I park a few blocks away and walk toward Lena’s. No sooner do I step onto her porch than she’s out the door to meet me. “You’re here! Finally!” She looks past me. “Where’s your car?”
“It’s—”
She drags me inside, as if I might change my mind and leave. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since you’ve come over?” I don’t have time to answer this question either. “Since Christmas! Over four months” she tells me.
In Lena’s room, I sit on the small blue and white-checkered couch nested in the bay window. Sheer curtains hang over the panes and the midmorning light filters through, creating a soft, hazy glow. A crisp duvet and matching shams give off a scent of laundry softener. The room hasn’t changed, but it feels twice the size I remember.
How can I go back to my black-sheeted window?
“Here it is!” Lena twirls out of the closet pressing a shimmery blue dress against her body. “Is this the most beautiful dress you have ever laid eyes on or what?”
Two waves surge inside me. The first is relief. The second is regret for feeling that way. The dress is not beautiful. It isn’t a close second to beautiful, but I try to look as I love it. Lena peels off her sweater and slips the dress over her head. She lets it slide down her hips and twirls, with arms outstretched.
Say something, Carlie. “You’re right. I’ve never seen a dress quite like that. It’s—”
“Mom and I found it in the city. It’s a designer original—one of a kind.”
Thank heavens. One’s plenty. “Are those tassels at the hem?” I ask, trying to hide my disbelief.
“Different, right?” Lena holds up the skirt in front of my nose as if I couldn’t spot a tassel from a foot away.
“Very.”
“And it’s my favorite color.”
I’ve often wondered if pale blue is really Lena’s favorite color or if her mom has told her it is so often that Lena believes it now. Blonde, blue-eyed, Mrs. Knudson looks great in blue. On Lena, it’s only so-so.
After Lena changes back into clothes, we go to the kitchen and Lena pours two glasses of orange juice, then dumps taco chips into a bowl. The Knudson’s housekeeper sweeps around our high stools at the marble island.
“Eric says he’s buying me the biggest orchid at the florist’s. Isn’t that cool?”
“Sweet.” I sip orange juice.
“So, tell me about your dress. You didn’t buy it yet, right? Do you know what you’re looking for?”
The door leading from the garage opens and Mrs. Knudson steps into the kitchen with bags dangling from both arms. “Lupe! Come take these bags.”
The housekeeper stands her broom in the utility closet and hurries to take the bags from Mrs. Knudson.
“Carlie!” Mrs. Knudson wraps her arms around me. “It has been too long. How is your mother?”
“Good.”
“And you’re going to the dance with Nicolas. Wonderful.”
“Carlie doesn’t have her dress yet, Mom. We’re talking about what she’s going to buy.”
Mrs. Knudson pours herself a tall orange juice and sits on the stool across from us. “Lovely. I’m just in time.”
“I was thinking strapless, maybe red.”
“You can’t go red.” Mrs. Knudson’s voice is suddenly sharp.
I sip more juice and swish it around in my mouth, tapping the glass with one finger.
“Mom’s, right. We’ll clash.”
“Red goes with blue,” I say.
“No, dear. Besides you need a pastel. It’s a spring dance. And not strapless.” Mrs. Knudson shakes her head side to side.
“I don’t look good in spring colors. I’m a winter.”
“How about something in brown? That’s a winter color.” Lena says as if she’s solved the problem.
“Since when did brown become a pastel?”
“I’m just making suggestions,” Lena says.
Mrs. Knudson pats my hand. “Believe me, red isn’t right for this dance. We should go shopping together, like we used to. It’ll be fun.”
I crunch down on a taco chip and fill my mouth with more juice.
“What about tomorrow? I’m doing lunch with some friends. You girls can shop and meet me when we’re finished.”
“We can hang at the mall all day.” Lena brushes her crumbs onto the floor.
Suddenly the Knudson’s spacious house is closing in. I drain my glass and set it on the counter. “Listen, I have to go.”
“You just got here.” Lena’s expression turns pouty.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to, um, pick up Keith. He needs a, a ride. Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Knudson.” I stammer my way out of the kitchen and into the wide entry hall.
“Are you coming tomorrow?” Lena stands at the open door, looking confused.
“I’ll call you later.” I start to take my keys from my pocket, then tuck them back inside. “I have to ask my mom. Um, she might need me to do something.”
“Where’s your car? How are you getting home?”
“I’m meeting Keith at Mitch’s. The car’s there.”
As I walk away Lena calls from her doorway. “Remember, just no red. Remember.”
Nodding like a Bobble-head doll, I back down the sidewalk.
That didn’t go well. Something is different between us, and I’m ashamed to admit it’s called jealousy-—not only on my part but on Lena’s too. Has it been like this before and I never saw it?
By the time I reach the Tercel, I’m starved. A Sam’s Shack special half-priced burger is exactly what I crave, even if Juan’s there. This was my hangout long before he showed up.
When I enter the Shack and walk up to the counter, he smiles at me and for a moment I forget what I planned to order. “A . . . Super Lean Special.”
“Something to drink?”
“Just water.”
“I’m off in a few minutes. How about eating lunch with me?”
I can say, no way or I can say, yes and act as if eating lunch with Juan Pacheco is as humdrum as conjugating French verbs. “Sure. I, uh, guess.”
“Great. Take a booth.”
As I scoot across the vinyl-padded seat, I wonder if this is a mistake. What if someone sees us? He’s just a kid from Las Pulgas who happens to be in my English class and who happens to be in a play with me and—
Juan comes from behind the counter with two burgers, one water, and a large Coke. Tossing his white cap and apron onto the bench seat, he sits across from me. “So. Princess, what brings you to the old Shack?”
I give him my best-annoyed look. “My name is Carlie.”
“What bring you to the old Shack, Car . . .lie. How come you’re in Channing?” He bites into his burger.
“I still have friends here, you know. And I used to come to Sam’s all the time. I don’t have to change my entire life because you work here.”
“Want to go over a few lines? We’ve got a hot date this afternoon.”
“What?”
“Our big scene, Des.”
“No. I do not want to rehearse.” Before I know it, I’m twisting my bracelet. Sweet Sixteen is spinning around my wrist. “I want to forget all about that play for a while. I’m sick of going to practice and studying that part. K.T. needs to get that cast off and be Desdemona again.”
“So what’s got your ‘spleen’ hot?”
My face must go blank.
“Haven’t you been listening to Mr. Smith’s Elizabethan lectures?”
“You’re taking Shakespeare way too seriously. Nothing’s got my spleen hot. I’m just fed up.”
“Hmmm. Got it. Something bad went down between you and your friend, so you came here to take it out on the Mexican kid.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Go ahead. Shoot me.”
Now I laugh. In spite of how I feel about Lena and her stupid dress and her stupid mom and her stupid beautiful, light, spacious, airy bedroom that doesn’t smell like second hand smoke or have a battling couple on the other side of her
bulletin board. “You’re absolutely right, but I forgot my gun, Pancho.”
“Name’s Juan.” He reaches for my hand and I don’t move it away. “‘Have you pray’d tonight, Desdemona?’”
“‘Ay, my lord.’” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
The ride back to Cal Works to pick up Keith is a blur. I only remember Othello and two half-eaten Sam’s hamburgers, one that the Moor of Venice didn’t finish and one that I didn’t finish either. I remember that I didn’t pay for lunch—Othello did. I realize I’ve spent over an hour with a Mexican playing a Moor. That my spleen isn’t hot anymore. That it floats inside me on clouds. That I’m more confused than ever about my life.
Chapter 33
A little after two, I park in front of Cal Works behind other cars with drivers waiting inside. As a county bus pulls to a stop by the main office, people emerge from cars and head toward the bus. Like me, they’re here to pick up an under aged criminal, and I join the moms and big brothers on the sidewalk.
The door to the bus wheezes open and a man steps down. He stands next to the bus door with a clipboard. “Come along, ladies. Give me your name and form a line.”
A procession of yellow-vested boys files out from inside the bus, and the man makes a tick mark as each one says his name. Keith steps off last and lines up with the others.
I catch his eye and he turns on that disconnected look he’s perfected over the years.
Now the man faces the lineup. “Listen up, ladies.”
The tallest boy in the lineup yells, “Rodney, you are one sweet comedian, man.”
Rodney jabs a finger at him. “Stay in line, Grits, and keep quiet for a change.”
“Grits.” I repeat the name. Where have I heard that weird name before?
Rodney opens a door on the side of the bus, saying, “Put your vests in this storage bin. Be sure they’re stowed correctly, snaps secured, vests flat and facing one direction, front sides up.”
The boys remove their vests, fasten the snaps, and one by one follow Rodney’s orders. “I look forward to seeing many of you next Saturday.” He climbs into the bus, swooshes the automatic door closed, and drives away.
As Grits walks over to Keith, I hold out my arm and tap my watch, but Keith ignores my “Let’s go” signal.
“So, old Grits got you through that day, right?”
“I guess,” Keith answers.
“I know you been aching to ask all day, so go ahead.”
“What?”
“Why Grits? Let me tell you about it.” Grits points to his throat. “They call it chronic laryngitis. It’s ‘cause I talk too much and I get real excited about stuff. Shouting is what I’m all about—at least I was. So how come you’re here? Me, I got a few too many tickets and the cops got pissed.”
“Stifle it, Grits. Give us a break for a change,” one of the boys says and shoves past.
Grits ignores him. “So why are you here, anyways?” he asks Keith.
“Graffiti.”
“Artsy or fartsy?”
I’m surprised when Keith laughs and says, “Fartsy, I guess.”
I haven’t heard Keith laugh in, like how long? Almost a year.
“They gave you two weeks, right?”
Keith nods.
Grits cracks his knuckles. “You must be the guy that redecorated the gym.”
Uh oh. I don’t like where this is heading.
“Yeah.” Keith looks down.
Damn it, Keith. I step closer and reach for his arm, but he turns his back to me.
“Who’s this?” Grits juts his chin in my direction. I’m holding my breath, wishing Rodney would return so we could get away with all limbs unbroken.
“My sister. She’s giving me a ride.”
“Hey, Sis. Grits here.” He salutes, then gives his attention to Keith again. “So what’s your beef with my team?” He squints at Keith.
Now I remember, Grits is the name I overheard that day in the gym when Chico and his friends vowed to get Keith. Grits is on the track team.
“No beef, at all, really.” Keith says, staring into the dark eyes that are sizing him up. “I got mad and made a mistake.”
The boy punches Keith on the shoulder, but it’s playful. “Mistake is my middle name, dude. I knew you and me’d hit it off even with your fartsy paint job. I seen you run at Channing. You’re good.”
“Do you run?” Keith asks.
“You betcha. Best freshman 10k time ever at Las Pulgas.” Grits points at his feet. “See how far those things are from my hips? There’s a reason. I can outrun cops—and used to, before I seen the light—or I can leave most of the long-distance boys in the dust.”
Grits’ gravelly voice becomes white noise. From the look on Keith’s face he’s deep into his own thoughts. Probably about running.
Keith shakes his hair back from his forehead and looks up at Grits.
“So what’s your best time?”
“In 10k, 31.35. That was last year. Coach says I’ll do better now that I got more stamina. We’ll take the inter-district championships this year for sure. Channing’s going to pick our dirt outta their teeth.”
It’s after two-thirty when Keith and I get to the apartment. The first dress rehearsal starts at three. If I shower and change, I’ll be late.
Too bad. I’ll just have to be late.
I move fast and get into the shower. When I pull a strand of hair under my nose, it smells like hamburgers and fries.
I’ll just be later.
A quick shampoo, rinse and towel dry, then clean underwear and jeans.
I plug in the hairdryer and set it at hot, but then turn it off again when I see the tube of White Orchid Glaze in the drawer. I’ve been doling out my favorite scented hair product for weeks, trying to make it last for special occasions.
Special times coming up: The dance. My mall date.
Do I care about my hair smelling like White Orchid for Nicolas? “Not really.” Sean? Absolutely, but we’ll be playing at the toy store.
I drop the tube back into the drawer and turn on the dryer again.
Click. Off.
I do not care that Juan Pacheco will be all over me today while he smothers Desdemona. “I don’t.”
But I snatch up the glaze anyway. Flattening the tube to extract the last dab, I rub the fragrant cream into my damp hair and comb it through. “At twenty-five dollars a pop, I won’t be scoring more of you for a while.” I drop the empty container into the wastebasket. “Au revoir.”
As I finish, my watch clicks around to two fifty-five. I pull on a V-neck sweater, grab the keys and run out my bedroom into Keith.
“You got a fire in there?” he shouts, falling against the wall.
“Rehearsal—late!” I’m out the front door, then poke my head back inside. “Mom’s got a ride home from work, but she won’t get here ‘til after six, so you have to make dinner, okay?”
I don’t wait for his answer.
Chapter 34
On my way across town, most of the traffic lights cooperate and I push the last two yellows. Now’s not the time to get a ticket, but I don’t want the rehearsal to last beyond five-thirty because of me. Seeing Sean tonight is important. I miss him. And now that I’m thinking about it, I realize I miss him more than I miss Lena.
I park close to the auditorium and race to the building. Inside the auditorium, I push the door closed and lean against it. I’m tired. I’m stressed. Please let me get through this play. Please let me get through this year.
“Our star has arrived.” Mr. Smith’s voice booms across the auditorium.
“Sorry I’m late.” I hurry down the aisle and onto the stage.
“We are just getting underway. Now, my dear Desdemona, put on this long skirt so you can practice moving in it, and let us continue.”
I love how he talks to me. With only these few words my heart slows to its normal pace, and thoughts dim about all that's bad in Las Pulgas.
Up on the st
age, Jamal and K.T. are stacking a third mattress on top of two others in the center of the stage.
“Almost ready?” Mr. Smith asks, then sits in his chair down stage.
“Here,” K.T. tosses a roll of furry material to Jamal. “This goes on the bed, loose and sexy, okay?”
Jamal smoothes the material over the mattress.
K.T. puts her hands on her hips. “Hey! This is no army bed! I said ‘loose and sexy.’”
“Then you do it. I got no idea what you mean by ‘loose and sexy.’” Jamal jumps off the mattresses as K.T. hobbles over.
She huffs and shakes her head, then climbs onto the bed and musses the material.
Jamal throw up his hands and goes to sulk in the wings.
“There. Now we got us a good place for a romantic murder.” K.T. slides down and examines her handiwork. Over her shoulder, she yells at Jamal. “So what about hanging that corduroy stuff on those flats you built? I’m not the only one on set crew, you know.”
“Who made you the boss, K.T.?”
“Jamal, you sound just like you did in fifth grade. Get your sorry self over here and do your job.”
I laugh, but behind my hand. I don’t need K.T. coming down on me today. Besides, I’m impressed by the way she pictures the bedchamber—another interesting surprise from old K.T. I’d like to see inside that head of hers. I’m beginning to think it’s more complicated than I expected. I just wish she didn’t have my English paper. I just wish she’d lose it before she has a chance to read it.
Jamal picks up a roll of corduroy and a staple gun. He climbs a stepladder and staples one end of the fabric to the top of a flat, then he looks at K.T. “Suppose you want this ‘loose and sexy’ too?”
“You got it.”
When Jamal folds the footstool and takes it off stage, Mr. Smith tells him, “Bring up the lights, Jamal.” A white circle of light shines on the fake fur. “Now take them down a touch. A bit more. There. That is perfect.” He clasps his hand to his chest. “We have ourselves a Rococo bed chamber.”
The Princess of Las Pulgas Page 14