by Meg Medina
Ma puts on an apron in the kitchen and clicks her tongue when she sees the puny tray of cheese and salami.
“Give me the bags,” she says.
I hand over what we picked up at the bakery on Junction Boulevard. It’s two dozen ham croquettes, meat puff pastries, and a box of guava pasteles. Good thing she insisted we stop there before coming over. Sometimes I really think Ma has ESP.
“You have to feed people if you want them to buy,” she mutters, arranging the treats on a plate. She purses her lips, considering if it’s enough. “Let’s cut them smaller. Where’s the good knife?”
I know it’s in the third drawer, but here’s my chance.
“I’ll ask.”
Lila is leaning into the bathroom mirror, finishing her makeup.
“If you love me, sign this,” I say as I close the door behind me.
She has only one eyebrow drawn in, which makes her look lopsided as she reads the detention slip.
“Nice try, mijita. You give that paper to Clara. She’s the mommy, not me.”
“Please, Lila. I got the detention for erasing the word homo from a kid’s locker.” I make a cross over my heart and kiss my fingertips to prove I’m serious.
Ma’s voice sails through the apartment. She’s banging open drawers.
“Caramba, don’t you have a single sharp knife, Lila?”
“Third drawer!” Lila shouts. “What’s she cutting?”
“Please, please, please sign.” I give her my most pitiful look. “Ma will flip if I show her this. Plus, she’ll be grumpy for the whole party. You know what that’s like.”
She looks at me long and hard.
“I don’t like all these secrets, Piddy.”
“I beg you.”
“You sure you were sticking up for somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Because if I find out you’re lying, Piddy Sanchez, Clara isn’t going to be your biggest problem. I’ll mash you up into a mofongo myself, you hear me?”
“I swear.”
The doorbell rings.
“¡Ay, caray!” She signs my form with her eyebrow pencil and shoos me out. “Keep them busy.”
By eight, the apartment is crammed with perfumed ladies, all sampling the world of Avon. I recognize a few from the block, but mostly it’s a lot of Lila’s customers from Salón Corazón. A few made a big fuss over Ma when they came in, since they only see each other a few times a year, when Lila ropes them in for a makeup party. Clara, I haven’t seen you in forever! Oh, my God, time is so good to you. What’s your secret? Blah-blah. The worst, though, was Beba. When she saw Ma, her eyes filled up and she threw her arms around her waist.
“Clara, mi vida!”
Ma looked like she was being forced to kiss a smelly relative. “Hello, Beba” was all she said. She was stiff, like she wanted to be anywhere else but here.
El Gran Combo is blaring from the CD player, and it’s boiling in here. Lila has the windows propped open with her old phone books, but I’m still sweating in my turtleneck. I’m stuck here at the table with a calculator, waiting to total up the orders that aren’t exactly stacking up. So far, Lila has sold three lipsticks and a gold-plated chain. Meanwhile, the meat pies are flying off the trays. Lila’s not worried, though. It’s still early, and she has plenty of rum and time to wear them down. I grab a fistful of candy corn from a bowl and watch her work the first victim like a pro. It’s a moon-faced lady I’ve never met. Lila’s teaching her how to use blush.
“El secreto is to use the darker shade down here. Then you put the lighter tone up here on your mejillas. See?” Lila holds up a hand mirror. “Look at that those new cheekbones! You could be Penélope Cruz’s sister!”
Moon Face doesn’t stand a chance.
I turn away and watch the dancers for a while, but, really, I’m thinking of Joey. No matter how many times I look out the window, I don’t see him outside on the block. He must have seen Lila’s poster by the mailbox; he knows I’m up here, and yet he’s nowhere. What does that mean? Maybe when the trash gets full, I’ll take it down and check the basement, just in case he’s been waiting for me with the cats.
Meanwhile, Beba is tearing it up on the dance area, and let me tell you, her shimmy could probably get her arrested in public. She’s wearing a goofy headband with little pumpkins attached by springs. Her face is cemented over with a cucumber mask, and it makes her look like an alien as she merengues in the cramped space. Part of me wishes I could get up and let loose, the way she does. But for now, I stay put and let Beba practice the fancy moves. Unfortunately, she’s had a few too many visits to the Bacardi table to make twirling in her stocking feet a good idea.
Suddenly she perks up and puts a finger to her ear. A new song has caught her attention. It’s a strong accordion I recognize from Lila’s collection.
“¡Oye! It’s Paquita la del Barrio!” she squeals. “Paquita! Paquita! Paquita!”
Instantly half the room is singing along to “Rata de Dos Patas.” It’s a hit in Spanish, but I have to wonder how it would do in English. Filthy rat on two feet. You demon from hell! You scum of the earth! How you’ve hurt me. Poisonous snake, how I despise you!
On and on with sweetness more or less like that.
Lila is singing with gusto and soon everybody’s belting it out like drunken sailors, especially the chorus, so I can’t help but join in the fun.
Beba is dancing with even more fervor now. She turns once, twice — and then topples in my direction. My soda goes flying, ice cubes scattering along the linoleum floor. The spill nearly drenches the few receipts. Lila looks over and frowns as I’m gathering things out of the way.
“¡Comadres!” she says. “Don’t wreck the place. It’s all I got!” She winks at me. “Piddy, mi vida, you okay?”
“Fine.” But the spill is running off the tabletop and onto my shoes.
Beba is on all fours as she tries to scoop the ice back into the plastic cup, but she’s too tipsy to really do the job.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll get it.”
She grabs my hand and presses it to her green cheek. The round spaces she’s left around her eyes make her look owlish, and her lips can barely move.
“I’m so sorry, Piddy. Perdóname,” she says.
“Don’t worry, Beba. It was a mistake, an accident.”
“Yes, an accident,” she repeats.
“I’ll clean it up,” I tell her.
She looks up, still lost in the song. I start to move away, but she clamps me in her vise and hugs me close all at once. Her breath is boozy, and I feel like I’m being smothered in her scented bosom.
“Everyone makes mistakes.” She grabs my face in both her hands and looks into my eyes like a two-bit hypnotist. “Especially with love.”
I feel myself turning red, and I fidget with my turtleneck, which has pulled down a bit to show Joey’s handiwork. How could she possibly know about him and me in the basement? I try to pull away, but she holds on even tighter. “We all make mistakes, Piddy,” she whispers. “We all make them. Look at your poor mami.”
Beba doesn’t get the chance to go on. Lila has tiptoed around the mess to join us. She shakes her head as she surveys the puddle.
“Beba! What will your husband say? You’re drunk.” She hoists her up and steadies her. “Come on. I think your face is dry.” She dabs Beba’s forehead to check. “Time to see if this mask took away years like it’s supposed to.”
With that, they make a crooked beeline to the bathroom, Beba doing a little cha-cha and giggling the whole way.
Ma is at the sink, her back to the door, when I get to the kitchen. It’s much quieter in here, cooler. She used to be friends with these ladies, but you would never know it. She’s been hiding in here most of the night, the party pooper as usual, coming out a few times to pick up cups and fill food trays, like a maid. Now she’s in yellow rubber gloves, washing dirty plastic forks in hot water. She hates waste.
I’m about to step i
nside when I notice something that makes me stop. To my shock, her hips are moving in a seductive swish from left to right. I watch from the doorway for a minute to make sure the heat isn’t making me see things. But no: Ma is definitely dancing, even if it is all by herself. I’ve never seen her do it before, not once. She pauses as the music moves into the piano solo. She cocks her ear and lifts her hands from the water. Her soapy fingers dance along imaginary keys as she bangs out the chords.
“Wow,” I say.
She catches my reflection in the window and goes perfectly still.
“¡Qué susto! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” Ma blushes and waves a soapy hand at the stack of dirty dishes. “These women eat like horses,” she says over her shoulder. “Are they buying anything at least?”
“Not much.”
“Naturally.” She shakes her head and dumps a few more glasses into the soapy water. “Cheapskates. What do they think? That Lila is made of money? I have a good mind to throw them all out.”
“Why don’t you dance out there instead?” I ask. “You’re pretty good.”
She keeps her eyes on the dirty water, bits of pastry floating in the gray. Still, I can see a tiny smile curling her lip. She’s probably been on her feet since the morning at Attronica, though; I can tell by her circus-lady ankles.
“And who has time for dancing, little girl?”
I go to the sink and unroll a long ribbon of paper towels. Just as I turn to go, Ma grabs my arm.
“What’s that?” She juts her chin at my neck.
My hand flies up, but it’s already too late. My collar must have moved when I helped Beba. Worse, I’ve sweated off all the concealer on my neck. Ma’s eyes are bloodshot as she frowns and leans in for a good look. Her face is pale the way she always looks when she’s tired. But now she’s furious.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I have to pick up a spill, Ma. Let me go.”
“I’m not stupid. That’s a chupón. Who did that to you?”
Standing there with the wad of paper towels, I hesitate. Her grip on my arm goes tight, and water soaks through my shirt.
“You’re hurting me, Ma. Let go.”
But her fingers only dig in harder. “So that’s where you were the other night? Rolling around with some boy like a tramp.”
I yank my arm free. Now I’m the one who’s mad.
“I’m not a tramp. And you don’t know anything, Ma.” I’m about to add Look who’s talking about being loose when I remember my promise to Lila. I bite my tongue and storm to the doorway, where I glare at her. “Sorry I’m not your little angel anymore.”
The clock says midnight by the time the party finally winds down. It might have gone all night except somebody started banging the ceiling with a broom to complain, and Lila doesn’t like trouble. In the end, Lila made three hundred bucks. She tucked a fifty in Ma’s pocketbook when they hugged good-bye.
“Be patient,” I hear Lila whisper to Ma. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be young?”
I stare at the building as we take our seats on the bus. Ma isn’t speaking to me; that much is clear. She waves back at Lila, who’s watching us from her window to make sure we’re okay. Lila blows a kiss in our direction and disappears behind the blinds. The world is cottony quiet to my ears as I cup my hands to the window and look outside one last time.
Ma gives me a cold look.
“Who are you looking for?” she asks.
I turn back in my seat and pretend I don’t hear her.
In all that darkness, I didn’t see Joey anywhere.
I’m at the school doors promptly at 8:55 the next morning, though my eyes are barely open and I haven’t even brushed my teeth. I almost didn’t make it. Ma was so tired that she actually overslept. Of all days! I had to throw on the same clothes from last night and sprint to school the back way while she waited for the bus to work.
Mr. Flatwell is already waiting at our appointed meeting spot in front of the school, of course. He insists on herding his detention victims as a group, probably a warden technique he picked up in college. He’s wearing a felt cap and a dark peacoat. Steam is rising from his take-out Greek coffee.
“Good morning, Miss Sanchez,” he says, taking a deep sip.
I’m winded, but I can’t even lean against the doors to catch my breath. They’ve already been pegged with eggs and shaving cream from Halloween. A starburst pattern of yolks decorates the sidewalk, too.
There are five of us, and from the corner of my eye, I can see they’re nobody I want to know. There’s a truck-size kid in low pants. His pockets are at the back of his knees, and his face is so blank, it’s scary. There’s a bleach-blond girl with sickly legs and scabby nostrils, shivering in a leather jacket, and a short kid with leopard-print ear gauges whose name, I somehow remember, is Pipo.
After a minute or two, Mr. Flatwell glances at his watch and leads us inside, past the volunteer at the “Shoot Me First” Welcome Desk, who smiles as we file pass. The front office is locked tight and dark, but the Community Programs office is open as usual. An English-as-a-second-language class is meeting at the far end of the hall. Two little Asian kids are chasing each other outside the door, probably waiting for their mothers. The teacher’s nasal voice fills the empty hallway.
“Repeat! ‘May I have the check, please?’”
The class mumbles it back, but it doesn’t even sound close.
Mr. Flatwell unlocks our classroom, which still smells of dust and sweat. I start for the back row, but he stops me as the fluorescent lights flicker on.
“Not today, Miss Sanchez. We sit up front like a cozy family.”
I glance at my companions and slide into the second seat without a word. An empty seat is beside me.
Right away, he unlocks the desk drawer and starts to relieve us of “contraband.” Phones, music, gum — all the no-no’s. Talking is especially not allowed — as if any of us would seriously have something to say to one another.
“You’ll have one bathroom break at ten thirty, and —”
The sound of boots clicking down the hall makes him turn. Someone arrives at the door.
“And here I was thinking you’d forgotten,” Mr. Flatwell says.
When I turn to see who it is, my blood turns to ice. Yaqui Delgado is standing in the doorway. I slump lower in my seat and stare at the board, my mind racing. Didn’t Darlene say she was suspended? Shouldn’t she be rotting in prison right now?
“The bus was late,” she says.
“The earlier one wasn’t,” Mr. Flatwell replies.
She starts to come in, and every hair on my arms seems to bristle. The empty seat beside me suddenly feels like a monster magnet. I can’t breathe.
Mr. Flatwell raises his hand.
“You were ordered to report at eight fifty-five, Miss Delgado. It’s six past nine. You’ll have to serve two more Saturdays now. See me Monday.”
Instantly, I want to hug him.
Yaqui, however, isn’t too pleased. She’s so close, I can practically smell her rage.
“That’s bull. I’m only five minutes late,” she says.
“Eleven,” Mr. Flatwell replies. “Do your addition.” He opens a folder on his desk and starts flipping through pages. “See you next week.”
“I ain’t coming here next week,” Yaqui says.
Mr. Flatwell looks up genially. “Well, that’s one choice you could make. But, then, there are consequences to everything, right?”
Her cheeks are red as she turns on her worn heels to go. I sink low, but it’s too late. She spots me sitting there in my dirty Salón Corazón T-shirt. Even with my eyes glued to the board, I can feel her hate as she looks me up and down. Mr. Flatwell notices something fishy, too. He looks from Yaqui to me, a bloodhound onto a scent.
“Good-bye, Miss Delgado.” He moves his body between us. And with that, he shuts the door.
Somebody tried to steal Lila’s purse a couple of years ago. She was walking by herself under the trai
n trestle on 158th Street when two guys pulled up in their car and jumped her from behind. Too bad for them. She started swinging like Oscar De La Hoya and caught one guy in the nose so hard, he couldn’t get to his car before his buddy sped away. She busted him up pretty good.
“I was so scared,” she told us later as she was filing down her broken nails. But that’s the thing about Lila. You’d never know she’s scared of anything.
I’m nothing like that.
For the first hour after Yaqui leaves, I’m shaking. I keep looking out the window as I try to do my assignments, daydreaming about all the things I might have said or done that first day Vanesa found me and gave me Yaqui’s message. I could have shoved her out of the way. I could have told her to kiss my big swaying butt. Could have puffed myself up big and ugly like one of those harmless desert salamanders that fight off rattlesnakes with a bluff.
But I didn’t do any of that. I took it like a sap, and now I can’t help but feel like I made a mistake. There’s no going back and redoing my rep. All I can do is watch as she closes in.
Concentrate, I tell myself as I start working through the stack of work I’ve brought with me. The heat is too high in here, though, and it makes me feel thickheaded. Pipo must think so, too. He keeps nodding off as he works through the assignment that Mr. Flatwell provided to the kids with no work. It’s multiple choice from some standardized test Pipo will probably never pass. Every once in a while, Mr. Flatwell shakes his desk to wake him.
I force myself to plow through my work, subject by subject, trying to calm my nerves. My assignments have piled up worse than the time my appendix nearly killed me. Grades close this week, I remind myself. If I turn everything in, I might avoid an ugly exorcism at Ma’s hands. Then again, who knows if I’m going to make it to the end of this week?
I figure out my geometry as best I can in all this heat and answer four pages of questions about plant and animal cells for biology. English is last on my list. I pull out the extra-credit sheet and scan the assignments. Ms. Shepherd is the only one of my teachers with a heart big enough to offer save-your-neck extra credit. Naturally, she’s dreamed up something in the Halloween mood — not surprising, considering the fake cobwebs all over her classroom for the past week. We can read Frankenstein or Dracula and take a quiz, but it will be due Monday, and I’ll never finish that much reading — even if I can find the book in the library. Maybe the essay is a better idea. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and read her prompt: