The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  My brother doesn’t say anything when we climb into the car. He avoids eye contact with me, leans back against the seat and does his ostrich impression. Nothing’s wrong so long as he closes his eyes.

  The last thing I want to talk about is K.T.’s fight, so none of has anything to say.

  When we reach the apartment, Mom starts for her room. “I need a quick shower and—” She opens the door and closes it behind her, still talking, and forgetting that we're not with her. “ . . . put my feet up for half an hour.” The last part is muffled.

  I follow Keith down the hall. “What was that about today?” I ask him.He looks at me like I’m talking in a foreign language.

  “I saw Chico take a swing—” I get out these few words before he snaps at me.

  “It’s none of your business.” Keith steps into the bathroom, then closes and locks the door.

  I’m not letting him get away with that answer. “Whatever you're saying to Mitch about Las Pulgas is getting back here. You'd better stop.”

  “Mind your own business,” he growls through the door.

  “Keith—” I pound on the door, but he cranks the water on in the shower so he won’t hear anything else I try to tell him.

  That night he eats in his room. Mom never let us do that in Channing, but this is one more thing that’s different here. When I ask how come Keith gets special treatment, she says, “He needs some time without women.”

  Mom holds her real estate book in both hands, but she doesn’t turn the pages, so I’m sure she’s reading the white spaces instead of the words. I flip through the script without paying attention to which act I have in front of me. We don’t talk, and I know this silence is about the two missing men in our lives. I keep seeing Chico at the curb ready to pound on Keith, and I wonder what else is going to happen to my brother at school.

  What would you do about this, Dad? Go to the principal? Buy Keith some boxing gloves? I know Dad would handle this mess so differently than Mom who seems willing to let our mole burrow deeper and deeper into his hole.

  I glance over the top of my script. Even after a shower she looks wilted, but she’s so into her thoughts that I know she’s not really here in this box of a kitchen. I wish that were true for me, too.

  Later when I check my email it’s as pathetic as the rest of my life. Sean writes that he’s bought his ticket, so he’s set to visit New York before the break. He’ll talk to me soon.

  “Right!” I hit Delete. Then I change my mind and retrieve the message from Trash. “U R so lucky! Out of school early AND going to NY. Carlie.” My finger hovers over Send. Then I back space over Carlie and write, “Love, Carlie.” I back space again over “Love,” and type “X.”

  Quicken is tucked into a tight ball on my desk, and when I stroke her she stretches out. “You are my best fur person, aren’t you?” She rolls over and lets me stroke her belly and under her chin.

  I’m too tired to shower. I’ll just—

  The crash that shudders my wall shoots Quicken to all fours and under the bed. I’m up from my desk chair and instantly on the opposite side of the room to listen.

  “No more money on the horses! You hear me?” The woman’s voice on the other side of my bulletin board is shrill. I remember her face from that day I knocked at her door and asked about Quicken.

  Her husband’s loud gravelly voice shouts back. “I make the money. I’ll spend it on what I want.”

  What she says next changes my mind about not taking a shower. I need to wash away her voice and block out the ugly sounds coming through my wall. Rummaging through my desk and shuffling my journal aside, I dig out the earplugs I used for swimming class last year. From under the bed come Quicken’s low growls.

  I push the foam pieces into each ear and relax to the soft pulse of my blood. Before closing the drawer I touch the embossed letters on my journal, but I don’t open the leather cover to look inside.

  Tuesday’s here again, another rehearsal night has arrived before I’ve read over my part, so I stake out a quiet corner behind the gym bleachers during lunch and cram “My lords” and “Alacks” and “Alases” into my head. After scene ii in Act V I have no more lines. Othello murders Desdemona and even though I hate the plot, I’m grateful not to have more to learn.

  I take a moment to close my eyes and get ready for social studies. I’ve done the homework. I’ve studied for the quiz. I deserve a break.

  The door to the boys’ locker room opens, but I don’t pay any attention to the footsteps and voices that echo in the empty room. But when I’m about to get up from my seat, I hear, “That effin’ Edmund.”

  Is that Anthony’s voice?

  “He’s a dip shit.” I’d know Chico’s snarly voice anywhere. That evil jerk is stirring up trouble for my brother.

  I peer through the gym’s bleacher seats at the three of them huddled together. I can't leave now, so I stay crouched without moving. They're at the opposite end of the gym, so I can't hear everything they say.

  “Channing . . . ass—.” That's Anthony again.

  “Grits says the guy’s good and we need—” I don’t know who this third guy is.

  Chico interrupts. “Ain’t happening, man. Grits or no Grits.”

  “I say we nail him now and shut his mouth.”

  I’d like to strangle Anthony Mancuso.

  “We'll get him, but not until the motherf—” The bell signaling the end of lunch drowns out the rest of what Chico says.

  The gym door opens and closes, and I’m alone. I have to warn Keith. They're going to jump him, but I don't know when.

  The second bell rings before I reach my seat in social studies—the seat just in front of Chico Ramirez, of all people, who’s already there, his eyes tracking me as I come down the aisle.

  I suddenly want to be a female version of Rambo. I want to take all of these creeps down and reduce Las Pulgas High School to rubble.

  Chapter 23

  Saturday and Sunday always whip past during the school year, but since I started going to Las Pulgas High, I blink and they’re gone. The weekdays are different—they drag, and so do the weeks themselves. Week four seems more like week four hundred.

  As I cross toward the annex, louder than usual crowd noise comes from behind the main building. I turn the corner and what looks like most of the student body is outside the gym, but I can’t see what’s caused the excitement even when I stand on my toes. I make my way to the annex steps and go to the top so I can look over what’s sounding more like a mob than a student gathering. There’s a police car is parked at the curb, but that’s so common I haven’t noted it until now. Since I’ve been in this crappy school, I’ve seen the police almost as much as I’ve seen my teachers.

  Probably some Las Pulgas creep at work again. Not K.T. — she’s just back from three days’ suspension. She’s behaving like a bored saint now, because even though the naked girl’s parents dropped the charges, Bins says he’ll file more if K.T. gets into one more mess this semester. Disgust has to be etched on my face permanently after these weeks of exposure to the low-lifes at this school.

  I start into enter the building, but when the crowd begins shouting, I glance over my shoulder. The gym door’s opened and two police officers are coming out with a guy between them. He stumbles, head down, his sandy hair falling over his eyes. One officer holds a tan gym bag in his free hand. They’ve got my brother.

  “Keith,” I mutter, gripping the door handle until my fingers go numb.

  As I watch the drama of the cops with my brother, someone grabs my shoulder and spins me around. It’s Chico. He shoves me against the building, smashing my back against the metal siding. “He’s dead. Tell him.”

  “Hey!” Juan Pacheco runs up the steps and grabs Chico’s arm. “She’s not the one who did it.”

  Chico jerks his arm free “Shove off, Pacheco. I’m giving her a message for her piece of crap brother.”

  “Did you hear me?” Juan jabs Chico in the chest. “She didn�
��t do it.”

  Chico backs up and spits over the handrail. “Remember what I said.” He aims his finger at me like a gun. “Your brother better watch his back.”

  “Come on, Princess. Chico likes to come off as a serious bad ass.” Juan presses his hand to my back and guides me to the main building, then down the hall to the office. “You don’t want to be out there when the crowd breaks up.”

  “Wha . . . what did Keith do?”

  “Mega graffiti all over the gym.”

  “Oh, no.” That comes out as if someone hit me in the stomach. “You’ve seen it?”

  He nods. “‘Fleas suck’ is the nicest message he spray painted.”

  “What will . . . happen to him?”

  “He’ll go to Juvie. Probation probably. Is this his first run in with the cops?”

  “Of course.” I draw myself up, crossing my arms. How could he even think Keith had ever been in trouble like this before?

  Juan sighs.

  “And you’re sighing at what exactly?”

  “The Princess act.”

  I double my fists and hold them up to his face.

  “You don’t want to pound on me. I’m on your side.” Opening the door to the principal’s office he pushes me gently inside. “Call home, Princess.” He leaves, closing the door behind him.

  The secretary already has a pass ready for me. “We haven’t notified your mother yet, Carlie. We’re waiting until Principal Bins returns from a district meeting. Use his office to call your family.”

  I close the principal’s door and press the numbers with the same care I’d set an explosive device. How am I going to tell Mom about Keith? What if the police have already called?

  “Hello?”

  “Mom, uh . . . what are you doing?” That was a stupid question. She’s not at work this afternoon, so she’s studying.

  “Like you say,” Mom laughs, “Talking to you. Duh!”

  She doesn’t know. “Can you pick me up at school?”

  “Honey, I was planning to.”

  “No. I mean right now.”

  “Are you sick?” Mom’s instant fear comes through the phone.

  “Not exactly, but . . . Something’s happened with Keith.”

  “Is he hurt?” I can see her clutching the receiver.

  “No, but he’s been . . . arrested.”

  There’s a second’s pause as if her throat has closed. “I’ll be right there.”

  The secretary is busy with a student as I leave.

  Once I’m in the hall I keep my head down and push my way through stragglers on their way to class.

  I take the front steps down two at a time and smack into K.T.’s sizable chest.

  “It’s Desdemona, the star!” K.T. hops sideways on her good foot and adjusts both crutches under her arms. “You packin’ any of those spray cans, Des?”

  Behind K.T. are her six friends—a kaleidoscope of colorful hair, but faces set in a single dark threat.

  K.T. balances between her crutches; her friends say nothing, but shoot angry messages from their eyes. I’d like to remind her she could get kicked out of school again if she picks another fight.

  I’m keeping my lips sealed; I’m all about wanting to keep my clothes on.

  Backing up I fold my arms across my chest. “Look, I didn’t spray graffiti in your gym.”

  She doesn’t say anything. I’m the mouse. She’s the cat that can pounce when she wants to.

  “What do you want, K.T.?” I manage to keep my voice from cracking, but sweat collects at the back of my neck and I want to lift my hair to cool off. I should have paid more attention to the Aikido class Dad forced me to take when I was twelve. I might have a better chance to escape, if not take on, seven bad junior girls.

  “I just want to ast you one little question.” K.T. swings between her crutches, closing the small distance between us and stopping squarely in front of me. We’re eye to eye, which surprises me because I thought K.T. was a lot taller than I was.

  “So ask.” I don’t step back and if I wanted to I couldn’t because Big Teeth has edged her way to stand directly behind me.

  “Since we aren’t good enough for the Edmunds why don’t you all go back to Preppy Land?” She shoves my shoulder and I mash up against Big Teeth.

  “Don’t look away, Carlie love. Stare straight at her. Try to look bigger.”

  It’s my dad’s voice that day on the trail when we saw a mountain lion. He’d drawn me close to his side, flapped his jacket and yelled until the big cat slunk off into the trees.

  “If it’s the part, you can have it back. I didn’t ask to play Desdemona.” I shout and lean toward her in spite of shaking.

  “You keep it. I don’t pick up leftovers from nobody.” K.T. punctuates each point she makes with a right or left shift of her head. Even her conversations sound like rap.

  “What are you talking about? The part was yours before you broke your leg. I’m the one who got the leftover if you want to call a major lead in a major play a leftover.” Big Teeth snarls at my back. Immediately, I regret trying to clear up that bit of fuzzy thinking.

  K.T. pushes her face so close I feel her breath on my cheek. “Hey, preppy, where do you get off telling me I make no sense? You telling me I’m stupid?”

  “Look, if you want to hit me, then hit me. I have to meet my mom and pick up my spray-painting creep of a brother.” Any second I’m getting socked and socked hard.

  Big Teeth shoves me from behind and I lurch forward, smack into K.T. We’d both be on the ground if it weren’t for her crutches, and for a moment I’m holding onto her. When I regain my balance I let go and step away.

  “I’ll get back to you later—after you spring your little brother from the clutches of the po-leece!” She swings between her crutches more like they’re more like gym equipment than prosthetic devices. The other girls follow, laughing, punching, and throwing their arms around each other, playing together like a litter of pups.

  I watch them enter the main building, relieved they’re gone, and worried about what K.T. will do when she “gets back to me later?”

  Chapter 24

  While I wait in front of the school for Mom I practice what to say. “My idiot brother . . . Keith was arrested because . . .” When the Tercel screeches to a stop in front of me I quickly get in, relieved to escape school.

  What happened?” Mom hasn’t put on any makeup and her hair hangs limp next to her face. Her mouth is tight with tiny lines radiating out from her lips.

  “He sprayed graffiti in the gym. The police took him away about half an hour ago.”

  “I’m going to talk to Principal Bins.” Mom opens her door.

  “He’s not here!”

  “What?”

  “He’s at a meeting somewhere . . .” I want to say, I’m scared. I need to get away from Chico, away from K.T. before she decides to use her crutches on my shins. But when I see how worried Mom looks already, I can’t. Then I remember how my brother turns off the world when he doesn’t want to talk and I slouch into the seat, closing my eyes, just like Keith does.

  Mom slams the car door. “Let’s get home and make some calls,” she says. “I’ve got to find out where they’ve taken him.” Mom drives without asking any other questions. She presses her lips together and clenches her teeth so the blue vein at her temple stands out. Her expression is hard to read. She's not angry. She's not scared. It's more like she's ready to go back into battle after losing the first skirmish.

  At the apartment, Mom grabs the phone book and runs her finger down the city government page until she finds the number for the police. She hesitates with her hand over the phone, but before she can pick it up, it rings. The sound is sharp and she’s already so tense that she jerks her hand away, knocking over the mug on the table. Hot coffee sloshes over the side and onto her lap. “Oh, rats!” She jumps to her feet and pulls her pant leg away from her skin. With her other hand she grabs the phone. “Hello? Yes, this is she.” There’s a l
ong pause, then she says, “Where is he?”

  I lay a paper towel over Mom’s spilled coffee, then put both elbows on the table and cradle my forehead in my hands.

  “Can I bring him home then?” She rubs her eyes. “Okay. Thank you.” Dropping the phone onto the table Mom crosses to the sink, dumping out the remaining coffee. “I’m going to change my slacks, and then we can go get him.”

  When she returns from her room, she takes the keys from her bag and slams her books one on top of the other. “Come on. You came to help, so now’s a good time to start.”

  She's using a Wonder Woman voice. I've never heard my mom sound this way. She's always been soft-spoken. Even when she'd get mad at us her voice never sounded hard. So I was right; she's ready to do batle. I who she plans to take on—Keith or the cops.

  In the car, Mom grips the wheel and sits with her eyes closed. “What am I going to do?”

  I don’t have an answer, but when I glance across at Mom, I know the question’s for Dad, not me.

  She starts the car and backs out of the carport.

  I trace all the other questions for Dad that must be streaming through her head. What did you use to say to Keith when there was a problem? What did you tell him in his room or the garage that always got through to him? What would you say now?

  We stop at a red light. Mom closes her eyes again.

  A horn honks behind us.

  “Mom, the light’s green.”

  We park at the city hall complex. “Let’s get this over with.” Mom shoves the driver’s door open and steps out. “Are you coming?” She slams the door.

  As we climb the steps leading to the sliding glass entrance, I start to twist my charm bracelet. But then I make fists on my way into the building. At least this is happening in Las Pulgas where nobody I care about recognizes me.

  Inside, the walls are the same stone color inside as they are outside, with only a single picture of the governor for decoration. The California flag hangs in one corner and the U.S. flag in another. Otherwise, the walls are bare. A counter with a single uniformed officer is before us at the back of the lobby. Fake leather chairs line the edges of the room, and two women and a man occupy three of these chairs. All their faces are closed, as if they’ve pulled the blinds over them.