“You’re nothing like me. I don’t got a papi helping me out.” Jasmine jabs her finger into the air as if she’s poking at an imaginary person. “I don’t need handouts or pity from anyone, especially you. I’ma make it to the top by myself.”
There’s no way of getting anywhere by yourself. I need Serena and Camille. I went from having Elizabeth as my best friend to knowing no one. There are still moments when I play catch-up with the rest. Jokes are exchanged and I can barely giggle at the right pauses. Sometimes I even fail at that, laughing five minutes after the fact. I don’t know what they’re talking about half the time. Who are we supposed to like now? What’s the right song I’m supposed to know the lyrics to? It’s as if I’m being tested. Be funny. Be cute.
I follow Jasmine back inside. She heads to her register and I go back to the gallons of milk. Hidden behind the towers, it’s easy for me to imagine Jasmine scowling at the customers. She punches the register keys as if she’s hitting a punching bag. She’s determined to bust out. It’s the only thing we have in common.
“Margot, can you come upstairs?”
Papi speaks into the intercom. I’m summoned to the office.
“Dum, dum-dum-dum. Dum,” Dominic says. “Dead Princesa walking.”
“Shut up,” I say, which cracks him up.
• • •
Papi sits at his desk, arms folded across his chest. The lunch Mami packed for him of rice and black beans with breaded chicken sits untouched. Junior stands by him, mimicking Papi. His sour face tells me all. He’s spewing lies. I put my guard up.
“They tell me you’ve been seeing a boy?” Papi asks.
“Who is ‘they’ and what boy?” I answer.
I know full well who he’s talking about. I can’t believe this. Junior is a snitch.
“Ese muchacho.” Papi points outside. The supermarket is facing a real crisis and they’re both sitting and wondering whether I’ve shared a bench with a guy. This is ridiculous. I see what’s going on. Someone steals from us and Junior throws me out like a curve ball to distract Papi from his mess. I won’t make this easy for them. I’m going to take this interrogation nice and slow.
“What do you mean ‘seeing’ him?” I say. “He does have a table out front.”
“Don’t be a wiseass,” Junior chimes in. “You’re hanging out with a drug dealer.”
“He’s not a drug dealer. He’s a community activist,” I say. “And I’m not seeing Moises or anyone else.”
Papi has a stern face. He’s on Junior’s side.
“You just need to open your legs once and end up like the rest of the girls here,” Papi says. “Stupid and pregnant.”
Papi’s words are like blows to my stomach. I’ve heard him speak like this many times before with the guys who work at the auto repair shop next door. They talk about past girlfriends or women who live in the neighborhood. Whenever I appear within earshot, Papi stops out of respect. But now? He’s lumping every single girl on this block with some sexist statement. How dare he say that girls are too dumb to think for themselves when it comes to sex? What about the guy? Look at stupid Junior. He fucks everyone and Papi doesn’t bat an eye. No one does. I’m not dumb enough to allow some sweet phrases uttered by a random guy to magically open up my legs. I’ve never even had a boy call me at home and now I’m doing it. Papi’s forgotten who I am.
“I can’t have my daughter associated with títeres,” Papi says. “You’re supposed to learn about responsibility, not go out with drug dealers.”
“He’s not a títere and you know nothing about the girls in this neighborhood. Stop generalizing about them and Moises.”
“It’s already going around the neighborhood. How do you think I found out about you chilling with that bum?” Junior says. “If you don’t put a stop to this now, it’s only going to get worse.”
“What the hell do you care?” I say. “Don’t you have real problems to worry about, like finding the missing money or screwing the next cashierista?”
“See what I mean?” Junior says as if I’ve offered up proof of my spiraling fall from grace. “She’s already changing her ways.”
“Enough, Junior,” Papi says. “Let me handle this.”
“Handle it, because word gets around. If you can’t control your own daughter, why would people trust us?” Junior leaves. I head to the door too. I won’t stand here and be accused.
Papi stops me.
“Princesa,” he says. “I’m doing this because I want to protect you. Because I love you. We both do. You understand that, don’t you?”
Love. Everything he does is because he loves me? Sending me to work here and keeping me from the Hamptons. Accusing me of being a whore while Junior drinks and screws whoever he wants. That’s some bullshit way to love.
“Don’t love me, then.”
He rubs his temple. The phone rings.
“I don’t want to hear about you talking to him or any other guy. Do you understand? And that’s final.”
Papi picks up the phone. He’s not protecting me. He’s worried about his image and what people will say if they find out his precious daughter speaks to a former-drug-dealer-turned-activist. They can’t control me. If they’re so nervous about me ruining the Sanchez reputation, I’ll give them something to truly worry about.
Before heading back to the gallons of milk, I search for Moises’s phone number and send him a text:
Let’s hang out. Just you and me.
A couple of minutes later, Moises replies with: Cool.
Chapter 10
The smell of sulfur is everywhere. A cherry bomb goes off. And then another. With each mini-bomb, I edge closer to Moises until the noise melts away.
“This is crazy,” I say.
“C’mon,” he says as we find refuge in a bodega.
Fear is a funny emotion. It can stop you dead in your tracks, plans squashed before they’re realized. Or fear can put you on a path you had no intention of taking. I made a huge mistake texting Moises. No doubt about it. But once I sent it, there was no turning back. Actually, the text was easy. It was the seconds that followed, waiting for his response, that made me increasingly aware that I had made an error.
I didn’t consult Serena and Camille. They would have advised me to play the good girl so I can meet them in the Hamptons. I’m already on week number four, with six more weeks to end my supermarket ordeal. Instead, I’m on some dumb rebellion trip. Junior and Papi think I’m fooling around with a títere, then I’ll fool around with a títere. It made complete sense at the time but now that I’m walking the streets with him, I’m not so sure.
He picks out mangos from a pile of mostly bruised fruit and two large bottles of water. I have no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going. The plan was easy enough to figure out. I convinced Papi and Mami that I was doing something with Elizabeth in the city. I then told Elizabeth that I would meet her and her friends at some point during the night. She was super excited. I didn’t mention Moises. My parents were more than happy to direct me away from any “distractions.”
I step around a crowd setting off bottle rockets and pray they don’t throw one my way. Although the Fourth of July was a couple of weeks ago, the Bronx is on some sort of extended fireworks kick. Something to do with the Yankees doing well. I don’t follow sports. I don’t care. I protect my face from being blown off.
A little boy tosses a firecracker in front of me. He’s shirtless and proud of his skinny chest. The boy struts toward me again, ready to light up another one. His smile is much too wide. We need to get out of this madness.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s not far. Just up the block,” Moises says.
He hasn’t said much since I met him at the other side of the park. Maybe he’s trying to figure me out. I hope he takes me somewhere nice and safe to eat. These fireworks scare me.
Moises stops in front of an apartment building with black iron gates on every window and rusty fire escapes d
raped with clothes hung to dry. It’s run-down. Pungent smells of fried food and weed permeate the hallway. We pass by each apartment and I hear boleros playing on a radio and couples talking loudly. Or arguing? I can’t tell.
“This is it.”
He pulls out a large set of keys. The door has a Jesus sticker with GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE written underneath. It looks battered, as if someone used a ram on it. Moises swings the door open and the first thing I see is a framed portrait of the Pope, President Kennedy, and Martin Luther King. To the right, there’s a long passageway with several doors on each side. To the left, a large gilded mirror leans atop a matching gold table. A vase brimming with fake flowers sits in the center. The flowers are encrusted with dust. Everything seems old and cheap.
I wait outside the apartment. This isn’t what I’m used to. I’m not that bold. I take a deep breath. This is only a dare, I say to myself, an adventure.
“Don’t worry. She’s at a church retreat. She won’t be back till late.”
An invitation to hang out means chilling at his apartment. Alone. This is how the night will go down. What was that thing Papi said? Will I see this thing through?
I step inside.
Sweat tickles my neck. The air is stifling. The tiny living room is so cluttered with furniture that there’s barely any room to stand. There are small statues of saints and a bunch of wedding souvenirs displayed like trophies. Although I want to, I don’t touch a thing. Whoever “she” is would notice.
“She likes to collect things,” he says.
“Your mom?”
“No. I live with my aunt. My dad is somewhere in Puerto Rico. Mom is out of commission.”
“What do you mean ‘out of commission’?”
He pauses. “The last I heard she was smoking crack with some guy. I haven’t seen her in a couple of years.”
“Oh. That would definitely put you out of commission.” I chuckle but there’s nothing to laugh about.
He turns to me.
“Now that you’ve heard my shiny background, you still want to stay?”
“Why? Am I supposed to be scared or something?” I say.
“You’re probably used to chilling with guys who come from money, two parents, a nice house.”
He’s judging me, addressing me in the same manner he used with Junior that day they almost got into it.
“You don’t know what I’m used to,” I say.
He keeps his gaze fixed on me. I try to hold the stare but quickly surrender. I feel the heat bounce off my cheeks. Things were a lot easier outside when all I had to do was dodge firecrackers. Now that we’re inside, doubt circles around me. We walk down the corridor and a ball of fur scurries past us, heading to the living room.
“What was that?” I ask.
“That’s Midnight the cat,” he says. “I wouldn’t pet her though. She’s pretty vicious.”
We enter another room. Unlike the living room, this room is empty of furniture except for a flimsy white sheet that covers a mattress on the floor. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling. Posters of Malcolm X, Pedro Albizu Campos, and a bunch of other serious people cover the dingy walls. The room smells of dirty socks.
Moises removes a stack of books from atop a crate and lights a few sticks of incense.
“Take a seat,” he says, and points to the crate.
A small breeze enters the room but not enough to make a difference. I keep my arms and legs crossed. I try not to move.
“Do you, um, sleep here?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s a place to crash until I can afford my own,” he says.
“Oh.”
I bite my fingernail. There are so many voices in my head telling me to leave. This isn’t for me. Neither is Moises. What must he think of me when the only place he takes me to is his bedroom?
I walk over to a mirror where various snapshots are pressed against the frame. Moises names each person in the picture as if I’ll remember.
“This is my crew, my panas,” he says. “After things went down with my brother, they held me together. Freddie here, he’s my right hand. He steered me away from some wild shit I was getting down with.”
All I can think is that Moises stands way too close. This too is a challenge so I stay where I am and nod as he explains how important his friends are to him. How a bunch of suspicious-looking chicks saved his life. He smells of musk. I hold my breath and anticipate his next move. Can I be like those girls in the picture with their tank tops and cutoffs? They seem to know what to do, unafraid, grins flashing, curves showing. One hand firmly placed on their waist, hips popped to the side. They’re so sure of themselves. But me, I don’t dress like them or talk like them. There’s nothing sexy about me. I’m completely at a loss. I sit back down on the crate.
Elizabeth sends me a text wondering what’s taking me so long. Thankfully, she already had plans to meet with her friends at Central Park’s SummerStage. I respond: Soon. I will let you know.
A blast from a cherry bomb outside startles me. I don’t know if I can keep this up. Even Moises notices my anxiety.
“I got an idea,” he says. “One sec.”
He runs out and I hear him open and slam doors. He rummages for something. I pray he’s getting ready to leave. Instead, he comes back and hands me a sleeping bag.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Trust me.”
I don’t know him but that doesn’t stop me from following him up a few flights of stairs. What am I doing? It’s like I’m pushing some imaginary boundary to see how far I will go. He pulls out another set of keys and opens the door and a soft breeze greets us. We’re on the roof. From up here, I can really see the fireworks. It’s as if neighboring blocks are communicating through loud bangs and sparkly lights.
“This is awesome.” I peer down at the people on the streets scrambling for fireworks position. We can even see a couple of stars twinkling in the sky.
“No one is allowed up here,” Moises says. “I help the landlord around the building so he gives me access.”
He pulls out a blanket and spreads it out. I open the sleeping bag and lay it close to the blanket. Then Moises cuts open the mangos and we eat. When he’s done, he lies on his back to watch the fireworks. I don’t know what to do with myself so I just sit there and act as if this is a normal occurrence.
“Come look at the stars.” He taps the empty side of the blanket next to him, a signal for me to join him. My heart pounds. I suck at this. I lie next to him but I can’t just stare dumbly at fireworks. My mouth has to move. I turn to him and notice a long scratch on his arm.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“My aunt’s cat.” He points at a small scar on my hand. “What about you?”
“I got that when I fell off my bike. I think I was ten.” I point to my knee. “I got this one in Hawaii. I slipped off a rock. Your turn.”
“I think that’s it,” he says.
“What are you talking about? What about that scar on your neck?” I lightly run my fingers across it.
He flinches.
I regret being so bold.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I quickly say.
He hesitates. “No, it’s cool.” He takes a sip from his bottle of water.
“I must have been around nine. My brother used to time me whenever I would go to the store for him. Once, I ran into my friend and started fooling around. When I got back, Orlando told me the next time I took a detour he would tie me up by my neck. He showed me how he would do it. I ended up with this rope burn as a nice reminder to never be late.”
Who does that? I’ve never heard anything so cruel.
“Jesus. You were just a kid,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s kind of fucked up. That’s the Tirado family for you.”
Moises tries to be a man about this story, to act as if what his brother did to him was okay, but there’s no cause to. It’s only us up here and the popping firec
rackers. I stare at him and for the first time I don’t look away. I place my hand over his.
“But you’re not like your brother. You’re different.”
He slowly pulls his hand away.
“What makes you so sure?” Moises spits the words out as if I’ve unmasked some sort of hurt. Foolish to think my simple gesture could help him forget the memory. Even worse to believe I have a right to touch him.
“I didn’t mean anything by—”
“Let me ask you something. Why did you send me that text after bailing on lunch?” he asks. “Are you slumming it? Seeing how the other half lives?”
This anger is not meant for me. I must have embarrassed him and for that I feel bad. But what he says still hurts and I’m a sucker for taking it. He can keep his mangos. I get up.
“There’s this misconception that people from the South Bronx are always trying to get out.” He continues with his rant. “But not everyone is stuck. Some people choose to live here. I saw the expression on your face when I took you to my room. You look down on me and my family.”
Anger builds up inside me. We’ve gone from sharing something intimate to accusations I can’t quite pin down. Anyone in their right mind would be shocked to see how he lives. He doesn’t even sleep on a regular bed but on some lumpy mattress on the floor. There isn’t anything wrong with wanting good things.
“Listen, Mr. Bronx.” I defend myself. “Instead of wasting time trying to save others with your righteous attitude, why don’t you buy a damn bedroom set? I’m so out of here.”
When I reach the door, it’s impossible to open. It’s jammed shut no matter how much I pull. My grand exit falls like a dumb afterthought.
The Education of Margot Sanchez Page 8