Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass

by Meg Medina

  Lila blows on her wet nails and waves me in from the living room.

  “Hurry up! You’re just in time!” she says. “I think she’s going to get her vision back today.” On-screen, Yvette, our heroine, is in a hospital bed, her eyes bandaged. She’s flanked by her husband — and her mother-in-law, who secretly engineered the accident a few episodes ago. There’ll be hell to pay any minute, just the way Lila likes, with lots of yelling and threats. I drop my things and flop down on the sofa, not too close in case she gets a whiff of me. It feels good to be home.

  Lila pushes a plate in my direction without a word. It’s our usual afternoon snack: a sleeve of saltines and can of Goya Vienna sausages that Ma calls poison. I stuff my cheeks and slip off my spattered shoes. Heaven.

  When the commercials come on, Lila turns to me.

  “What do you think?”

  She holds up her perfect almond-shaped nails. They’re painted black with a hint of red sparkles. “‘Wicked.’ It’s new in the catalog this fall.”

  Cotton balls stained with her usual red polish are littered on the coffee table. The smell of acetone is a bad mix with sausages and sour milk. I try not to sit too close.

  “New shipment?” I ask.

  She plucks a cracker off my plate with the pads of her fingers and arches her brow as she takes a dainty bite.

  “It arrived just this morning. And I should tell you that we’re running a special, Miss Sanchez.” Lila is using her businesswoman voice. She likes to practice on me before she wears down her good heels knocking on doors. “This polish is only $3.99. Regularly five dollars.”

  I try to picture vampy black-and-red nails on any of the tired-looking ladies on our block, but I realize Joey Halper would make a much better prospect. Black nails might look good with his do-it-yourself knuckle tattoos. Poor Lila. Ma’s right. She’s her own best customer.

  “Hey, what happened to your shirt?” She scrunches up her nose at the stink. “And your pants?” There’s a chocolate starburst pattern on my right thigh.

  “Food fight in the cafeteria,” I lie quickly. “What else have you got?”

  “Have a look,” she tells me, and turns back to the TV. “But don’t steal all my samples like last time.”

  Her Avon case is open at her feet, and I’m happy to dig in. We’ve always called this case the Treasure Chest. Going through it makes me feel like I’m six again — in a good way. It’s an old-fashioned model that looks bulletproof — black and hard on the outside. Lila could get a modern one, but this is the one she likes. She says it’s the only way to keep all those pressed powders and glass bottles safe.

  I pull out a small bottle shaped like a girl in a hoop skirt. She comes apart at the waist if you twist her hard enough. Her skirt is filled with a heavy jasmine splash. When she’s drained, Lila will add her to the collection of bottles decorating her windowsills. Dried-out geishas, roses — breakable things of every kind that she can’t bear to throw away.

  The music swells on-screen, and I look up just in time to see that Yvette’s bandages are being removed. Lila’s eyes go wide in anticipation; she holds her breath, grabs my sticky knee. Even I can’t help but stare at what’s coming next.

  The camera does a close-up on the girl who can miraculously see again. It cuts to the mother-in-law, then to the clueless husband. All at once, the credits run.

  “¡Maldito sea!” Lila shoves the coffee table with her foot. “We have to wait to see that hussy get what’s coming?”

  “Please. You know what’s coming.” I rub perfume on my wrists and sniff. It’s better than sour milk, and it reminds me of fancy department stores where I can only browse. I stuff a few samples in my pocket. “It’s going to end the way all the novelas end. Everybody happy.”

  She shoos away my idea like it’s a bad smell. “So what? Nobody gets happy the same way. That’s what’s interesting.”

  She glances at the clock with peacock feathers all around the rim and then gets a good look at me. I tuck my hair behind my ears, trying to look natural, but I’m a mess and she knows it.

  “Mami working overtime again?” she asks.

  I nod. There’s a big sale this weekend, and extra shifts are the only way Ma could swing the move. She won’t be home until nine tonight. I won’t have to dodge her questions or make up stories about my clothes, but I’m in no hurry to sit over there all by myself, either.

  “I can stay awhile. If you want.”

  Lila smiles. She always likes company.

  “¡Perfecto! Then we have plenty of time.”

  “For what?”

  “To pamper ourselves, of course.” She leads me to the bathroom and drags in a chair. “You think I look this way without some work?”

  In no time, my dirty clothes are in a pile, and I’m wrapped in one of her full body towels. She puts my head back, and soon the milk knots dissolve in the coconut shampoo. I close my eyes as she makes circles at my temples, just the way she does for her best customers at the salon. For the first time today, I almost relax and let my troubles wash away.

  “You doing okay at that new school?” she asks after a while.

  The whole awful day comes back behind my eyelids, searing me with shame. I hate lying to Lila, but I don’t want to talk about it. I squeeze my eyes tight so no part of it escapes.

  “Yes.”

  “But you haven’t told me anything about it. That’s not like you.”

  “You sound like Ma now,” I say, annoyed.

  “Ouch.” Lila glances at my pile of soiled clothes and uses her soapy pinkie to flip on the radio she has perched on her hamper. It’s tuned to La Mega FM. “How about some music, then, grouch?”

  I don’t say anything else as the sputtering radio fills the room. Lila wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be hated. Everyone loves her; everyone wants to talk to her at a party. Men dream about her. Women want to be her. I don’t know that secret charm — at least not at DJ, where I’ve become a loser just like that.

  Before I can help it, a tear slides from the corner of my eye and grazes my temple. I turn my head just in time to make it disappear in the water. Did she see? A shiver rises through my spine, but Lila doesn’t say a word. She hums to the music like it’s a lullaby and rinses me clean.

  Ma thought she’d be a piano teacher once. She studied all the way to the third-year examinations in Cuba, but once she got here to the States, there was no money for fancy lessons, much less any time to spend on hobbies. That’s the only dream she’s ever told me about, but she won’t say too much else, since piano music reminds her of my father. Our piano is a relic from when my parents were together, so I don’t know why Ma keeps it if she won’t play it. Lila says Ma used to play a mean tumbao, but now she acts like the Steinway is just a place to prop up knickknacks. I’d love to be able to play some of those Latin grooves myself, but no matter how many times I’ve begged Ma to teach me, she says no. I even bought Latin sheet music and started teaching myself to tempt her, but she wouldn’t bite. And it’s hard to teach yourself to play the piano when you can barely read music.

  “It’s Bach you should listen to,” she tells me every time I ask. “Not salsas by heroin addicts.” Last year for Christmas, she gave Lila a Kmart CD called Timeless Masterpieces, hoping to steer us both her way. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s still shrink-wrapped in Lila’s bookcase.

  Sometimes I wonder if piano music is why Ma fell in love — or, as she says, “ruined her life.” Not that she’d ever tell me. She keeps the story of her and my father to the CliffsNotes version: His name was Agustín Sanchez. He was from Santo Domingo, a real brain in his country, but he couldn’t find work and came here. He played the organ every Sunday at Saint Michael’s Church, the Spanish masses at eleven and two. He left before I was born. They were never married.

  That’s it. I don’t even know what he looked like. There’s not a single photograph left of him anywhere. Lila helped Ma burn every picture of him when he disappeared. Neither
one of them is one bit sorry, either. Ma calls him “My Lousy Destiny.” Lila just calls him “the Scuz.”

  In fact, all I have left of my father is his last name — and I think that’s only because Ma couldn’t stand the shame of leaving FATHER’S NAME blank on my birth certificate. What if the hospital people thought she was the kind of woman who couldn’t remember the names of the men she slept with?

  “Why do you want to know all that old history?” Lila says when I ask about him. “Your mother takes care of you, doesn’t she? And I’m always here to help. Forget him.”

  “Because I want to know. What if I’m riding next to him on the bus and never even know it! What if he has other kids, and I marry my own brother by mistake and my kids come out funny?” I don’t add the rest: What if he’s sorry and misses us and wants to send me to good schools and give me piano lessons?

  Lila shakes her head and looks at me with her eyes a little sad.

  “Not a chance, mija. The Scuz went back to DR with his tail between his legs. Leave it at that.”

  I’m in my still nearly empty room again on Friday. I’m blasting an old son and dancing with an imaginary partner, waiting for Mitzi to call me back. I’m keeping a list of everything I want to tell her. She’s been so busy these days. Practice. Tests. Clubs.

  The phone rings, and I think it might be her. Unfortunately, it’s Ma, and that ruins everything.

  “Meet me at Met Foods at five.”

  It’s four fifteen, and she’s on break.

  “We need some things, and I need your help carrying them,” she says. “We got a big TV shipment today. My shoulders are numb.”

  “Can’t we go tomorrow?” I beg. “I’ll make us fried eggs and rice.”

  “Don’t be lazy. Chicken is on sale, two for five. We’ll take some to Lila. God knows if she’s even feeding herself without us. You want her to end up looking like one of those scrawny Russian models?”

  Ma hangs up.

  By six thirty, I’m walking by the school yard with Ma. The sun is starting to sink behind the buildings, but unfortunately it’s still daylight, so I can actually be seen. We’re each hauling two bags; Ma’s got the light ones with the plantain chips and napkins. I’ve got four roasters, which took Ma fifteen minutes to pick. She made me rummage through the whole refrigerator case to find the best ones.

  The chain-link fence feels too long, especially with Ma’s sneakers squeaking every step. She clutches her bag and frowns at the kids hanging out on the pavement, like she’s ogling man-eating cats in a zoo. An old Pitbull song is blaring from a radio. The bass makes the ground shake. It takes everything I’ve got not to pump my hips and move to the beat.

  I pray Ma won’t start in. If there’s one thing she can’t pass up, it’s warning me about life’s dangers. They’re lurking everywhere, from dirty toilet seats to strange men waiting in alleys for girls stupid enough to be out alone.

  No luck.

  “No one decent hangs out in a school yard, oíste?” she starts. She’s loud enough to hear over the music.

  “Shhh, Ma, please . . .”

  “Look at that one.” She actually points. “A savage on the street. Qué chusma.”

  When I look across the yard, a jolt of fear runs through me. Of all people, it’s Yaqui Delgado, live and in the flesh, like a nightmare that’s stepped out into the real world. She’s playing an old game called suicide with three other girls. I can tell she’s lost the last of her points because she’s leaning her back against the school-yard wall, waiting for the firing squad to shoot. The other girls start to launch their hard rubber balls, nine free shots in all, but Yaqui doesn’t flinch. She keeps her hands behind her head and smiles, even when a ball hits loudly near her ears, even when one hits her squarely in the mouth. Those yearbook eyes are flashing with fire as she’s pelted; it’s like she wants more.

  I keep my eyes down, hoping Yaqui is too preoccupied to spot us as we go by. Sometimes I swear Ma’s going to get us killed with her mouth. I’m hurrying, but she won’t let up. Decency is her favorite topic these days — or the lack of it. Working at Attronica only makes it worse. The news blares all day on dozens of screens until she’s in knots. Rapes, attacks, beatings just for being in the wrong neighborhood. You name it. She’s convinced the world has gone putrid. If I’m not careful, I’ll be swept away in the tsunami of filth, too.

  “Son unas cualquieras,” she mutters. Nobodies. No culture, no family life, illiterates, she means. The kind of people who make her cross to the other side of the street if she meets them in the dark on payday. They’re her worst nightmare of what a Latin girl can become in the United States. Their big hoop earrings and plucked eyebrows, their dark lips painted like those stars in the old black-and-white movies, their tight T-shirts that show too much curve and invite boys’ touches. The funny thing is, if I could be anything right now, I’d be just like one of them. I’d be so strong that I could stand without flinching if people pelted me with rubber balls. I’d be so fierce that people would cross to the other side of the street when they saw me coming. Yaqui and me, we should be two hermanas, a sisterhood of Latinas. We eat the same food. We talk the same way. We come from countries that are like rooms in one big house, but, instead, we’re worlds apart.

  From the corner of my eye, I see that Yaqui and a few girls have started to play handball now. It’s a hard and quick game, all instinct. Yaqui’s not wearing a jacket, even though you can see her breath in the air. A tank top shows off her cut shoulders. Me, I’m trailing my mother home with a bag of dead birds and frozen yucca, like a sap.

  Ma sees me watching. “I didn’t sacrifice to have you turn out like one of them,” she says.

  “Hurry,” I say. The light up ahead is blinking yellow.

  All I want is to get home. I don’t want to hear about Ma’s sacrifice right now. I’ve heard about el bombo a million times. Cubans couldn’t come to the United States like people from other countries. They had to enter a freakish government-run lottery. That’s what Ma did, and she likes to make it sound really dramatic. How she ran with her curlers still in her hair to mail her name to the lottery people. How she prayed to every saint for her name to be pulled for a visa so she could keep from starving. How when she first landed in America, she sat at the airport, waiting to be claimed like a piece of luggage by a cousin she’d never met. How she’s worked like a dog ever since.

  And so on.

  I cut in front of a car just in time. Ma is older, slower, so she’s stranded, waiting for the light.

  “Piddy!” she shouts after me.

  I’m sure Yaqui has heard. I don’t slow down as my name echoes in the street. I’m practically running until I reach the door.

  “What’s the matter with you, Piedad?” Ma is out of breath when she finally catches up with me at the front door. Her sneakers have come unlaced, and she looks even more worn out than usual. She doesn’t even try to say hello to Mrs. Boika, who is at her spot, guarding the last of the fading roses. “Where’s the fire?”

  I grit my teeth as I fumble for my key.

  “How can you say bad things about someone you don’t know?” I shout. “How can you hate a stranger? Why do you have to pick on people?” She’s no better than Yaqui. It’s like everywhere I look there’s a bully in my face.

  My key won’t budge the sticky lock. I’m mute with fear and anger as I rattle the door and give it a hard kick. Ma blinks at me in surprise. The corner of her eye is jumpy as she straightens her back like a concert pianist on the bench.

  “What’s wrong?” she demands. “You’re shaking. Tell me what’s the matter.”

  What can I say that won’t make things worse? If I tell her about Yaqui, she might storm to Daniel Jones in her squeaky shoes and rant to the principal about savages. Then I’m dead for sure.

  “I hate this stupid apartment, okay? I hate it. I wish we’d never moved!”

  Ma looks like she’s going to say something else, but then she shakes her head and digs thro
ugh her purse.

  “Dios de mi alma,” she mutters. “You’ve been moody all week!”

  It’s been fifteen years since she’s gone to Saint Michael’s, but she crosses herself like a nun and shakes inside the blackness of her purse for her key.

  Saturday is the busiest day at Salón Corazón, and that’s why Gloria Murí sometimes asks me to come in with Lila. I’m so bored on the weekends without Mitzi, and the tips are good. Besides, I need money to buy a new sweatshirt before the weather turns much colder. Turns out chocolate milk stains worse than blood.

  Gloria is the owner, and business has been so good over the years that she’s rich. She has a house in Great Neck and a lady who cleans and cooks for her. Everybody knows Salón Corazón. It’s one part hair salon, three parts social hangout. She has six hairdressers, two shampoo girls, three manicurists, and me. As far as I know, there’s only one golden rule she has for us employees — and it’s not that you have to be legal, since she’ll pay you cash if you want. No, what Gloria demands is that you make her clients happy. When she unlocks the door for business, she calls over her shoulder, “¡Sonrisas!” and that’s our cue to paste on our happiest faces. She puts out endless pots of café negro and vanilla ladyfingers, and she never complains if her customers come a little late or hang around to talk after they’re done. It’s a beehive of gossip and harmless arguments shouted over the sound of the dryers. Sometimes it’s so crowded in here, you can hardly move. You’d think it would drive her crazy, but no. This is just how she wants it.

  “Mijas, in this business you have to be like an Alka-Seltzer!” Gloria always says. “A comforting relief.”

  Basically, my job is to fetch coffee, sweep up hair, and fold the hot towels from the dryer in the back. Sometimes, if there’s a new nail-polish line, I’m the hand model, too, on account of my nice uñas that stay long. It’s not bad except when Gloria’s dog is in the shop — like today. Fabio is an old shih tzu with long hair. He’s got one blind eye and a nasty disposition. If I’m not careful, he bites my ankles — hard. Not even my high-tops help against his needle teeth. I have to arm myself with a squirt bottle to keep him in line when Gloria’s not looking. Nobody dreams of complaining to her about that nasty creature, though. She adores him; it’s like she birthed him herself.