just all too much for me.
“Can we do this later?” I ask. “And did you follow me out here or what?”
“I’m starting to hear things, Beatriz.”
“Like what?” I blink, trying to clear my head of what just happened.
“That some of your so-called friends are in a gang. That got me thinking. Ever since I met you, you’ve made all these rules. Don’t talk to you at school. Don’t hang with you at school. Basically, make myself invisible unless it’s for your benefit, like tutoring at the library or dance class. And you know what? I’m starting to piece it all together. You. Them. Just hanging out while your friends spray the word Diablos and that symbol on the wall?”
“Look, they’re harmless. Just chill.”
“I still don’t understand why you haven’t told them about us. What are you, ashamed? Because I’m not like other guys at this school? Is it because I’m Haitian?”
That last part hits me in the gut. “No, that’s not it. It’s just…well, I don’t like people in my business. Plus, I kind of like the way things are.” I slip my hands around his waist, but he moves away cold and quick.
“You mean you like to use me when it’s convenient for you. Yeah, I get it.”
I can smell his disappointment. “Nasser. I promise I’ll call you later…okay?”
“Au revoir, Beatriz.” He slips through the trees and back toward the parking lot.
I never understood the power of good-bye until Junito died. And as I stand there, watching Nasser and that voice of his and his words float away, I am reminded of how long a good-bye can last.
I gotta get out of here. Now. I head straight to my locker to grab my things and do what I used to do best: cut.
Stuff goes crashing to the floor as soon as I open my locker. I’m picking things up and what do I find? Polaroid number three. I turn it over and see the face of a guy that I’ve never seen before in my life. Light brown skin. Hazel eyes. Good-looking. Definitely not as foyne as Nasser. The message below says, “Kisa mwen pap jamn jwenn anko.”
This is twice as long as the last two messages. What you want…what you have…and now this new confusion? Starts with kisa, though.
Selfishly, I’m wishing I hadn’t fought with Nasser. I need him to translate this for me. I tuck the picture into my bag, wondering how to fix this. And us.
Julicza rolls up behind me just as the next bell rings. “We cool, right?”
“Yeah. Just forget about earlier.” I shrug it off. I need more time to process everything.
“What did nerd boy want?”
“Don’t call him that,” I snap.
“Well, excuse me, nena. You don’t have to hide it anymore.”
“Hide what?”
“That you like him. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one hiding things.” I slam the locker shut.
I leave Julicza and her mouth standing right there. Speed out of the back door by the gym and make my way to the bus stop, heat racing through me. I haven’t decided if I believe Julicza’s story yet. I get these mysterious Polaroids and all of a sudden she’s got a beat-up looking Polaroid camera? Plus she’s all up DQ’s ass and stepping to my role in the Diablas at the same time? Maricela and I been cool since day one, and I never knew her to lie to me. Still, something’s not sitting right. I need someone to talk to. Someone to help carry the weight of all this. These secrets.
“We need to talk ASAP. Meet me downstairs in ten,” I say with some fire in my voice. I don’t stop to see if he’s surprised that I’m bossing him around.
I go inside the bodega and check on Abuela and Ms. Geraldine. They say they’re fine. Tell me it was busy earlier because everybody is starting to buy their Christmas food. But the rush settled down a few minutes before I walked in.
I sneak downstairs, praying with every step that nosy Abuela isn’t following. I don’t have time to deal with her Spanish proverbs right now. DQ is already waiting at the back door for me by the time I get there.
I open it and he slips in.
“Guess these basement renovations are coming along nicely,” he says, looking at the unmoved pipes and tools on the floor from his last visit.
“Whatever.” I pull back a chair, slamming the legs down before I gesture for him to take a seat.
“And you might wanna think twice how you talk to me, especially in front of the crew. Anyway, what’s this about?” DQ falls slowly into the chair.
“I didn’t want to come to you with this, but I don’t have a choice.” I pull out all three pictures and place them on the table in the order I received them.
DQ shifts his eyes to the photo of me and Nasser, then back to me.
“I’m not sure what these pictures mean, and I need you to help me figure it out,” I say.
DQ picks up the first Polaroid and brings it in close to get a better look.
“Who’s this dude up on you?”
Oh, now he wants to play big brother again? Not interested. “It’s this kid from school. We were taking some stupid ballroom dancing lesson in gym class.”
DQ cocks his head to the side.
“Whatever, yo. Just move on to the second picture,” I say.