by Tami Charles
Two. I see the dancing white lights.
One.
I’m left with only the sound of their words.
“Our scans don’t show any signs of brain swelling, which is promising. We would like to keep her here for another couple of days but you’ll be able to take her home before the New Year.” That’s the doctor.
“Dancing?” There is pain and hope in Mami’s voice. “Will she dance again?”
“Oh, I’m confident this won’t hinder her physically. In fact, dancing is good exercise. I bet she’ll be back on the dance floor in no time.”
I hear the doctor’s footsteps trail to the hallway, the slam of the door closing.
Mami squeezes my hand, showering it with a thousand kisses. “Okay, mi princesa. Now, you fight!”
All my senses have whittled down to two. I feel the warmth of Mami’s touch. Hear a knock and a voice at the door.
“Mrs. Mendez, it’s Nasser, Beatriz’s friend. May I come in?”
* * *
Track Five: Dance of the Rumba, December 8, 1983
It’s when sleep comes that I am reminded again of who I once was. As always, it takes shape in the form of a dance. Tonight’s style? La rumba. Intense, slow, a movement of love, born in Cuba from African slaves, with rhythms so intoxicating they floated across the Caribbean Sea. This was how my old dance teacher, Ms. Maria, once defined it.
I arrive at the bodega early from school. As soon as I open the door, I hear the music with a heavy, accented beat, and a request from Mami: “Beatriz, grab a box of Coke cans from the basement. The soda display is almost empty!”
I take my shoes off and venture down the dark, winding steps as the music floats along with me. The conga drum vibrates. An unfamiliar noise blends in with the rhythm. Heavy breathing. A pendulum of exhales and inhales. Enough to slow my feet as I inch toward the source of the sound and pry open the storage-room door. Darkness and a wall of boxes cover me, with only a pocket of sun peeking through the basement window. And then I see Junito and TJ in the dimness. Two mouths entangled.
I want to scream out, Stop! What are you doing?
But I don’t find my voice.
I had seen Junito step to plenty of high-school girls, especially Diablas. Treated them like they meant nothing. Recycled girls like Nixida with the change of each month. But this is different. There is a pile of covers in the middle of the floor. Candles lit, flickering shadows on their faces. I can see the longing, even in their closed eyes.
Junito brushes his hand across TJ’s cheek.
“I’m tired of hiding, Juni. Let’s just get out of here after the holidays. Start a new life in San Francisco like we planned.” TJ whispers loud enough that I can hear.
“I’ll figure something out, but now it’s not the right time. Just wait a little longer.”
An explosion builds inside of me. Memories of home. The reason why we left. My constant wonder about how it would’ve been different. I always thought that if Junito had changed—tried harder not to be different—the broken pieces of my family might’ve been glued back together. And after all we’ve been through, now Junito has the nerve to consider leaving me and Mami behind? But as I stand there, I realize something. What if it had been Papi who changed? What if he had loved Junito as his true self?
My teeth clench against my inner cheek, the blade pricking me, and I swallow a drop of blood. And I don’t care because in this moment I want to rip the sky apart over and over again. My mind tells me to not follow through with the storm I am about to create.
But I don’t listen. Something comes over me. It is this very secret that drove us out of Puerto Rico. And it’ll be the same secret that’ll ruin the new lives we’ve built in Newark. I can’t have that. Not when the Diablo cash flow keeps the Mendezes on top of the world. Not when I am the flyest girl at King Middle School, the princesa that all the girls hope to look like, dress like, be like. So I make a promise to myself right then and there. Someone needs to let Junito know that being with TJ is a threat. And that someone is me.
I remain hidden, counting one, two, three, four, five…until I’ve reached one hundred. They do not hear me, do not see me hidden behind the boxes. But I stare at TJ buttoning his shirt. And I notice a look in Junito’s eyes that warns TJ to keep his mouth shut, the promise from his lips that they can continue only in the shadows. TJ blows out the candles and makes his way out the back door, where no one will see him slip through the alley as if that kiss and this moment never happened. He leaves Junito seated on the concrete floor, back pressed against the wall.
I take a step forward. Hear Junito take in a deep breath and hold it in. Two steps. Hear him shuffle to his feet. Three steps. See the weapon pointed in my direction.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
Finally I step into the patch of light coming from the small basement window. He lowers his gun and exhales relief as soon as he sees me.
“You’re playing with fire, Junito,” I warn him.
“Shouldn’t you be at school? How long have you been down here?” He throws on his shirt.
“Long enough.” I cut my eyes at Junito, but he refuses to look at me. How is it possible to love and hate someone equally? And at what point does one outweigh the other?
Junito finally looks at me as though he hears every word trapped inside my brain.
“I can’t help who I am, Beatriz.” Both hands are pulling at his face.
“And what will you do when he tells everyone and the whole hood finds out, especially the Diablos?” I fold my arms.
“TJ wouldn’t do that.”
I laugh out a good, hearty one. “That’s not what his cousin told me. The boy’s got plans for you.” The lie comes out easy.
“You mean Vanessa? She said that?”
I don’t say yes. I let my face do that for me. Junito paces the room, smacking the gun against his head.
“Yo, I can’t let that happen!”
“Then I think you know what you have to do.”
The sun fades into the moon as Junito gathers up the crew to come up with a plan for tomorrow. They’ll meet TJ at the top of the hill, choke him up as soon as he steps foot off the bus, gather everyone around to put him on display. Force him into silence with their iron fists and their threats.
A fast-forward jump in my dream. Now replaying the hit on TJ in my mind, my heart cracking, knowing that sometimes even the best plans don’t go right. Vanessa Martin—TJ’s cousin, my once-upon-a-time friend—wasn’t supposed to be there. But when she showed up, I had to do what I knew best, so I let my fists do the talking.
I betrayed all three of them—Junito, TJ, and Vanessa. I feel it all in my sleep: the shock, once again, that Junito’s gone. The reality that I was no better than Papi for keeping Junito from being his true self.
My eyes burst open. I see the hospital machines, tubes clinging to me. Abuela clutching her rosary, whispering a prayer. Nasser snoring in the corner chair. Why is he here? How did he find out?
“Dime qué pasó, mi’ja.” Mami hovers over me.
“I just had a bad dream…sobre el pasado,” I say. Mami brushes one smooth hand across my face. “Don’t think about the past. Yesterday is who you once were. Today is who you become.”
PROMISES
THERE’S NOTHING BETTER than the sight of Branch Brook Park in late January. Equal parts magic and mystery. How the cherry-tree branches stay strong under the weight of heavy snow gets me every single time. Speaking of time, I been sitting on this bench for the past half hour, maybe longer. Staring at the snow all around, the frozen lake stretched in front of me, the cars riding by. Cars in every color except the yellow I’d hoped would show up.
I should’ve expected this. I called. No answer. Called again.
Nasser has a job now, Ayita.
And again.
Nasser is at Rutge
rs for “that program.”
In other words, Nasser is everywhere but with me.
The letter I left in his locker yesterday was my final attempt. Maybe pouring myself on the page, like Mrs. Arcentales says in poetry class, would be enough to make him at least hear me out.
Knowing me, I probably spelled something wrong. Or didn’t use big enough words like pulchritude and disintegration. Maybe the voice inside me has been right all along: a girl like me with a boy like that was never meant to be.
I don’t know why I showed up with my hair in a bun, wearing lip gloss and a skirt in this freezing-behind weather. Like I’d have some kind of Cinderella moment with Nasser. Shoulda been grateful that he came to see me at the hospital, even though I was too out of it to have an actual conversation.
I keep one eye on the setting sun, knowing that I’ll have to head home soon. With the other eye, I stare through the snowy trees ahead. Feet tapping, fingers twitching, like I’m impatiently waiting for the second coming of Jesús.
But nothing. Seconds turn to minutes as the sky changes from orange to pink to medium blue.
A crunch in the snow sounds off behind me. Footsteps. A familiar stab of panic arises as I turn to face the sound.
“It’s just me,” Nasser says, hands held up in surrender.
What I would give to run and crash myself into the space between those hands. Would Nasser hold me back? Or would he tell me we can try again?
I sip in a quick, icy breath, stand up, and move in for a hug. And then Nasser does the absolute worst thing. He taps me on my shoulder—twice—like I’m his homeboy.
“I didn’t think you were coming.” I’m barely able to hide the disappointment in my voice.
No answer. Just eyes forward. Gloveless hands shoved in his pockets.
“I finally went back to school this week. Mami didn’t care that the doctors said I could return earlier. She kept me held hostage at home.”
Silence.
“Got my teeth fixed.” I flash my new pearly smile, courtesy of the dentist. “The scars are starting to heal. Abuela put Vivaporu all over my face. That woman swears it’s a cure-all.”
I laugh. He doesn’t.
“That was sweet of you to show up at the hospital like that. Abuela told me how she called your house, looking for me. She got nervous when she saw the cops outside.” A hard swallow, followed by a hard stare with those eyes of his.
“I’ve spoken to your mom a lot. Heard you got a job, and you got accepted into that college prep class. That’s why I haven’t seen you around school much?”
A nod. I’ll take it.
“Gonna start choreography for ACT-SO with Señorita Amaro next week. Will you be at dance class?”
A shake of his head, and my whole spirit sinks.
“How long we gonna play this game, Nasser? I’m so sorry for how things left off. But I’m different. Better. Got my report card. It’s the best I’ve ever seen it. Got you to thank for that. And I’m gonna start training for ACT-SO. Things are looking up.”
Nasser exhales so hard it sounds like it hurts. “Are you still a Diabla?”
I don’t answer him. Instead I say, “I miss you.”
I take a step forward. He takes a step back. I try again with, “I miss us.”
“You’re avoiding my question, Beatriz.”
“Why does it matter? There’s too much going on with what they’re saying in the papers, and with DQ and Julicza gone, we’re not even meeting anymore. I plan on quitting. It’s just hard because they’re my friends, you know?”
Nasser pulls one hand out of his pocket to look at his watch. Time is the enemy.
“I should get going. I just wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing. And give this back,” he says.
He flips his hand to reveal the folded-up letter, the words I worked so hard to write. He places it right in my palm and the brush of his fingertips seems to shift the season from winter to summer. The letter slips between my open fingers and falls on the ground. The snow wets the ink and like magic, a single line bleeds through: forgiveness is a gift.
We both look at the words come to life, but our faces don’t show the same reaction.
“We can start over, Nasser. Take things slow. Be friends again?” I turn into one of those ridiculous, begging girls on the telenovelas.
“I’d say you have enough friends, Beatriz Ayita.” He grabs both of my hands and squeezes them as if it’ll be the last time he’ll ever touch me. And then, Nasser Kervin Moreau turns his back to me and trudges through the snow.
The tears come in hot and fast. I want to run after him, grab him by the shoulders, and shake them over and over until every word I say turns to truth in his ears. But I can’t move. My feet and my words and my lies won’t let me. I haven’t followed through with the promise I made to myself. That I’d quit the Diablos as soon as 1985 hit. If I can’t keep a promise to myself, what makes me think I can keep a promise to Nasser?
ENCORE: SOARING
MARCH 21, 1985
NAME: BEATRIZ MENDEZ
COURSE: FREEFORM POETRY (ELECTIVE,
MRS. ARCENTALES, THIRD MARKING PERIOD)
ASSIGNMENT: WRITE A POEM ABOUT HEALING.
LONG AGO, MAMI ONCE SAID,
“EL UNIVERSO LO CURA TODO.”
THE UNIVERSE HEALS ALL THINGS.
BUT THAT AIN’T ENTIRELY TRUE.
IT’S EL RITMO THAT MENDS THE BROKEN,
THE TIMBALES TAKING THEIR TIME WITH YOU,
SHAKING, STIRRING, SHAPING YOU INTO ALL THAT IS GOOD,
AND SOMETIMES NOT SO GOOD TOO.
THE TAMBOR BUILDS YOUR INSIDES,
STRONG LIKE MOUNTAINS,
FILLING YOU UP WITH LOVE TO DROWN OUT THE HATE,
LIGHT TO BRIGHTEN THE DARK SPACES,
AND THE BAD PARTS…LIKE PAIN.
SOMETIMES SO MUCH OF IT THAT YOU’LL QUESTION IF YOU,
AND YOUR DREAMS,
AND THIS LIFE ARE ENOUGH.
AND IN THE END, EVEN WHEN THE RHYTHM
FEELS TOO FAST, TOO HEAVY,
THERE YOU ARE KEEPING UP, BREAKING WALLS,
AND DANCING ANYWAY.
A+ EXCELLENT WORK, BEATRIZ! YOUR WORDS DANCE!
—MRS. ARCENTALES
IF YOU BELIEVE IT, THEN ACT-SO!
MY EYES ARE FIXED on the audience. Center, third row from front. Mami, her hands laced with Mr. Martin’s; Abuela and her buddy Ms. Geraldine; Señorita Amaro; Mrs. Ruiz; and Dr. Brown. The rest of the Arts High auditorium is packed with spectators, but I don’t zone in on them. I take in the energy of my family, breathe away the memories of yesterday. Papi. The Diablos. All the wrong I’ve done. Inhale the good coming my way: My exit. My new beginning.
“Contestant number twenty-seven is Beatriz Mendez, representing Barringer High School, performing a Latin-jazz fusion dance to ‘Fame’!” The announcer’s voice rings out.
This is it. A second chance. To get it right. To see myself transformed. To feel the weight of Debbie Allen’s words: “The minute you learn to dance, it becomes yours for life.” And right here, as I wait for the stagehand to press play, I am fixed in fourth position, arms extended, ready to live pa’ siempre.
The music begins with the strum of a guitar. Three chords in, I am hypnotized, fingers tingling, and I fold my whole body into the rhythm. I swing my red skirt, and each chord spreads like wildfire within me. I glide center stage, the beat picks up—syncopated, heart-thrumming—and I hear Señorita Amaro cheer from the audience, “Wepaaaa!”
I stamp my foot against the ground, flick my wrists, and clap for four counts. The audience joins in with me. Four pirouette turns, my eyes zoom in on one spot, way in the back of the auditorium by the double doors. That’s when I see him.
White shirt. Collar flipped. Dark pants. Smile gleaming.
He came.
The electric guitar intensifies right along with Irene Cara’s powerful voice. And that’s when I lose it, heart beating like a caged bird begging to be set free. In my mind I hear Señorita Amaro’s commands: Pirouette! Three, two, four, two! Chassé lift! And one, two, two, two! I dance through every move and watch the world around me disappear.
Halfway through the song, the beat mixes with the sounds of the wooden clave and the conga drum, keeping the lyrics of “Fame” but adding in a salsa twist. This remixed style of music is new to the scene, and just as Señorita Amaro predicted, the audience goes loco!
The applause fills me up, readies me for a flying leap, and when I do, my feet climb the ladder to the sky. Tension fills the air, tries its best to take over, to challenge my will to finish. But I won’t let it win. I push through, four counts to go. Last possé turn, last arabesque, and the music ends. Silence. All I can hear is breath, and all I can see are eyes. I exhale loudly and let out a rousing, “Wepa!”
The applause earthquakes through the auditorium. Everyone is shouting something different. “Bravo!” “That was fresh to death!” “She killed it!” I take a bow and try my best not to cry.
Right there, even though we are inside Arts High School on a Saturday spring afternoon, I feel the stars fill up the sky. It took three months after the incident with Amy to get back to this point. Dancing as though my life depended on it, and though it took some time to realize it, I knew it was true. I have finally become me…Beatriz. The real me…that I was always meant to be.
I look out into the audience, see the sea of people up on their feet. See my special cheer section, smack in the middle. If love were a color, it’d be rainbow—a radiant arc after a storm.
But when I check, I see that Nasser is gone. Not every rainbow is perfect, I guess.