Becoming Beatriz

by Tami Charles

  DQ tightens his lips around his teeth.

  “Oh yeah? You been off your game lately, and now I see why.” DQ flicks the picture, and it lands on the floor.

  We stare at each other long enough to expand the space between us. Breath caught in my lungs, I think of the last time I exhaled free and clear. Not with him around. It was those stolen moments on the dance floor. Just me and Nasser and rhythm and not one care in the world.

  I lean down to pick up the picture. “I said move on.”

  I grab the second Polaroid and shove it in DQ’s face. “Someone took a picture of Mami”—and then I hold up the third picture—“and who the hell is this guy, DQ? And don’t you lie to me!”

  DQ pulls the two pictures from my hands and places them back on the table, leans back in his chair, and rubs both hands over his shiny bald head.

  “Where did you get these?” he asks.

  I tell him about the first time I received a picture in my locker. And about the times I thought I was being followed. How someone slipped the second Polaroid under the bodega door on Thanksgiving. And then this final one. Received conveniently after I find out that Julicza’s got a Polaroid camera.

  “Julicza ain’t part of the equation, so cancel that.” DQ spreads his arms out, thick veins running from his wrists up to his neck. “But you’ve been keeping this in all this time?”

  “I was just trying to protect—”

  “Protect who, Beatriz? Yourself? Cause you definitely weren’t thinking about the Diablos!”

  “You weren’t there that day, DQ! And you don’t know what it’s been like watching my mother, trying to keep her and my family safe.” Hot tears of rage are building up.

  “Describe the person who followed you on Thanksgiving.” DQ doesn’t care one bit about my tears.

  “I don’t know. It was dark, and the headlights weren’t on. I couldn’t see. What does all of this mean, DQ? Tell me. ¡Ahora!”

  “This language…” DQ’s voice trails off.

  “It’s Haitian Creole.” I translate the first two pictures for him. And I admit that I have no clue what the last picture says.

  “When did you pick up another language, princesa?”

  “A friend helped.” My pulse pounds through the half-truth. I can almost see it through my skin.

  DQ cups his face in the palms of his hands. “I’m gonna tell you who the dude is in this third picture, and what I think about all of this, but don’t freak out, okay?”

  I steady my breath and get ready for him to hit me with the craziness.

  “As you know, the night before Junito was killed, we went to the South Ward to pay a visit to the Macoutes chief, Gaston.”

  “The guy Junito offed,” I say. My heart detonates as I remember finding out that Junito had actually killed someone. And that’s what got him killed.

  “Yeah. They were trying to take over our territory, and Junito wasn’t having it. We got him when his boys weren’t paying attention. The dude in this photo is Gaston Mondesir.”

  “Wait! You never told me his last name. He’s related to the dude mentioned in the paper? Clemenceau Mondesir. The one who killed Junito.” I’m shaking my head, hoping this is all some sick joke.

  “¡Cálmate, Beatriz!”

  “Don’t you tell me to calm down!” My hair is wild now, covering half my face. “This Clemenceau dude has been stalking me from behind bars because of something Junito and you did!”

  “Doubt it. At first I was gonna say that maybe he was behind this. I mean, Gaston was his brother. But these pictures and messages feel personal, almost too planned out. Most dudes wouldn’t go through all this trouble, rivals or not. We’d just come out full force, none of this calculated, creative stuff.”

  I recall the fire-red kiss blown at me before the car left behind a cloud of gray dust. The flash of yellow in the dismissal crowd. The times I thought I was being followed. And the one real time, when I know that car was following Nasser and me.

  “It’s her.”

  DQ twists his face. “It’s who?”

  That’s when I spill out the rest of what I’ve kept bottled up all these months. When I finish, I look at DQ.

  “So maybe it’s the girl with the dreads? Could she be the one behind all this?”

  “Maybe, but when’s the last time you seen her?”

  “The day Junito died…at least that’s what I thought.” I can barely get the words out because a feeling takes over. Three parts doubt. One part but what if?

  Doubt wins. It can’t be her. It’s been months, not to mention that even if it was her at school on the first day, she was running away from me.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t come to me with all of this sooner, Beatriz.”

  “Oh really, DQ? No estoy ciega.” I’m channeling Abuela now, fingers snapping all up in his face. “You don’t think I see what’s going on with you and Julicza? How you’re basically pushing her into my spot?”

  Right there, I’m expecting DQ’s face to soften.

  “Oh come on, princesa, I got eyes on these streets! You think I don’t know what you been doing, or should I say who you’ve been doing? Don’t try to act like you ain’t out there losing your focus. So of course I gotta weigh my options.”

  “What are you trying to say, DQ?”

  He points to Nasser in the picture. “Word has it you been extra busy these days. Taking dance classes…with this Haitian boy, apparently. Funny that while your little friend was translating these threats, maybe he’s the one behind all of this. That’s what you get for hanging around the enemy!”

  I’m in race mode now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, DQ! Nasser’s not like that! He doesn’t know nothing about drugs or gangs.”

  How did we go from blaming the blonde-dread chick to pointing fingers at Nasser? How could I have been so stupid? I should have known that DQ’s been watching me. Keeping score. Taking notes. Thinking Nasser is a problem. Well, DQ is dead wrong.

  “I don’t want you seeing this guy no more. I say you figure out if your little tutu ballerina classes are worth it.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do!” I’m screaming now. “You’re not my father or my brother!”

  Now DQ’s up and screaming. “Well, I’m the closest thing you got. Junito is gone! Your papi ain’t around. Your mami won’t say a word to you or nobody.” He inches his face so close to mine, I can smell last night’s rum on his breath.

  “And you should probably open your eyes some more because your little friend would be more than happy to weasel her way into your top spot. All you got is me!”

  “¿Qué está pasando ahí abajo, Beatriz?” Abuela’s voice echoes through the locked door, down the stairs, forcing us both into silence.

  I point to the back exit without saying anything else to DQ. He gets up, raises his hands in surrender, and nods his head at me as he walks out to the alley.

  I lock the door behind him and run heavy-footed up to the bodega, reality setting in that I can’t trust nobody. Not DQ, not Julicza, nobody. Why did I even think I should tell him any of this?

  Just before I run all the way up to the apartment, I see a woman standing outside with her mouth pressed against the bodega window. Her hair is a mess, stretched every which way. She’s dressed in a torn trench coat so dirty, I can’t even tell what the original color was. Under that, she’s wearing jeans and a bra. In December. There’s a little boy, no more than three years old, next to her who’s holding a G.I. Joe toy.

  “Beatriz!” Abuela shouts out my name while slamming a chancleta against the window. That does nothing, because the woman outside just starts licking at the sandal through the window.

  “¿Quién es esa mujer?” Abuela asks.

  I tell Abuela not to worry and head outside.

  “Get outta here!” I yell
at her.

  She stops licking the window and stares at me with wild eyes. She looks familiar, like underneath all the crazy I once knew her, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  She scratches at her neck before speaking.

  “Heard y’all got some of that new stuff,” she whispers, like it’s the best-kept secret in Newark.

  “Whoa, I don’t know what you’re talking ’bout.”

  Never, ever, ever have we had a customer roll up on us at the bodega. That is law and everybody knows it.

  All the while the little kid is staring at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. Underneath the sagging flesh on bone, blackened lips, and glossy, red-veined eyes, I realize I do know the woman. She had the honor of jumping me in to the Diablas. Nixida Vigo. Well, what’s left of her.

  “This your little boy?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Say hi, Beto.”

  Little dude throws me a shy wave and a look that begs me to pull him from the storm that is his life. A pain shoots straight through me. Not long after Nixida jumped me in, she broke a major Diablo rule. She started using and got hooked on the very thing she was supposed to be selling. My last memory of Nixida was the sound of her screams and the sight of four Diablas pouncing her. I ain’t seen her ’round here since.

  “Sooo…no more playing around. How much? I ain’t got a lot to pay. Just need enough to take the edge off,” she says.

  Pain turns to rage. Rage shifts to my hand, and I yank her by her filthy collar so she can be close enough to feel the heat of my words.

  “Lay off that stuff, Nixida. Look at what you got.” The tears sting as they fall down my face. “Now go home, put some clothes on, and take care of your son.”

  Beto starts whimpering, and I immediately loosen my grip.

  “Don’t cry, little man. I was just hugging your mami because I haven’t seen her in so long, that’s all. Right, Nixida?” The fakest smile plasters itself on my face.

  She lets out a hacking cough. “Yeah, that’s right. Come on, we gotta go.”

  She buttons her coat, grabs Beto by the hand, and makes her way down Grafton Hill.

  When I get upstairs, I see Mami sitting on the couch, writing in the journal Mr. Martin gave her. When she sees me fly through the door, face stained up, she puts her pencil down. I storm off to the bathroom to wash the filth that is Nixida off my hands. Then I stomp to the bedroom and throw myself on the bed, burying my face in the pillow to mask the screams and the ugly truth of what I have become.

  Mami comes into the room holding the journal in her hand. She sits on the bed next to me, at first letting me have my release while she rubs my back. Up and down, until I feel I have no tears left.

  Then she gets up, turns on the boom box, and pops in a tape. One Way’s “Lady You Are” comes on, slow and hypnotizing.

  The music fills the room, and Mami lifts my chin so I can look her in the eye. Then she says her first word in eight months.

  “Baila.”

  My shoulders collapse at the sound. I’d stopped believing that the day would come where I would hear Mami’s voice again. But there it is, raspy and hard, like sun-scorched grass begging for rain. I grip my arms around her tight, not wanting to let go. She rises slowly, taking me with her. Leaving her book of words on the bed, she grabs both of my hands. And then she leads me to the windows where the curtains are open and the setting sun is pouring in. We sway to the beat. I rest my head on my mother’s shoulder. More tears come; this time, happy tears. And I become a little child all over again, remembering the days of music and laughter on our island far across the Caribbean Sea.

  The song ends, and Mami rewinds the tape.

  “¡Baila!”

  I dance with her once more, letting the light fill in the dark spaces, happy to get my mother back, even if it is one word at a time.

  FORGIVENESS

  EVERY TIME I CALL Nasser, he isn’t home. Whenever I look for him at school, he’s nowhere to be found.

  It’s not until after school on the last Friday before Christmas that I find him, tucked behind a shelf in the back of the Barringer library, reading a poetry book. Typical.

  I say nothing at first. Just look over his shoulder as he reads “Fire and Ice.” It’s almost like I can see the words float off the page, into him, into me. Each word a reminder that both fire and ice are necessary for survival.

  “That’s beautiful,” I say, breaking him out of his poetic trance.

  “Yeah, Robert Frost is one of my favorites,” he admits, closing the book.

  “Looks like you’ve been hiding from me all week.” I playfully tap him on his shoulder, and he moves away from me like I have some kind of contagious disease.

  “Just returning the favor.”

  “Come on, don’t be like that.” I lean in for a kiss, but Nasser wants no part.

  We sit there, the silence multiplying around us. I examine every inch of him. That ebony skin, those brown eyes sliced with speckles of gold and green. And his smell. Man, I miss the way he smells.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The corners of his mouth twist. “Tony Pedros is your type. I get it. So you don’t have to worry about the disintegration of your reputation.”

  This kid ain’t never gonna speak in plain old English.

  “Tony is like a brother to me.” I laugh a little. “You caught him holding me back from fighting. It’s not like we were kissing and hugging.”

  I reach for Nasser’s hand, but he just yanks it away. And he’s not smiling either.

  “If you came to ask about tutoring, you’re good to go. It looks like your average is improving so you won’t be needing me anymore.”

  Nasser starts packing.

  “I need your help,” I say, hoping that’ll slow him down a bit.

  “Seems like that’s all I’m good for with you.” He zips up his backpack.

  “I promise you that once I show you this, I’ll tell you everything.”

  The librarian, Mrs. Arcentales, finds us hidden behind the shelves. “Guys, it’s so lovely to see you two enjoying a book of poetry, but it’s Christmas break, for crying out loud. Don’t you want to go home? Because I know I sure do.”

  “Sorry about that, Mrs. A. We’ll be leaving now.” I nudge Nasser in the ribs.

  Mrs. Arcentales twists her lips. “Beatriz Mendez, right? I think your name is on the list for the peer tutoring program.”

  “Yeah. Nasser is my tutor. Right, Nasser?”

  He flashes a fake nod-and-smile.

  Mrs. Arcentales quick-steps to her desk, grabs a sheet of paper, and comes back to give it to me. “You should consider joining the Freeform Poetry elective next semester. I’m teaching poetry in a new way. Almost like music, pouring your emotions on the page. It’ll be a good way to bring up your GPA. Think about it?”

  I grab the flyer, questioning how I’m supposed to add this new task to my ever-growing to-do list.

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Arcentales. Can’t wait!”

  Nasser walks out of the library ahead of me, storming out the front door. Feet flying, I huff and puff trying to keep up with him.

  “Wait up, Nasser!” I cry out.

  His eyes remain straight ahead, not even looking at me.

  “Let’s go to the Chicken Shack. I promise I’ll be quick. And then you won’t ever have to deal with me again…if you don’t want to.”

  The cold winds pick up. Nasser pushes his gloveless hands into his pockets.

  “Ten minutes,” I beg.

  We walk into the almost-empty restaurant and place an order. I grab a booth by the large window, overlooking the busy street. Nasser comes back with a feast: two grape sodas, buttered biscuits, steak-cut fries, and an eight-piece bucket of deep-fried heaven. But I’m too wound up to take one bite.

  “So, what kind of help do you need?” Nass
er pops a fry in his mouth.

  I open my backpack and pull out all four pieces of the puzzle. First the words, as I remember them, that Clemenceau whispered into my ear. On the piece of paper I wrote them on as soon as I got home from the hospital. Been tucked away in my drawer, not that I would ever forget them, though. Then the two Polaroids with the messages he’s already translated. And finally the latest picture I received in my locker.

  I slide the paper his way. “What does that mean?”

  Nasser lifts it up and twists his face. “New pop blay? Where’d you get this?”

  “It’s not something that was written to me…” My next words come out hesitantly. “They were said to me. I wrote them the way they sounded. Maybe it’s spelled wrong, and I think I’m missing a word.”

  Nasser fans the paper back and forth, whispering the words over and over again, adding his Haitian accent to my poorly written English spelling.

  “New pop? Blay? Wait. I think this is supposed to be bliye.” He pulls a pencil from his backpack and goes into teacher mode, crossing out letters, until the sentence comes out fully formed.

  “Nou pap bliye? That means ‘we won’t forget.’ But you said there was a missing word. Are you sure it wasn’t ‘nou pap janm bliye’?”

  The words crash into me and spin me around.

  “That’s it!”

  Nasser’s face lightens one shade.

  “Beatriz, that’s almost like a threat. ‘We’ll never forget.’ That’s what it means. Who said that to you? And why?”

  I clear my throat, grab the paper out of his hand, and place it next to the photos. I’m trying my best to play it cool as I unlock this mystery.

  First it was We’ll never forget.

  Then it was What you want.

  Followed by What you already have.

  “I need to know what the latest picture means.” I slide it over to Nasser.

  “It says: ‘What I’ll never get back.’ But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  Ignoring him, I repeat that translation in my head over and over again. Junito killed Gaston. Clemenceau killed Junito. There is a third Mondesir out there with a message—three messages—just for me. A reminder that they haven’t forgotten their promise.