“Do you know what, dear?” Mr. Giddens said, his eyes sparkling. “Now that I think of it. Maybe some of the other delivery boys would like to come to your party. Maybe I’ll ask them.”
“They’re too old!” Dorothy exclaimed. “You’re going to spoil it, Dad. You’re going to mess it all up like you always do!” Her face was glowing with defiance.
“Well, maybe you’re right, honey,” Mr. Giddens said, putting his hand on his waist and eyeing Dorothy as if figuring out a complicated math problem. “Maybe just Manuel, then—huh, sweetheart?”
An idea snapped inside Dorothy’s head. She turned hopefully to me. “Maybe he doesn’t want to come, Dad?”
“Sure he wants to come! Don’t you Manuel?” Mr. Giddens said, egging me on.
“Well,” I said. I didn’t know what to say, really; didn’t know what was going on. Whatever was going on, though, I knew words wouldn’t help.
“But he won’t know anybody,” Dorothy pleaded.
“That’s what you’ll be there for, honey,” Mr. Giddens said with assurance, “to introduce him around, make him feel welcome. I’m positive he’ll have a good time.”
“Okay…okay. I give up!” Dorothy said, gritting her teeth and dropping her arms, exasperated. She handed me an invitation card. “Here, you’re invited,” she said halfheartedly.
Despite being angry, Dorothy had a smooth, floating look about her as she walked quickly away, like she was being lifted by the applause in a theater full of people. I remembered then a vase I once saw at the Kern Museum. It belonged to some rich people who first settled our town, and it was beautiful. Not the vase, actually, but everything inside and around the vase. The tinted petals of the roses, the white flowers, tiny as gnats, and the deep, glowing nut-color of the mahogany table. Everything seemed so perfect. And the vase held it all together. I remembered thinking if somebody were to come in at that exact moment and lift that vase off the table, the whole room and everything in it would collapse.
Before walking out of the door, Dorothy turned and smiled. It was a smile that would tumble around inside my brain for days. I wanted to believe that it meant that somehow she’d changed her mind about me, and that I’d be welcome at her party, but deep down I knew it didn’t. In any case I didn’t care, and only later, when I realized that I should have cared, did it really hurt.
Just then I felt someone’s eyes on the back of my neck. It was Nardo near the storage door staring at me. He was smiling, too, but a mocking smile, like he sure didn’t envy my predicament.
We went straight home after work, not stopping in Chinatown. Nardo was anxious to tell everybody in the world about Dorothy. He took off his coat and flung it into the living room, missing by a breath the shelf where Mom displayed her miniature animals. He rushed over to Magda, who was eating cornmeal mush at the yellow Formica table, and said, “Hey, do you know what? Manny’s got the hots for Mr. Giddens’s daughter!”
“Mr. Giddens has a daughter?”
“Yeah, and pretty, too. At least I think she’s pretty, underneath all that snobby makeup. But you shoulda seen Manny.” He pointed at me. “He got all mushy and red over her. Boy, was it a sad sight. I thought his jaw was going to drop off.”
“My jaw wasn’t doing nothing,” I said sullenly.
“Hey, what can I say?” He arched his eyebrows and sprouted ten, innocent fingers. “If Mr. Giddens notices, anybody can.”
“Nobody notices nothing,” I said, sinking into a chair.
“Nobody notices nothing,” Nardo mimicked. He shook me teasingly on the shoulder. “You should of heard what he said when you went out through the front door. Aw, you don’t want to know about that?” He slapped me on the shoulder.
I was dying to know, but I wasn’t about to admit it to him. If I even hinted that I was interested, he wouldn’t tell me for as long as he could torture me by not telling. I could feel his and Magda’s superior eyes on me, grins stretching back to their ears. When I looked up, they shut down their smiles and exchanged nods.
“Is there any more cornmeal?” Nardo asked, his voice a deep echo inside the open refrigerator.
“No, I just made this for me,” Magda said, innocently pinching cornmeal from her lip. “Mom said to wait till she got back. She’s gonna buy Fig Newtons to eat until she fixes dinner.”
“Fig Newtons, huh?” Nardo said, casual as could be. He acted like nothing was going on, but I could tell he knew he had me hooked. He closed the door and stared at the ceiling, his eyes icing over.
“Don’t you know what’s going on, stupid!?” he burst out suddenly. “Mr. Giddens and his wife are going to be out of town. He just wants you to spy on his daughter’s party while he’s away.”
Shaking her head, Magda lurched forward. She had food in her mouth and had to swallow before talking. “You mean she didn’t invite him?” she asked, choking.
“No.”
“Yeah, she did!”
“Boy, are you going to be out of place there!” Magda said, shaking her head.
“He don’t listen. He thinks he’s really been invited.”
“She gave me an invitation,” I said, hotly.
“Yeah, an invitation with nothing written on it.”
“They’ll probably make him wash dishes,” Magda put in.
“No, they’ll tell him to feed the dog.”
Magda pushed her cornmeal away, afraid she’d tip it over while she laughed, but spilled some anyway.
“Aw, you guys could kiss lemons for all I care,” I said, pushing back my chair.
“Yeah, I know what you wanna kiss,” Nardo howled.
“Is that true?” Magda asked, glassy-eyed with laughter, but fighting to be serious. “Do you really like that white bitch?”
“She’s not a bitch!” I said, even hotter.
“So, you do! You do like her!” she exclaimed. She leaned back on her chair, beaming, as if remembering something savory. “Boy, I thought you had better sense than to fall for some white girl.”
“You guys ain’t funny—you know that? You ain’t funny!”
“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be funny. It was Nardo who was trying to be funny,” Magda said, jerking her thumb at him. “I was trying to figure out why Chicano guys are always falling for white girls—that’s all.”
That’s when, my skin blazing, I stomped out the door, knowing that their teasing wasn’t going to let up. I began rushing across the yard when suddenly I stopped, remembering that it was best not to go more than a sprinter’s distance from the house, since the Garcia brothers roamed the projects like a pack of ferocious dogs. I lingered over my mom’s pruned rosebushes, fingering the ashy thorns on the stems. I pricked my finger and out popped a small globe of blood. It tasted like copper.
Inside the kitchen, I could hear them laughing in lightning spurts, gorging on their own stupid wisecracks. Magda kept calming herself, then bursting out again in wild giggles. Finally, she said something about what a poor baby I was and scolded Nardo for being so mean. Then Nardo said something nasty that started her laughing all over again.
Maybe they were right, though. Maybe this was all a big joke to Mr. Giddens. All I knew was that for days after I couldn’t pluck Dorothy’s smile out of my mind. I was locked in long mental tortures of remembering her every move, her defiant eyes when arguing with Mr. Giddens, the fast fall of her blond hair when she crooked her neck, her bored fingers fluttering along the shelves when she pretended not to be listening. I even found myself thinking for hours over the designs of wind that wove behind her when she walked out of the store.
A flash of shame bloomed in my face, because when I focused my eyes, there, suddenly, in front of me, was Magda. “Boy, you really are hurting,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re going to get in trouble, you know that? If I was you I wouldn’t go to that party,” she warned.
“Well, you’re not me. Besides, look who’s talking about white people.”
Magda just stared at me like she didn’t believ
e what I’d said. She went back inside, listlessly waving her hand in the air. “Just don’t get burned, that’s all I gotta say. Don’t get burned.”
Once she had closed the door behind her, Nardo right away began laughing again, but she didn’t join in.
For days I suffered the joy and terror of wanting to go to Dorothy’s party, and knowing that it would be a big mistake. It was like a loose tooth you keep wiggling with your tongue, slow and deliberate, teasing the pain. The pain, however, wasn’t in my mouth, but inside my chest. I fought against it. I’d stare hard into the mirror and order myself over and over to be strong…be a man! But then a cold fluttering would begin in the pit of my chest and before I could stop it, it’d spurt up a misty burning in my throat and eyes. My mind was speeding anxiously, gobbling up whole chunks of anticipation. At first, time seemed slow and heavy, but then faster and lighter—lighter until the day of the party, when the waiting became like no weight at all. Even so, I began to panic when Nardo pulled our Plymouth up in front of Mr. Giddens’s house.
It was a cold night, but I was soaked in dread and could barely breathe. I was trying to be casual, so that Nardo wouldn’t catch on and tease me, but he knew something was up and snatched me by the arm. “Hey, don’t stick your foot in shit in there. You know what I mean?”
“No.”
“It might stink.”
“Oh.”
When I opened the car door, the cold gushed in. The car had no heater, so when I spoke, clouds puffed from my mouth.
“Hey, Nardo,” I said, turning back, “what do you think I should do?”
Nardo revved the engine lightly. It turned off if you didn’t gas the pedal. “I don’t know,” he said, thinking. “Maybe you should try to have fun.” He let the engine rumble. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, hey, don’t worry. They’re just a bunch of stuck-up gavachos.” He smiled, pinched his lips shut and crunched the car into reverse. The car wound backward down the street and veered before going forward.
I walked toward the house, my breath fogging the air, my shoes cracking lines of geometry on the frozen lawn. The grasping night air, the far-off streetlights flashing, and the windows of the other houses on the block closing like eyelids too tired to stay awake, left me stiff with dread. Then a chill wind prowled under my jacket-wing and climbed to my ribs, making my lips burr. I zippered the jacket up and went up the porch steps.
A friend of Dorothy’s answered the door. He was a husky, autumn-leaf-haired guy with a face spattered with freckles. He stood by the door, I suppose to welcome people as they came. I figured he was Dorothy’s boyfriend, because he stood beside her, his brilliant white kernels of teeth blaring.
Dorothy had on a pleated gray skirt and white blouse ironed even under her arms and on the tips of her collar. Her hair, flared back in curls, was clasped by a black barrette with tiny diamonds on it, and she was wearing earrings. She had a drowsiness to her eyes, but when she smiled, her whole face gladdened like she was admiring a cute baby.
“How are you doing, Manuel?” she said, like these were the first words she’d used all day.
“I’m doing real good, thank you,” I said, surprised that words even came from my mouth.
“Well, come inside, it’s cold out there,” she said, fussily.
I put on this big, smeary smile and urged my legs forward. My lungs felt big as balloons. There was a song by the Rolling Stones on the record player. I was nervous, but once I put my hand on the back of my neck, trying to look casual, I felt better.
Even in the darkness, I sensed the eyes of Dorothy’s friends wondering who I was. Silent messages passed down the line of girls sitting on the long leather couch. The guys, standing by the large frosted windows, were staring hard at me. They were about my age or a little older, dressed in ironed slacks, wool sweaters and blazers.
One guy left a window and offered a hand to a girl sitting on one of the couches. She refused with a bored shrug, signaling the side of her face toward me. The guy nodded, and walked into the brightly-lit kitchen.
Then a girl with hair fluffed airy and wispy like cotton candy came over. She was tiny waisted, her face spotted with brown freckles. “Hi,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “I’m Gloria.”
“I’m Manuel. I work at Dorothy’s father’s store.” I sort of stumbled with the words “Dorothy’s father’s store,” but she nodded her head like she understood.
“Oh, I know,” said the girl. “I know—she told me all about it.”
Dorothy was not far away. She was talking in whispers to the red-haired guy, who was nodding his head up and down. Then she drifted around the room, speaking into people’s ears and looking up at me. I snuck glances at her as she moved around the room, knowing that something about me was being exchanged, yet at the same time not caring. I remembered her smile at the store, and for some strange reason its effect on me was like a powerful light splashing around inside me, chasing away the shadows.
The turntable spun a slow song and the lights dimmed. Everybody began to dance, melting into a warm darkness of bodies. I was relieved, for a moment, because I felt that maybe they’d forgotten about me. I was almost sure of it when Gloria clasped my arm and led me to the middle of the dance floor. She linked her hands in mine, and a guy I didn’t know cheerfully saluted us from across the room with a Dixie cup. We breathed on each other, Gloria breathing normal and me almost not at all, although I could smell the powder of her shoulders and perfume behind her ears.
As we danced, I saw Dorothy with the red-haired guy not far from us, her hand pressed against his chest. He had a drink of rum in one hand, and in the other, a cigarette, which he casually puffed on, but removed when he leaned over to whisper into Dorothy’s ear. He said something, and dropped his eyes down the neck of her blouse.
Dorothy looked cool and fresh, as if carved from night air. The way her shoulders lifted, the way her heels didn’t sway when she danced, the way the hem of her skirt fluttered, as if the air itself was swishing out of her way, touched my skin with a strange warmth, like I was being deliciously licked all over by tiny tongues of flame. I envied Red-Hair.
But this dreamy stumbling over Dorothy caused me to hug Gloria a bit too close, and not fit into her dancing rhythm. My leg accidentally slid between her legs. She got angry right away. “Hey, what’s going on here? What do you think you’re doing?”
I stepped back, startled, the brittle feeling of my dream collapsing, but I didn’t say anything. Later, when I thought about it, after I ran it over and over in my mind, I realized that that was a mistake. I should have said I was sorry right away. I should have kept my voice close. By stepping back, everybody’s eyes focused on us. When I told Nardo later what had happened, he said that it wouldn’t have mattered what I did.
The lights blinked on, and the guy playing the records abruptly took the needle off the grooves. People groaned.
Although he looked like he didn’t totally know what was going on, Red-Hair grabbed my arm and pulled me away—not hard or jerking, but firm, as if ushering me out of a place I wasn’t supposed to be.
“I told you what he’s up to,” I heard Dorothy say with coughy dryness.
Before I could half free my arm to say something, I noticed her from the corner of my eye twirl around and walk swiftly into the kitchen, her skirt flapping.
Still a bit puzzled but determined that it was his show now, Red-Hair let my arm go. There was a group of about four older guys in front of me, blocking my way to the door. They weren’t big guys, nor did they look particularly mean, but there were four, and I didn’t know them. For a short, dissolving second, I thought of shouldering my way through them and hurrying for the door, but they had these tense, questioning looks, and I was beginning to feel needles on my skin.
Instead of bumping into them, I took a step toward a sliding glass door on my right, and slid it open enough to squeeze out.
It led to a backyard, which lik
e the house, was enormous. There were trees and bushes everywhere, and the grass went on for about a half a block and glowed with an icy sheen. I looked up, and the sky had a sort of bright raspiness to it, like dark water becoming slack after boiling. The air was chilly, but my chest hurt not from the cold, but from a feeling of everything being empty, as if inside my lungs there were only echoes.
I began to walk anxiously back and forth along the side of the house, seaching for an opening. The yard was surrounded by a high cedar fence, brown and slivering where some of the wood had curled with age. If I climbed it, I’d get splinters. I passed the glass door, and from the light of the outside lamp I saw the reflection of a ridiculous boy, a clumsy boy. It was me, looking at myself, except that it wasn’t me, but someone ghostly and strange.
Then a shadow came across my reflection. Thinking for a second that it was Dorothy, my heart gulped.
“What are you doing out here, pal?” Red-Hair said, his voice like an electrical current traveling underwater. He was standing near me, his head glowing in the bright light that just then darkened with the heads of more guys. “I hear crazy things about you, buddy Crazy things.”
Red-Hair was rolling a piece of gum between his teeth and looking back at his friends as they began to fan out around the side of the house as though inspecting the grass and flowerbeds for snails. He leaned up close to me, almost touching my shoulder, then looked off to the far end of the yard. The outside lamp shone hard on half his face, and I could see the muscles of his jaw pulsing.
“You know, guys like you are weird ducks,” he said, in a loud, but lazy voice. “You just hang around, quacking and flapping your little paddle feet. Do you know what I mean?”
I felt like a piece of cold steel was caught in my throat.
Noticing that I wasn’t saying anything, Red-Hair went on, moving his chin in little jerks. “Well, let me just say this, pal. I don’t care if you are supposed to be a guest. This is not your party, and I don’t like you coming around here bothering Dorothy.” The last part he said with a hard pop of his gum as he ground his teeth into it.
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