As hopeful as I felt about the audition, her heart was still heavy from the recent blow. So was mine. In a way, the sting of the setback made me more certain about what I needed to do. I had to build a life for myself, one not dependent on my parents’ circumstance. For me, this was more than a tryout. It was potentially my big break. I felt if I attended any other public school, I’d fall through the cracks, or I’d crack out.
On the morning of the audition, I rose early, showered, and put on my favorite sundress. At Mami’s urging, I had oatmeal, made my way to the T, and at last reached the campus. Wow, it’s right across from Fenway Park, I thought. How cool is that? The building wasn’t much to look at, but many Boston public schools weren’t. The school actually shared the building with Fenway High School, a media technology charter school. Whatever. Just by being there, I felt like I was taking control of my future.
I made my way across campus while eyeing some of the other kids who seemed to be there for the audition. Shit—there’s more? I’ve always had a tendency to think I’m the only one doing things. Ha! Must be all the years pretending I was Kelly Kapowski from Saved By the Bell. Anyway, minutes later, I wandered through the doors of the music department. A perky blond woman greeted me. It was like I’d seen a ghost: “I see white people!” All The Sixth Sense and shit. I mean, of course I’d seen white folk, but at my old school they hadn’t seemed all that perky and excited to be there. Most of the teachers were old and smoked too many cigs. It was like (insert thick Boston accent), “Jack sid-down for the last toime, or youar goin to the principal’s office.” Or “Do noat throaw projectiles across the rum.” They were pissed and couldn’t handle street kids like us. We ran amok.
“You must be Diane!” said the blond lady.
“That’s right,” I answered timidly.
“Come on in,” she said. “I’m an assistant here in the music department.”
She led me up a flight of stairs and into a back room. There, a group of about ten other kids had assembled. A Dominican-looking girl was warming up with some scales. A dude with short dreads and Dwayne Wayne glasses had his eyes glued to sheet music. Neither of them looked over at me.
“Do you have your music ready?” asked the assistant. I didn’t.
“Oh, I thought I was supposed to sing a cappella,” I said.
“That’s totally fine,” she said. “Wait here until we call for you. And good luck.”
My turn came up first. Upon hearing my name, I ran my palm across the bottom half of my dress to be sure it wasn’t wrinkled, and then I strode into a nearby music room and took a place in the center of the room. A girl by the name of Alyssa was there. I knew her from camp. Phew. She was always the cooler older kid and would often take me under her wing.
“What are you singing for us today?” asked Mr. Stewart, the head of the music department.
“I’ll be singing Si Tu Eres Mi Hombre, by La India.” I’d also do “L-O-V-E,” an American standard made popular by Frankie Sinatra.
“Very well,” said Mr. Stewart. “Let’s hear it.” My heart was racing but it was now or never. I could see Alyssa rooting for me.
I felt like I was outside of my body, watching my own audition from the audience and saying “Relax, damn it! Breathe! Use your diaphragm!”
“Thank you, Diane,” said Mr. Stewart, staying poker-faced. “We’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it?!” I blurted out.
He laughed. “Yes, that’s it.” My heart fell into my butt. What just happened? Did I do well? Will I get killed at a ghetto ass school? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Aaah … teenage anxiety.
Two weeks later, I scurried out to our yard when I spotted the postal worker pulling up to our mailbox. “Anything for me today?” I asked. She rummaged through several envelopes and lifted out a large manila one. My name, in all capital letters, was on the front. “I bet this is what you’ve been waiting on, young lady,” she said. “Here you go.” She gave me the package as well as the rest of the day’s mail and sped away.
I pried open the envelope’s flap, at first gently, and then with full force. I slid out a stack of materials; on top lay a typed letter on fancy ivory-colored paper. I turned it over, and then back to the front, and scanned the first paragraph. My eyes fell on two sentences: “We are pleased to offer you enrollment for the fall of 2000,” it read. “Congratulations, and welcome to Boston Arts Academy!” I stared down at the words, rereading them to be sure my eyes hadn’t deceived me. My dyslexia gets the better of me sometimes, but damn, chill, dog! My hands trembled along the edges of the letter as I dropped the other mail onto the lawn. And during a moment that will forever live in my memory, the world, for once, was perfect. I was in.
* * *
Attending Boston Arts Academy felt like coming home. For the first time, I fit in. I could be myself—well, as much as I could without looking stupid of course. My inner nerd was free at last. No one called me a coconut (white on the inside, brown on the outside) because I attempted to speak well, participate, and study hard. I still had to be chill around the neighborhood—I’m cool, dog—but in school I could let down my guard. I’d found my people—artists who, like me, wanted to explore. Learn. Grow. The only downside was that my crew—Dana, Gabriela, and Sabrina—weren’t in class with me; Dana had moved to Florida, Sabrina was at West Roxbury and liked it, and Gabriela was at a high school in Jamaica Plain. She later auditioned at BAA and got into the theater department, which made school extra sweet.
Showing up for school was actually fun. I seldom had a day when, once my alarm went off, I groaned, rolled over, and wished I could stay home. Every day brought something exciting. In the cafeteria during lunch, students gave theater or musical presentations. Artists like Spike Lee and Yo-Yo Ma visited campus and offered talks. We took field trips to the Boston Symphony, the Museum of Fine Arts, and the ballet. I was blown away by the opportunity, the access, the exposure. Simply being in that environment lifted my expectations for what was possible in my life, even with the uncertainty at home.
The fall I enrolled, BAA was only in its fourth year of existence. In the classrooms and hallways, you could sense a spirit of innovation, of pioneering. The whole place was like a giant laboratory; staff members experimented with new academic approaches and pushed us to think outside the box. We discussed race, ethnicity, and social-class systems in and outside the US. It was a well-rounded program designed to emulate college courses and discussion. This was perfect for the inner-city kid who often felt left out of the political conversation. It created an understanding of our socioeconomic status and the discrepancy in opportunity with our white privileged counterparts in Newton and Wellesley. In music class, I’d take that a step further by researching the music that complemented what I was learning in my other classes. From day one, I was motivated to give 100 percent and keep my grades on point. Teachers mentioned college as if they assumed we’d one day enroll. Even now, 94 percent of BAA graduates do.
My first semester, I was a bit on the shy side. I had a couple of good friends and enjoyed hanging with them, but I mostly sat on the sidelines and observed. Spring was a different story. That’s when I began my journey. I still had a long way to go and still do, but by then, I was invested.
Our music classes were basically chorus rehearsals. About forty of us divided up into our sections: soprano (me), alto, tenor, and bass. Mr. Stewart chose our songs, which included just about every genre—from classical and jazz to pop, Broadway show tunes, and call-and-response spirituals.
The music was powerful. Sometimes you could feel the music spirits all around us. There is something special when a group of people work toward a common goal. And we worked hard. The entire music score from Carmina Burana, gospels like “Joyful, Joyful,” “Edelweiss” from The Sound of Music, hits from Jesus Christ Superstar and Rent—in my head, I can still hear them. We would prepare for different events during the year. The two big ones were Winterfest and Spri
ngfest. Only upperclassmen had been invited to perform for winter and spring fests during BAA’s initial years. But in 2001, the administrators chose to include freshmen for the first time.
At the end of chorus one day that March, Mr. Stewart pulled my classmate Damien and me aside. “May I see you two for a sec?” he asked.
“Um, okay,” I stammered. I had no idea why he’d be calling us out.
“As you know,” he said, “Springfest is coming.” We both nodded. “Well, I’d like to offer you both a special part. It’d be amazing if you’d sing a duet.”
Damien and I looked at each other. I said nothing, since it’s tough to speak when your tongue is glued to your throat. I knew Mr. Stewart realized I was completely dedicated, but I was floored that he’d consider me for such an honor. “Okay,” I said, letting out a nervous giggle. “Are you sure? Me? Really?”
“Look, Diane,” he said, chuckling. “Do you want it or do you not?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said before he could change his mind. Damien also agreed, and the next week we began staying after school to learn our number, “The Last Night of the World,” a love-song duet from Miss Saigon. I was delighted—this is what I wanted. I was scared shitless, but God did I want it. I wanted it bad.
At home, things remained unstable. The dust had settled on the realization that Mami and Papi were nowhere close to citizenship. They continued their daily work grind so they could gradually rebuild their savings. Although they finished the courses they’d been taking, they couldn’t afford to sign up for others, nor did they have much desire. At night behind closed doors, I’d hear them talking through their options; those discussions ended with arguments. I stopped even asking about their plans. I’d basically given up hope that they’d reach their goal and hoped that they could remain under the radar until I reached an age when I could help.
The one bright spot in our lives was my niece. Back when Gloria moved in with her folks, Mami was sent back to Colombia, and Eric relocated to New Jersey, I saw a lot less of Erica. That changed in early 2001. Not only did Gloria begin bringing her daughter around more; she made it clear that, even with Eric gone, she wanted us to be part of Erica’s life. In the evenings, I’d spread toys across my bed so I could play with her. “Hi, sweetie,” I’d say, luring her into my room by flashing a Disney coloring book. With a smile, she’d pick up a crayon, only to wander off a second later and bang on her mini-xylophone. With that cutie-pie in the house, there was never a dull moment.
One afternoon that May, I was entertaining my niece in the living room. Mami was in the kitchen, visiting with Amelia, Gaby’s mom. I overheard their conversation.
“I had the strangest dream last night,” Mami said. She lifted the lid on a pot, poked her spoon inside, and scooped out some soup to taste.
“What was it about?” her friend asked.
“I can’t remember the whole thing,” she said, “but at the end of it, I fell into a pond of dead fish.”
“A pond of dead fish?” she repeated. “Hmm, bueeeno.” Amelia was known to be clairvoyant and often could feel things … supernatural things. She read “La Taza” (the cup), which could tell you some of your future simply by looking at the swirly remains after the reedy was finished. If a utensil fell on the floor, depending on what it was, she could tell you if a man or a woman was coming to your house. I would be spooked half the time because our family track record was so shitty. Bad juju. Sacudela! “La Mala Suerte!” I was scared by the unknown.
“I know,” my mom said. “I woke up in a cold sweat. I don’t know what it means.” By the way she spoke, I could tell she was freaking out. “I have a bad feeling about it,” she continued. “Maybe some bad luck is coming.” Dead fish or any dreams about fish were not a good sign.
Right then, Papi, who’d been listening from his room, walked in. “Are you telling that story again, Maria?” he said, chuckling. Apparently, he’d already heard it that morning. “You’re going to scare Diane,” he said. “You’re being superstitious. I’m sure it’s no big deal.” Mami smirked, began slicing some onions, and no one mentioned the dream again—until two evenings later.
On Papi’s way home from the factory later that week, he stopped at a bodega to pick up a couple of items; as the cashier rang him up, he asked, “How about a Powerball ticket, sir?” At first Papi declined, but then he said, “Okay, why not. Might as well give it a shot.” He paid the man, tucked the ticket in his pocket, and forgot about it. Following dinner, he retired to his room and turned on the news. When an announcer mentioned the live lotto drawing, Papi remembered his ticket and took it out. Five minutes later, he came charging into the living room. “Maria! Chibola!” he shouted. “Guess what?” Mami and I had been watching the novela Betty La Fea, the Colombian version—the first and best version. Back up, all you fake-ass versions of Ugly Betty! We bolted to our feet.
“What is it?” Mami said. “What’s wrong?”
“My numbers match!” screamed my father, waving the ticket. “We won ten thousand dollars!”
“Let me see!” Mami said, taking the ticket from my father. “Are you sure, honey?”
Papi raced back into the room and returned with a piece of paper; on it, he’d scribbled the row of digits. “Look,” he exclaimed, handing my mother the evidence. “The numbers match!”
Mami’s eyed darted back and forth between the paper and the ticket. We all got quiet while she examined everything. “Oh my God, you’re right!” she finally said, giving my father a huge kiss. “I guess my dream didn’t mean anything!” she hollered. “We’re lucky after all!”
For some families, ten thousand dollars wouldn’t even cover the cost of a summer vacation. But for us, it was like a million bucks. And literally overnight, my parents went from feeling hopeless to optimistic. “We can use this money to pay a legitimate lawyer,” Papi told Mami the next morning. “This is a miracle.”
That afternoon, Papi left work early so he could go and claim his prize at the state lottery headquarters. He came home wearing the biggest grin. After so many months of turmoil, it was nice to see him smiling again.
On his way out the door that Thursday, Papi poked his head into my room. I’d just awakened.
“Good morning, honey,” he said.
“Hi, Papi,” I answered with a yawn. “Everything okay?”
He nodded. “I want you to have this,” he told me—and that’s when he handed me that brand-new fifty-dollar bill. I slid from my bed and hugged him. “Thanks, Papi,” I said. “I love you.” Every morning I’d wake up to three dollars on the nightstand, but this was way generous.
It was still pretty early when my father left, so I decided to squeeze in one more hour of rest. Ninety minutes later, when my eyelids flew open, I glanced at my clock and realized I’d overslept. Shoot—I’d be running behind for school.
For more than a decade, I’ve relived every detail of what happened during the next twelve hours. My argument with Mami. My rush to get to campus. The eerie feeling in my gut. The rehearsal with Damien, the pit stop at Foot Locker, and the voice on our machine saying no one was home, playing over and over again in my head. On the evening of May 17, 2001, out of breath and full of dread, I unlocked our front door, cracked it open, and crept inside. Nothing has been the same since.
Me and Papi, Mama and Vanilla Ice—(cough) I mean my big bro Eric.
CHAPTER 7
Taken
Something very beautiful happens to people when their world has fallen apart: A humility, a nobility, a higher intelligence emerges at just the point when our knees hit the floor.
—MARIANNE WILLIAMSON, spiritual teacher
The entryway was dark. Papi’s boots, the pair he wore whenever he did yard work, sat muddy and unlaced near the door. I heard none of the sounds I’d usually hear after school. No noise from the television. No voices chattering in Spanish. No salsa blasting from the radio. I lowered my book bag to the floor next to my father’s boots and noticed the light on in the kitc
hen. I darted toward it, my heart pounding with each pace.
“Mami!” I called out. “Papi! Are you here?”
I stood at the kitchen entrance and looked around. A plate of sliced plantains rested on the countertop; a pot of uncooked rice was on the stove’s back burner. The faucet, which Papi had been trying to fix that week, leaked into the sink. Drip. Drip. Drip. On the table, that morning’s newspaper lay next to a half-filled cup of coffee. Mami’s apron, which she always folded and put away after preparing a meal, was dangling from a chair back. I pivoted to the hall and dashed to my parents’ room. Could they be sleeping?
“Where is everyone!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Mami, Papi—I’m home!” I pushed on their bedroom door. It was stuck. “Are you guys here?” I yelled, banging on the wood with my fists. “Open up!” When I didn’t get a response, I wedged the toe of my Adidas into the door’s lower right corner, leaned into it with my full weight to force it open, and stumbled in. The room was bare. Mami’s address book was open atop her nightstand; Papi’s reading glasses lay near the foot of their bed. With my entire body shaking, I rushed to the bathroom. Then into my room. Then back to the kitchen. And finally, with a prayer that they might be outdoors, into the backyard.
All empty.
Right then, the doorbell rang. I stopped. Could it be them? In the shadows of the hall, I tiptoed to the front of the house. At the door, I stretched up to look into the peephole. There stood the neighbor who lived on the other side of our two-family house, a squat middle-aged woman who hadn’t ever been very friendly to us. Leaving the safety chain hooked, I opened the door only wide enough to see out.
“It’s me, Diane,” she said. “Unlock the door.”
My hands quivered as I slid the chain left and unlatched it. With my face flushed and my stomach churning, I stepped into the vestibule. The woman stared at me like I had three eyes.
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