Instead, I call Serena.
“What are you guys doing?” I ask as soon as Serena answers the phone.
“Hello?” Her voice sounds muffled.
“It’s me. It’s Margot.” It dawns on me that not everyone is expected to be at work by seven on a beautiful summer day.
“What time is it?” Serena says. “Why are you calling so early? I can barely hear you.”
Serena and I sat next to each other in science class. I noticed her right away because she has blemish-free skin and straight dark brown, envy-worthy hair. We were paired up for a class project and that’s how I found out she lived in this amazing brownstone in Brooklyn. Serena speaks three languages fluently so I asked her to teach me French and Taiwanese curse words. I spent most of my class time figuring out ways to insult people in Taiwanese, anything to prove I had a personality. She eventually invited me to sit with her and Camille during lunch but first she gently hinted that the dense eyeliner covering my eyes made me look like a raccoon so I stopped wearing it that way.
“I’m uptown and just wanted to check in,” I say. “See what’s going on.”
“What?” she says. “Your voice keeps cutting off.”
There’s too much static. I pace up and down to try and find the best reception but the supermarket is situated right across from a park. The tiny bit of nature in the form of big green trees blocks my connection.
“What are you guys up to?” I ask again.
“I can’t hear you and it’s too early to be screaming into a phone,” Serena says. “Call me later, please.”
Click.
“Hello? Hello?”
Stranded at the supermarket.
“You’ll find a better phone connection if you stand on the other side of the store.”
I turn to the voice. I hadn’t noticed him before. He wears a snug red T-shirt that shows off his lean baller’s body, jeans, and a messenger bag across his broad chest. He pulls books from his bag and arranges them on a collapsible table. He’s about my age, I think, maybe older. He doesn’t look familiar. Not that I know anyone from this block but he’s not dressed like Dominic or the rest of the stock boys inside. For starters, none of those boys would be caught dead wearing a beaded necklace.
“Thanks,” I say. He nods and goes back to arranging books and pamphlets on the table.
I glance over to the supermarket. No one seems to have noticed that I’ve left, which is fine by me. The boxes can wait. I might as well find out why this guy is set up in front of the store. I stroll over to his table while he talks to a young mother. A grainy image on a brochure shows a neglected building with the words SAY NO TO THE ROYAL ORION underneath.
“They’re displacing these families, forcing them out by cutting off their heat and hot water,” he says. “These are our neighbors, mothers with young kids unable to get their basic needs met.”
He directs her to a clipboard that holds only a couple of signatures. I grab a book with a black-and-white image of a woman and the title Song of the Simple Truth.
“I just need your name and number or e-mail,” he says to her. Then he turns to me. “Sorry, but those books aren’t free.”
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to steal it.” I place the thick book back where I found it. He needs to relax. I walk over to the other side of the table and read one of his brochures but it’s hard to concentrate when I’m trying to listen to what he’s saying. The mother leaves after she signs the petition. The guy finally directs his attention to me and points his pen to the image on the pamphlet.
“Have you heard what’s going on right here on your block?” he says.
“I don’t live here so I guess the answer is no.”
“You don’t have to live here to know when something is wrong,” he says. “The Carrillo Estates owners are forcing their tenants on Eagle Avenue to vacate their apartments in order to build a luxury high-rise.”
His lips are as dark as he is and full. His eyes are deep brown. His beaded necklace goes perfectly with his whole boho-hippie style. He sure sounds serious.
“My name is Moises Tirado, and I’m from the South Bronx Family Mission.” He sticks his hand out for me to shake. This whole formal introduction so takes me by surprise that I almost forget what to do. It’s kind of cute. I like that. Yeah, he’s kind of cute too. “I’m collecting names to present them to the community board. Would you like to participate in change?”
I look down at the other three signatures. There’s a whole lot of white space up on that paper. I will not be the fourth person on there.
“No. I don’t think so. I need to hear more to make an informed decision.”
He rubs his chin and holds his gaze on me.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he says. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“My name is Margot and no, I said that already. I live up in Riverdale.”
“Well, Margot. Can I call you Margot? Even people in Riverdale should be aware of the injustices happening here.” He points again to the brochure. “What goes down here can easily go down in Riverdale.”
“I don’t lend out my signature so freely unless I do research first. You could be making this whole thing up.”
I check for any traces of ink. Not that I have a preference but certain tattoos can be a turnoff, like some chauvinistic writing done with a picture of a naked girl. A guy without any tattoos says something too. Like, maybe he’s a good boy. From what I can tell, there are no tattoos but he does have some sort of scar around his neck. I try not to stare. I don’t want to be rude.
“I only speak the truth. You can ask me anything you want. Anything.” He says this with a slight smile. “I’ll squash your doubts, Margot. Any hesitation, I will magically dispel.”
Everyone here calls me Princesa. It feels good to hear my real name even when said by a stranger.
“Hit me with your questions. I’m ready,” he says. “No, wait. Let me warm up.”
Moises hops up and down like a boxer in a ring waiting for the bell to announce the start of a fight. He shakes his shoulders and rolls his neck. His performance is so ridiculous. It’s hard not to laugh.
“Seriously? I’m not trying to a pick a fight,” I say. “I just want the facts.”
He stops and looks intensely at me. My hand automatically touches my charm necklace, the one Mami gave me last Christmas. I wish I would stop fidgeting.
“You’re Junior’s baby sister, am I right?”
My smile drops. He knows my brother. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. I wonder what else he knows about me. Not enough. For starters, the way he addresses me is wrong.
“I’m not a baby,” I say.
“No. You’re definitely not a baby.”
His expression is straight but there’s a hint of something behind those eyes. Why do I feel so flustered? His face scrunches up as if he’s studying my ancestral line, dating me back to when my great-great-great-grandfather lived in Puerto Rico wearing only a nagua right before the Spaniards got to him.
“I can definitely see the resemblance,” Moises says. “You’re way better-looking. No doubt.”
“We don’t look alike,” I say. “Anyway, I work here. Well, actually, I started today. I’m helping out in the store, sort of like consulting. A marketing consultant.”
His serious expression makes me speak more gibberish. He probably isn’t buying my consulting line. The same thing happened with Serena and Camille. I was never one to lie but when Serena asked me what my father did for a living I couldn’t admit that he owned two sad-looking supermarkets in the Bronx. I needed to boost the truth. Instead I told her my family owned a chain of grocery stores upstate. Serena and Camille didn’t even bat an eye over my lie so I knew I’d made the right choice. The chances of them ever finding out the truth are so slim, it’s worth the social currency.
“I was going to spend the summer in the Hamptons but I’ve decided to work,” I say. “It looks better for college, although I
still have time for that, but it’s never too early. Working here is basically like a crash course in Marketing Strategies 101. It was either this or interning at Ketchum or IMG but going grassroots stands out more on those college applications. Do you know what I mean?”
The words flow as my tale becomes more elaborate. There’s an adrenaline rush that comes with lying. It’s the same feeling I get when the girls dare me to do stuff. Being bad. It’s not really me but this other girl, a more exciting version of myself. If I stop talking Moises might actually see who I am. Besides, I can’t tell whether he’s interested or not. He listens, for sure, but his solemn demeanor only increases my word explosion.
“I’m planning on creating some social media campaigns. Work on their circulars. Take it to the next level.”
Sanchez & Sons on social media? Circulars? I don’t even know what I’m talking about. There’s no way I can continue on this dumb path without sounding like a complete moron. Moises must see right through my bullshit demeanor. I stop.
“Anyway . . . I should head back.”
“Wait. Don’t leave. Give me five minutes to explain what I’m doing out here,” he says. “I know you don’t want to go back to work. You can use me as an excuse not to return. Besides, this is way more important than chilling on a beach or consulting for some supermarket.”
For a second there that sexy smile of his got me rethinking my objections. It must be easy to follow Moises. Who wouldn’t want to drop everything and sign his petition when social justice and a side of seduction are being served?
But he’s no Nick Greene. After ignoring me most of the school year, Nick finally gave me some love. Tiny love, but love nonetheless. On one of the last days of school, I was caught up watching him walk in front of me when he abruptly stopped. I tripped, unable to navigate the high heels Camille insists I wear. Anyone else would have ignored me there on the floor, struggling to get up, but not Nick. He took my hand, helped me up, and asked if I was all right. Then he said my name. Margot. Serena thinks I have a good chance with him. He’s smart but not a brainiac and he comes from money but not too much money so he’s approachable. I could see my parents giving their approval. Not that Mami would ever allow me to go out on a real date with him but my relationship with Nick could exist at Somerset and on the phone. There are plenty of couples who communicate via texts. Nick would never have to know about Sanchez & Sons.
“You ever been to the Hamptons?” I ask. “I’m not talking about a one-day trip. I’m talking about staying at a beach house, like, living there?”
I notice the scar around Moises’s neck again, a small rigid pink patch of skin. I try hard not to stare at it but I do.
“It’s the life. You have no idea,” I say. “You should think before you judge.”
“Trust me when I say that those people lounging off others in the Hamptons are living with blinders on. The Eagle Avenue families are in fear of being kicked out of their homes.” He pauses. “Can I ask you a personal question? How old are you?”
“I’m not going to tell you my age.”
“There’s no disrespect. Just trying to figure out where you land in the Sanchez family. I know Junior is older but I always thought his sister was way younger. But you’re . . .”
“I’m what?”
He nods as if he’s approved a thought in his head.
“Naw. Nothing. Just that I would have remembered you if I had met you before. I definitely would have.”
He locks eyes with me. If I keep vigorously twirling my necklace I’m going to choke. I overhear my brother yell out orders to someone. This conversation is heading I don’t know where but I better stop. I turn away.
“Hey, wait a second.” Moises grabs my hand and presses a brochure into it. “Give me a chance. Let me explain what we’re working on. Once you hear the stories about how badly these families are struggling you’ll want to help.”
For a few seconds our hands touch but I pull away and walk back to the supermarket.
Chapter 3
Two stock boys with mischievous grins greet me by the door. One shakes his head.
“You better not let your papi see you talking to some guy,” he says.
I turn to the accuser.
“I was investigating what he was doing in front of the supermarket,” I say. “Besides, my father and I don’t have any secrets so what you’re implying holds no bearing.”
The stock boy looks confused. I flip my approach.
“Jerk!”
They laugh uproariously.
I’ve barely been here a full day and I’ve already been accused of being ignorant of the world’s injustices and of exhibiting whore-ish tendencies. I jam the brochure into my purse and walk back in.
“So what did Moises have to say?” Jasmine asks. “Is he trying to sell you something?”
She thumps a can of salsa de tomate over and over against the price scanner with no result. Each time she creates a slight dent in the can. Exasperated, she presses the intercom and yells out for help.
“He didn’t say much,” I say. “Who is he?”
“Who, him? He’s nobody. His brother is Orlando from up in the Patterson Projects. He’s just some títere.”
I peer back at Moises. His hair is curly and shorn tight to the sides. He has a bit of a growth, not a true beard but more like a goatee.
“He looks normal to me.”
Jasmine smacks her lips with disgust. “He used to sell drugs like his bullshit of a brother. After Orlando got busted, I heard Moises ended up in Youth Academy.”
I’ve never met anyone who was sent to Youth Academy Boot Camp before. The local news once did an undercover investigative piece on the brutal way kids were treated there. They even got an award for the coverage.
“Oh. That’s terrible,” I say.
“Terrible? Terrible is when you don’t have enough to eat. Terrible is when you don’t have enough money to take the train,” Jasmine says. “What happened to him is pathetic. That makes him weak. Now he goes around the neighborhood trying to sound important, collecting signatures for I don’t know what, but he’s still a bullshitter just like his brother.”
“How can you say that? You are so mean.”
Jasmine motions to an elderly woman who’s about to unload her cart on the conveyor belt to move to another register.
“I’m just being real. Real talk,” she says. “Don’t be mad because I speak the truth.”
“Does he still go to Youth Academy?”
“What the hell do I know?” she says. “I’m not social services.”
Jasmine grabs the microphone and yells for Junior. I open a pack of M&M’s and toss a bunch of them in my mouth. This talk about boot camps and drug dealers freaks me out. Sugar will comfort me.
“You need to pay for that.” Jasmine holds her hand out. “That costs a dollar.”
“Are you serious?” She can’t be. My father owns this place. I should be allowed to take whatever I want. I’m practically an owner. She doesn’t budge. I pull out a dollar in change and slam it on the conveyer belt. Why does Jasmine have to bite my head off?
After a few more minutes, Junior comes down. He looks pissed. Another day, another argument with Papi. He should be used to it by now. Papi’s been riding him ever since he lost his wrestling scholarship. First, Junior couldn’t keep up with the other wrestlers. He kept complaining that the coach didn’t understand him, that it was too hard. There were heated discussions on the phone, with Papi imploring Junior to shape up. After he busted his knee during a match, the coach dropped Junior from the team. No more scholarship. Junior didn’t even try to keep his grades up. He just sort of gave up and stopped attending classes. Academic probation soon followed. Within weeks of that Papi made the decision to pull Junior from the school.
Now Junior works as assistant manager but everyone knows that Oscar is really Papi’s second-in-command. Junior is twenty-three but his face is haggard, drawn in with bags under his eyes. Before, he cared
only about wrestling. Working out. Healthy food. Tight shirts that showed off his cut arms. Now he smokes too much. Drinks too much. Does everything too much. Worse than all of that, he wears Ed Hardy bedazzled-dragon shirts.
“You’re going to have to be nice to me for me to fix this.” He flirts with Jasmine. My brother never turns it off.
“How about ‘fuck you.’ Does that work for you?” Jasmine says this in the sweetest of tones. Her cold expression is pretty funny.
“You didn’t say that last night,” he jokes. Gross.
“Ay, pobrecito, you wish we were together last night,” she says. “You will never, and I repeat, never handle this body. You can beg or pray to la Virgen María. It ain’t ever going down. Anyway, I’m not going to say anything more out of respect for your sister.”
“Wait a minute. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” Junior says. “Those boxes aren’t going to unload themselves.”
I cram the rest of the M&M’s into my mouth.
“I have an injury.” I show him my chipped nail. “Besides, I don’t think a minor should be handling prophylactics.”
“Isn’t that Orlando’s brother?” Junior notices Moises. “What the hell is he doing out there?”
“He’s collecting names for some meeting,” I say.
Junior contorts his face as if he got a whiff of a dead rat.
“What the fuck. Naw. That’s not gonna work. He needs to take that somewhere else.”
The Education of Margot Sanchez Page 2