“That’s ’coz a girl’s body her best weapon.” Barbie stands up and jams those deadly curves into a body roll. “Ain’t that right, Sandra?” She tosses the girl a wink, then sits down and crosses her ankle over her knee.
“All right, all right,” Dr. Horton says. “This isn’t American Idol.”
Barbie’s little dance party is over quickly, but it’s enough to convince me to get myself on cafeteria duty by any means necessary. I’ll gladly take a stint in solitary for the chance to see that move again. I’m still seeing it now. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing it all night.
“What’s a literary magazine?” Javier asks suddenly.
“It’s um . . . You know what? We’ll talk later. Who’s next? Isaac? You want to go?”
My stomach f lips over. “All right, well mine’s about the worst day of my life.”
“Awesome,” Riley says. He might mean it sarcastically, but with Riley you can’t always tell. And anyway, in the orange-rug room, stories like mine actually count as gifts. Believe it or not, this is the kind of crap we give each other. I open my notebook and start to read.
This happened about three years ago. I was thirteen and my sister, Janelle, was ten. We were living in this one-bedroom shelter in Ashland with my mom. Usually, my mom would send my sister and me out into the hallway when one of her customers came, but there was this junkie who was lying around out there, so she told us to just sit on the couch and watch TV. But she forgot that we didn’t have a cable box. All we could do was watch our own ref lections and make stupid faces at each other, like pig noses and f ish mouths.
The guy was really loud in her bedroom. We could hear my mom complaining about it, like he was hurting her or something. So I got up to go check on her, but my sister grabbed my hand and told me to stay right there because she was scared. She had these sharp nails that dug into my skin. I didn’t want to leave her alone, so we just sat there holding hands. We weren’t looking at the TV anymore though. We were looking over the back of the couch at the bedroom door, which was stupid because the door was closed, so we couldn’t see anything.
The guy kept getting louder and my Mom was yelling at him. I wanted to go help her, but every time I tried to get up, my sister would squeeze my hand and dig her nails into it, saying, “Stay with me. Stay with me.” She was so scared. And I realized that I had to protect her, not my mom. I couldn’t protect both of them at the same time. So I stayed with my sister, even when my mom started crying. The guy was in there for fourteen minutes, which I counted on the broken DVD player.
Then he came out of the bedroom, and my sister and me hid between the couch and a cardboard box on the f loor that was like a coffee table. But he saw us when he got to the door. He didn’t say anything though. He just left.
When I close the notebook, everyone’s staring at me. But it’s different this time. They believe me.
“So your mom’s, like, a . . .” Riley can’t f inish that sentence.
“She’s a prostitute. Yeah.”
It’s the f irst time I’ve ever said that word out loud. I won’t say it feels good, but at least I feel safe saying it. I don’t feel the need to punch Riley’s lights out for bringing it up.
“She still in the life?” Barbie asks.
I nod.
“Drugs?”
“Gin.”
“Old school.”
Everyone’s quiet. But it’s not a mean quiet. They’re not judging me or my mother. It’s something else. It’s like they’re creating space around my story, leaving me room to feel something about it, letting me know it’s okay to feel something about it too, even in front of them. We’re supposed to feel things in here. That’s the idea. That’s why I brought them this story. You might think you’re protecting yourself by shutting down your feelings, but all you’re doing is sending them underground. And an underground feeling is much more dangerous because it’s out of your control. That’s what they say, and I get that now.
These people all come here to the orange-rug room for the same reason I came: because a judge told them to. But you don’t make it here if you’re just ticking off a box. You come in here like I did, full of bullshit and attitude, you’ll wash out in a week. The ones who survive are the ones who put it all on the line. Like Javier. He doesn’t hide anything. Whatever he’s got, he’s sharing. These people show up every day for each other because they know. You try to face something like Ashland on your own, or something like what Sandra did to D’nesh Patel, it will swallow you up.
“Thanks, Isaac,” Dr. Horton says. “I think that leaves Barbie.”
“Here we go,” Wayne says with a roll of his eyes.
Barbie makes a big show of setting herself up to read. She presses her legs together like a lady and straightens up real proper. “Prepare to be blown away.”
I’m relieved when everyone stops looking at me. Dr. Horton looks over to see if I’m okay and I nod. I am okay, but only because I’ll never have to tell that story again. I’m proud of myself for sharing it. They deserve it. Nothing but the worst for your teammates. But I’m glad it’s over now. When I get back to my cell, I’m going to tear that page out of my notebook and put Ashland behind me once and for all.
Barbie tells the story of her quinceañera, the big party Latinas get when they turn f ifteen. I can’t quite imagine her in the yellow puffy dress she describes. When she’s not in juvie scrubs, I picture her in full-on ghetto wear—baggy jeans, wifebeater. Butch, but smoking hot.
Everyone was making a big deal about the chambelanes and how my date was all jealous of everyone, but all I cared about was they had found my old friend, Mariana, and when was she going to get there.
Mariana was my girl. I couldn’t wait to see her and f ind out what she been up to the last year since she moved to LA. We were tight. But it was nine o’clock and no Mariana, then it was ten o’clock and still no Mariana. Then they be closing the hall down and everyone leaving and, f inally, I see someone sitting on the stairs outside by the entrance.
She’s wearing a short skirt and these nasty sneakers and some kind of sweatshirt with holes in it. She all skinny and hunched over, but I recognize that hair, ’coz Mariana had this wild hair like a tumbleweed.
And I run up to her and I say, “Hey, chica, why you sitting out here when the party’s inside?” And she look all sad and telling me she embarrassed because she can’t afford a nice dress and we all f lash in our ballgowns and tuxedoes. I’m wearing a tiara so I look like the Queen of England or something, but hot. So I make a joke about how it’s all fake and I wouldn’t ever dress like that except for my quinceañera. Then I tell her how it don’t matter what she’s wearing ’coz I’m just happy to f inally see her.
But she won’t even get up to give me a hug. It’s like she stuck there or something. So I sit down next to her and that’s when I notice her arms. They all tracked up. She real skinny and she dressed like a ho. And it all makes sense now. She is a ho, and a junkie too. I would have seen that right away except she was my girl and you know how you always see the best when you love someone.
Then she tells me she ain’t even been to LA. She been in Worcester this whole time, like an hour away. And all that year, while I been living it up, running the town, and planning my quinceañera, she be trickin’ for some pimp in Worcester. Her mom’s dead and her dad beats her all the time. She sleepin’ in cars and shit. Then she asks me for money and I know it’s to buy drugs and I’m thinking no way, this my chica. This Mariana. I want to take her home, get her cleaned up and shit, so I stick my tiara on her head and go inside to tell my mom she’s coming home with us that night.
But when I come back out, she gone. My cousin said she walked off. I made him drive me all over, but we couldn’t f ind her. I kept asking everybody for days if they seen her, but she just vanished. My other cousin, the one who tracked her down in the f irst place, said the phone number
she got was dead. That was the last time I saw Mariana. She kept the tiara, which was a rental, so my Mom got mad about that. But I didn’t care. I hope she didn’t sell it though. I hope she’s keeping it safe somewhere and taking it out once in a while to think of me. ’Coz even though she a ho and a junkie, she still my girl.
When she’s f inished, Barbie snaps the notebook shut and falls back into her chair, satisf ied.
“I thought you were readin’ a happy story,” Wayne says.
“I was happy when my cousin told me she found Mariana.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Riley asks.
“Either she dead by now, or she still trickin’. ’Coz if she not trickin’ I know she’d come looking for me.”
“How do you know?” Javier asks. “She only a hour away that whole time and she don’t call you?”
“’Coz she in the life,” Barbie says. “Ask Sandra. She knows how it is. They cut you off from your friends, make you think they your enemies, like they going to deprive you of a living or something. That night at my quinceañera, she wasn’t even Mariana anymore. She like some dead girl walking around. So either she really dead now or she’ll f ind her way back.”
Back to what? I wonder. Back to Barbie’s neighborhood, where Barbie doesn’t live anymore? Even if Barbie wasn’t locked up in juvie, what could she do to help Mariana? Jump her into a gang? For some girls, that means basically getting gang raped.
“Shit, Barbie,” Wayne says. “I thought I’d be leaving here with some kind of positivity. Now all’s I got is Riley’s boner story and a bunch of sad shit to add to my own.”
“Yeah, Barbie,” Riley says. “I hate to say it, but you kind of let us down.”
“You guys were really counting on me?” she asks, like she’s touched by it.
Wayne shakes his head. “It’s like you said. It’s getting too heavy in here. Sometimes . . . I don’t know, man. Sometimes I start wondering what’s the point.”
“You can’t think like that, Wayne,” Riley says. “That’s letting defeat win.”
“No, Wayne’s right,” Javier says. “This about being honest, right, Dr. Horton?”
Dr. Horton nods.
“And if we honest, we got to admit some of us ain’t going to make it. Like that girl Mariana? I’m sorry to be the one to say this, Barbie, and you know I praying for that girl tonight.”
Barbie taps her chest with her f ist in thanks.
“But you know she ain’t coming out of that,” Javier continues. “Unless there some miracle. And Sandra’s father? He ain’t never gonna be a real father to her. And Isaac’s mom? The booze her best friend. She ain’t giving that up.”
“Unless there’s some miracle,” I say.
“But we don’t live in a world of miracles,” Javier says. “You see water turning into wine anywhere? Or dudes walking on water?”
“This ain’t helpin’,” Wayne says.
“But we got to face it. Because if we relying on some miracle to save us, we all doomed.”
Just then Sandra mutters something. When Dr. Horton asks her to repeat it, she shakes her head and says, “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Sandra,” he says. “If you said it, it counts.”
This only frightens her, drives her even further behind those knees. Sandra never volunteers to say anything. She has to be coaxed. Nobody says anything. By now even I know the drill. If Dr. Horton asks Sandra to speak, we have to wait for her to speak. There’s no taking the f ifth in group.
Eventually she says, “We can be our own miracle.”
Wayne sighs. “That’s a nice thought, Sandra, but I ain’t got that kind of conf idence in myself. I’m not saying I’m all bad. I know I got some good qualities. But I ain’t being my own miracle.”
“What about being someone else’s?” Dr. Horton asks.
“Yeah,” Sandra says. “That’s what I meant.”
“How’s that supposed to work?” Wayne asks.
Sandra looks at Barbie. “Is it okay if I tell them?”
Barbie turns to Dr. Horton. “This here’s conf idential, right?”
Dr. Horton looks worried.
“So I can’t get in trouble for anything that gets said here, right?”
“Barbie?”
“I’m just asking if it’s conf idential?” Barbie insists. “You said that, right?”
He nods, his face grim. “Yes. It’s conf idential.”
“I’m only bending the rules anyway. I ain’t hurting nobody.”
Dr. Horton looks like he’s one more question away from losing his temper. “Go on, Sandra. Tell us what Barbie did.”
“Well, Barbie’s been helping me track down my father.”
Dr. Horton’s eyes f lash.
“Not so she can see him,” Barbie says.
“Yeah, I don’t ever want to see him again,” Sandra agrees.
“That’s good, Sandra,” Riley says. “That’s progress. Right, Dr. Horton?”
Riley hates tension. He’s always trying to defuse it, make peace, f ind common ground.
But Dr. Horton isn’t ready for peace yet. “What exactly do you mean by tracking him down?”
I can understand his concern. Barbie’s a killer. She’s also a member of Sol Dominicano. These people do not “track people down” to invite them over for a barbecue.
“It’s so Sandra can warn his new kids,” Barbie says. “See, he remarried to some lady with three kids her own and Sandra wants to make sure they know what they getting into.”
“Two girls and a boy,” Sandra says. “That’s all I know. And that they move around a lot. Like we used to.”
“So I got some of those computer dudes to help me do a search on him. Only he change his name a lot, so it’s not so easy.”
“What computer dudes?” Dr. Horton asks.
“Aw come on, man. They’re not doing anything wrong. We just trying to help those kids and help Sandra get closure on her dad.”
“That’s not closure,” Dr. Horton says.
“But she can’t erase what he already done to her,” Barbie says, her voice rising. “So she just trying to prevent him from doing it to somebody else. What’s wrong with that?”
“A lot.” Dr. Horton doesn’t raise his voice. His anger is cool, under control. “We can’t have you approaching people on the outside, Barbie. That’s extremely dangerous. Sandra, I want to meet with your counselor to talk about this.”
Sandra looks petrif ied.
“But Sandra’s counselor’s a dude,” Barbie spits. “Like you a dude. I don’t mean no disrespect, Dr. Horton, but how you supposed to understand this?”
“Barbie—”
“You can’t. No way a dude gets this. But I been there. I’m the only one in here who understands what Sandra’s been through. Ain’t none of you understand it.” She dismisses all of us in one sweeping glance. “You got to have this body—a girl’s body—to know what that kind of vulnerability all about. You telling me you know that, Dr. Horton? Shit, you like seven foot tall. You don’t know what vulnerable is till you had some dude bearing down on you and it don’t matter what you want. Ask Sandra. Ask Isaac’s mother. There’s certain things you can never understand. And you better thank your lucky stars for it too. I’m only tryin’ to help.”
“We’ll talk afterwards,” Dr. Horton says.
“You bustin’ me?” Barbie’s tone is hostile now, threatening.
I imagine a horrible chain of events—a phone call, an order for a tail—all of it ending with a revenge hit on Dr. Horton.
But Dr. Horton shakes his head. “I’m not busting anyone. But I’d like to know what you plan to do when you f ind him.”
“We gonna contact his new wife and kids,” Barbie says.
“How?”
“Email.”
“I just want to stop him before he hurts those kids,” Sandra says. “Those kids are innocent.”
Not for long, I think. If her father isn’t stopped—and honestly? he won’t be—his new kids are already on their way toward the Boulevard of Bad Fathers. And that’s assuming they aren’t already living there.
“Dr. Horton,” Javier says. “For what it’s worth, I think this a worthwhile project. Maybe Barbie should have talked to you f irst, but seriously, she’s just trying to help.”
“And Sandra too,” Wayne adds.
Dr. Horton doesn’t answer right away. He’s obviously upset with Barbie for starting this project without his permission. But what can he honestly say? Is anyone, besides Barbie and Sandra, looking out for those kids? DCF? Their mother? Their mother invited that monster into her home, and DCF never steps in until the shit’s already gone down.
“I’ll want to meet with these computer guys,” Dr. Horton says. “And don’t worry. I’m not busting anyone. But I want to make sure Sandra’s not endangering herself in any way. You either, Barbie.” He takes a deep breath. “You showed initiative. Both of you. And that’s great. I applaud that. But I need you to understand that there are adults here who can help you. You’ve got to reach out to us.”
“Mr. Klein’s an adult,” Barbie says.
“Who’s Mr. Klein?”
“He’s the teacher in the computer room.”
“Is he the one who’s helping you?”
Barbie nods.
“Anyone else?”
Barbie hesitates, then shakes her head. “No, just Klein.”
For a split second, I’m tempted to bust Stanley Huang. I’ve seen him sniff ing around Barbie plenty of times. Now I know why. How come he gets to be Barbie’s hero?
The Free Page 11