The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  I approach my first classroom, grip the door handle and pray I can slip in unnoticed. When I step inside my prayer is not answered.

  A cluster of kids near the entrance turn to stare at me but none moves to let me through, so I’m wedged between them and the door. One guy whose baseball cap is twisted with the brim to the back of his head watches me edge my way into the room. I've seen him before, but can’t remember where. I hold my hands out in front of my chest and brush against backs until I make it to the teacher’s desk.

  No teacher. So far it looks like the secretary in the office runs the school. When I look around I’m surrounded by a sea of eyes.

  “Bitchin’!” That comes from a boy at the back of the room who scans me as carefully as the icky guard at security

  “Hey, Chico, I seen her first.” It's the guy in the baseball cap. “Hola, bebe.”

  “Down in front, Anthony.”

  Suggestive, throaty laughter breaks out around the room.

  The classroom door opens behind me and a hand rests on my arm briefly. “Miss Edmund? I’m Mr. Smith, your English teacher.”

  The class applauds.

  What kind of teacher gets applause when he comes into a room? The eyes behind metal-rimmed glasses droop at each corner and are a slightly darker brown than his skin; his lips turn up in a broad smile. He pries the paper from my fingers and walks behind his desk.

  “Miss Carlie Edmund will be joining us.” He looks out over the room. “There’s a front seat in the row by the windows, Miss Edmund.”

  Grateful to get out of the spotlight, I slip into the desk and face the front of the room. Mr. Smith hands me a book and I hold it like a lifeline. I’ve plunged into Las Pulgas High, Room 9, and I have to stay afloat for the next forty-five minutes.

  Someone taps my shoulder and says, “You got the hot seat.”

  I swivel to face a thin-faced boy who leans forward, his chin propped on one hand.

  “Hot?”

  “You get called on a lot.”

  Mr. Smith looks our direction. “Jamal, the final bell rang a while ago. It’s my turn to talk. First, I have an announcement. Our Othello has left school, I’m sorry to say.”

  From the back comes a loud whisper from the boy who I now know as Chico. “Kane’s out the rest of the year this time. Got hisself—”

  “Thank you Mr. Ramirez,” Mr. Smith looks at Chico over the top of his glasses. “So we will take some class time today to select a new leading man.”

  A low chorus of groans ripples around the room.

  “Think of that extra credit, gentlemen and the junior class reputation. Let’s turn to Act III, Scene iii. That’s page forty-three, Miss Edmund.” Mr. Smith opens a playbook flat across both his hands. “Anthony, Cassio doesn’t have much to say in this scene, and Katy, Desdemona makes a short appearance as does Emilia. Dolores do you have your script?”

  The girl in the desk across from me holds up her playbook.

  “Good. Pavan, you can continue to relax this morning. Brabantio isn’t in this scene.”

  Across the room a guy jerks his head up from his desk, yawning. “Yessir.”

  “Chico, give us your best Iago this morning.” Mr. Smith looks around the room. “Now for Othello.”

  Nobody raises a hand. Some slip low in their seats and prop books on their desks.

  “Come, gentlemen. No volunteers?” He pauses. “Think of this as your opportunity to impress the director and win the part of one of Shakespeare's most famous tragic characters.” Taking his time to study each downturned head, he finally looks to the back of the room. “Ah, Mr. Pacheco. I think I saw your hand.”

  “No way, Mr. Smith. I can’t learn all those lines by April.” The boy who answers runs his fingers through his thick black hair.

  “You are too modest.” Mr. Smith leans against the edge of his desk.

  Mr. Pacheco smiles. It’s a heart-stopping sideways grin that is a sharp white contrast to his features.

  “Desdemona, please begin.” Mr. Smith nods at Katy.

  “‘Be assur’d good Cassio, I will do All my ab-il-i-ties in [your ]—’” She stabs her finger on the page. “What's this mark mean?”

  “Good question, Katy. That shows the editor changed a word. We are using an abridged version of the play, a bit more modern language.”

  Slouched at her desk Katy reads Desdemona like a bad rap song, shifting her head side-to-side as if she’s keeping time to some beat in her head. I rest my chin on one hand, staring at her. I know my face screams disbelief. Mr. Smith catches my eye. He’s frowning. At me? This is going to be a very long forty-five minutes.

  “Katy?” Mr. Smith hasn’t said, “Stop fooling around,” but his voice has implied it. When he looks at her she scoots up in her seat, sweeping the hood of her maroon sweatshirt off so it hangs at her back.

  While the actors do their best to ruin Shakespeare I sneak a quick glance around me. I’m in a room with fifteen other girls and about twenty guys none dressed like I am. My deep red V-neck sweater, my designer jeans and suede boots seem to glow nuclear among the sweats and Tees. Lots of skulls. There are too many lightning bolts and “interesting” mottos.

  “Anthony.” Mr. Smith nods at baseball cap boy. “Let’s hear that last line before your exit.” Anthony's dark eyes find mine before I can look away.

  “‘Madam, not now. I am very ill at ease, Unfit for [my] own purposes.’”

  I focus on the play, trying to ignore Anthony’s glances over the top of his script.

  “‘Well do your dis . . . dis . . . ’” Katy The Rapper looks up from her book. “What’s that word?”

  “Discretion.” Mr. Smith writes it on the board. “What does it mean? Anybody?”

  “Good judgment.” I answer before remembering I already stick out like a neon sign. Katy slowly swivels her head, and we lock eyes. I look away before she does. Where’s my discretion?

  “Thank you, Miss Edmund.” Mr. Smith signals Chico. “Continue.”

  “‘Ha!’” Chico stops, shakes his head, and then starts again. “Ha? I don’t like that.”

  “Rewriting Shakespeare are we?”

  “I like not that.’” Chico looks up. “That just don’t sound good, Mr. Smith.”

  “Granted, it may sound a bit strange, but humor me and trust Mr. Shakespeare’s grammar. We are already taking liberties with this abridged version, so with that line we will adhere to the original. But now that we’ve stopped, let’s discuss this single line and its importance. Why does Iago say this?” Mr. Smith points to the back of the room at Othello. “Juan.”

  “He’s a jerk, you know. Trying to stir the pot for Desdemona.” Juan casts another dazzling smile over the heads of the students. He gives me a slight nod and I feel my cheeks flush.

  “But he doesn’t say anything bad about Cassio talking to Desdemona, does he?” Mr. Smith scans the room.

  “In-nu-en-do.” The girl named Dolores doles out the word in hushed syllables. “You know like hinting and letting the old man make the connections hisself.”

  “Excellent, Dolores. Now, Chico, read the next line that Iago says as if you were hinting that, as you say, ‘something bad has gone down.’”

  Chico reads the line and throws in a sneaky side-glance.

  Mr. Smith claps. “Now we’re starting to get the drama our playwright intended.”

  The rest of the class passes quickly. I’m surprised when Desdemona stops rapping and starts sounding more like the doomed heroine. I close my eyes and listen to the words. As long as I don’t see Katy’s magenta-tipped hair it’s possible to believe she’s the obedient wife of the Moor. Poor jealous Othello plays into Chico’s Iago just as I remember from the time I saw the play with Mom and Dad at Shakespeare in the Park.

  At the end of the period, before I can stand to leave, Chico’s at my desk looming over me. “So where you from?”

  I don’t have time to answer. “Buzz off, Chico.” Anthony shoves Chico and they pretend to sock each o
ther.

  “Gentlemen, you may take that outside.”

  The two play-punch their way out of the room.

  On my way to the door, Mr. Smith signals me to wait. “You’re from Channing.” It isn’t a question. “You’ll like this bunch once you know them.”

  I don’t plan to take the time to “like” them. I’m just a tourist. Yet, I sense the implication. “Don’t be a Channing snob,” he’s saying to me, “and you’ll get along here.” He should play Iago; he’s great at innuendo.

  “I don't think I'll be here too long. This is, uh, temporary.”

  “That is too bad. Las Pulgas has much to offer.” He stacks Shakespeare on top of Grammar and Composition III, then picks up a folder. “I've learned a great deal since I arrived. I hope you enjoy your time here, no matter how long it may be.”

  The rest of today will be way too long, but I lock my lips and back away. “Thanks.”

  Juan Pacheco, the guy with the smile a toothpaste manufacturer should trademark, meets me in the hall. “Hi, Channing.”

  “What? I have Channing tattooed across my forehead?”

  “You might as well. Or preppy.”

  “Why’s everybody so uptight about Channing?” I walk around him and he follows me to my locker.

  “We’re not uptight. Are you?” He smiles at me, and I can’t look away. It’s as if he’s captured my gaze with some kind of sci fi tractor-beam. My palms grow sweaty before I dig my nails into one of them and break my trance.

  “Look. I have to be in this stupid school, but I don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to talk to the . . . inmates.” I spin my locker combination and slam the door against my neighbor’s locker.

  “You sound kinda uptight, like royalty.” He walks away. “See you later, Princess.”

  It’s only February. How am I going to make it to June, let alone next year?

  I cram my English book inside and go in search of my French class.

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday when I slip into Room 9 for English it’s still fairly empty with only one clump of students at the back by the bulletin board and Jamal who’s already in his seat—the one behind mine by the windows. Juan’s among the group at the back. He sees me come in and walks down the center aisle before I can reach the other side and my desk.

  “So, Princess. You’re back for another day with us.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I guess you wouldn’t.” He steps out of my way and sweeps his arm aside as if he’s allowing me to pass.

  A low growl comes from the back of my throat. He is the most irritating person on this planet.

  Jamal has his nose in a book, but he looks up when I get to my desk. “Did you hear what happened?”

  I’m not sure he’s talking to me, but when I point to my chest and lift my eyebrows into a question, he leans over his desktop. “Katy got herself in another fight. This time it’s bad.”

  I shrug because I care zero that Katy got in any fight. Second, I don’t get what he means by bad, but I like seeing her desk empty. I won’t get any scorching looks if I open my mouth during class.

  The first bell clangs and students pile through the door. Mr. Smith walks to his desk and as the final bell rings he writes, Desdemona on the board. “Most of you have heard that our star will not be able to continue in the play, so again we will be casting a lead role in Othello. This is a perfect opportunity for those extra credits some of you need in this class.” He takes a long time to scan the room. The guys don’t hide behind books this time. The girls do, except for me because, of course, I’m not the Desdemona type and I don’t really need extra credit.

  “Our pool of actresses from our class is quite small as you know.” His eyes stop at each of the girls who aren’t in the play or on the stage crew as if he’s remembering why they can’t take the role. “Work and family do take priority.”

  I’m filling the time, doing some high level math in my head, calculating the number of days before the end of school when Mr. Smith says, “Miss Edmund. You are new to our school and this would be a wonderful opportunity for you to become acquainted with your classmates. Would you consider taking on this challenging role for us?”

  My mouth is open and my face must resemble that painting with the crazed guy screaming.

  Jamal pats my shoulder. “Told you. You got the hot seat.”

  “I can’t. Uh, I really can’t. I—”

  “How come?” Dolores with her quiet voice shuts me up.

  “Well, because—”

  “You got a job after school?” Jamal asks.

  I shake my head, no.

  “You would make our class fundraiser possible. The students and I would appreciate your effort.” Mr. Smith gives me a “how about it” look, and his honeyed voice flows into the room. “With the money we raise we can paint the auditorium this year. It’s in need of some . . . redecorating, isn’t that right class?”

  A chorus of agreement fills the room. When I glance behind me Juan grins as if he’s just set a foolproof trap. Chico licks his lips. Arrg. Anthony looks first at Juan and then at me. I sense a plot to get the Channing transfer.

  Jamal pats my shoulder again. “I got two parts and I work the stage crew. Alls you got is one part.”

  “All . . . right.” I close my eyes and let the scream loose inside my head.

  The house phone rings Saturday morning before I’ve dressed. I ignore it at first, then I remember that’s the only phone I have now. The call could be for me.

  “So how’s the new school?” Sean’s voice sounds like home and the promise of something wonderful.

  “It’s okay.” I almost choke. There's nothing that’s anywhere near okay. “One week under my belt. I’m getting used to it.” I leave out that Mr. Smith coerced me into playing Desdemona in the spring play after Katy broke her leg in a street fight and is on crutches—that I’ve discovered Katy is really K.T. and her initials are tattooed on the back of her neck— that she shoves her way past me when there’s plenty of room not to. I also don’t mention that Othello is the Las Pulgas junior class fund-raiser, something I’m supposed to tell absolutely every living soul, according to Mr. Smith.

  For a second I close my eyes, but instead of Sean it’s Juan Pacheco in his Othello role I see, his dark eyes on my face, his deep voice saying, “‘Farewell, my Desdemona. I’ll come to thee straight.’” I shake my head as if I can clear the image.

  “Can you talk to my mom about getting used to change? She’s super ticked because I’m not moving back to New York after graduation, so she’s working on making life a capitalized miserable. Guess I’ll have to visit her and smooth the waters.”

  “When will you go?”

  “Probably before spring break. I can get a good fare if I go before vacation starts.” He pauses then says, “When can I come see you?”

  He has to hear the thud from my chest. First, he won’t be here for the dance, so there’s no way he’ll ask me to go and second, I want to see him. I just don’t want to see him here. I stifle a groan, glad that he can’t see my face. “How about I come to Channing? I, uh, need to visit.”

  “Sure. When?”

  “I have to—” I almost say, ask for the car. “Check with my mom. I’ll call you.”

  After he hangs up knots form in my stomach while I look around my room.: sultry dark cube with a clever Rorschach carpet design by Stains Galore. Chic black sheet window treatment, a real mood setter. Air courtesy of my neighbors—Smokers Unlimited.

  What will I do when I hit the drought season for excuses? If I start dating Sean, I won’t be able to keep him away from Las Pulgas forever. I have to admit the knots have a lot to do with the humungous number of lines Shakespeare wrote for Desdemona, and because Juan Pacheco keeps popping into my head looking like a smoldering Othello. A big reason for stomach knots any time is that I miss Lena, but I can’t call her or she’ll want to come visit. Then there’s Quicken.
I picture her starving in a Las Pulgas slum.

  I dress and throw the covers over my bed.

  Mom sits at the kitchen table with books and papers, her chin propped on both fists. She looks up as I come in. “Hi, hon. Cocoa? It’s hot.”

  I pour cocoa into a mug and sit across from her. “Can you let me have the car today?”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I thought I’d drive over to Channing and look for Quicken, just in case she made it back to the house. I don’t have play rehearsal until 2:30.” Several times last week I’d considered returning home to look for my cat, but each time I changed my mind. Somehow Sean’s phone call has helped me decide I can see Channing without imploding.

  “Ask Keith to go with you.” Mom rubs her eyes and yawns. “I'd feel better if you went with someone, and I’m tied up all day.” She waves her hand over the books. “The practice test on real estate principles is next Tuesday.”

  What will happen when Mom gets her license, starts selling real estate, starts making money? Could we go home to Channing? Could we somehow toss that redheaded squatter and her parents from our home and move back where we belong?

  On my way from the kitchen Mom reaches out and takes me by the hand. “I think I have a job as cashier at the Las Pulgas Market. That should help us get through this rough patch faster.” She looks up at me. “What? You look like I just sold you into slavery.”

  “Cashier? In a market?” How can she think of doing that? What if my friends find out? Is she trying to completely ruin my life?

  “The job will help with groceries. Things are getting better, like I promised.”

  “What’s better, Mom? Just tell me, okay?”

  “Stop it!” She covers her face with both hands, then slams them onto her books. “I don't have a choice, Carlie. Do you understand?”