“Why?” I ask, thinking I was popular back home, there’s no reason I’m not going to be popular here. I know Tina’s nice, but I don’t want her to be my only friend.
“Because Andrew’s a jerk,” she says.
“I know.” I sigh. “I saw him push a kid today.”
“Just one?” she asks. “Usually he’s pushing whole flocks of children.”
“I thought you were all about building bridges,” I say.
“I am. With people who deserve it. But there are some people who don’t deserve it, and Mr. Model Van Dyke is one of them.”
“Andrew’s a model?”
“Well, duh,” says Tina. “Look at him.”
I shrug and finish my drink. “All he did was ask me to a party.” A party with Chris Cabrera in attendance. The sexy, dangerous Chris. What’s wrong with me? I’m going to a party with a jerk. A party with Chris there. A party where I can see Chris. I shouldn’t be so happy about that, right? It’s not smart.
“I know that’s what it looked like to you,” Tina says. “But you have to trust me. There are some serious haters at this school, and there’s nothing more dangerous than haters in groups. That’s what a ‘party’ will be, okay? Especially at Trent’s house.”
“Who is Trent, anyway?” I ask
“He’s a football player.”
“Is he nice?”
Tina looks like this is a philosophical question. “I don’t know. Are any of them nice? I don’t know. For your sake, I hope so. My guess? They’ve got a joke planned, and you, fresh meat on campus, are going to be the punch line.”
11
I get home from my first day of school before my dad. I stash my bike in the garage and head upstairs to start unpacking the boxes in my room. Can I just say this: I love my room! It’s huge. I can’t even believe I have so much space. I don’t know what to do with it, but I’m thinking I’ll paint the walls. Do they let you paint apartment walls? I can draw, like my dad; I just never want to, mostly because he draws. I don’t want to give him any reasons to get more vain than he is, and thinking I’m just like him would do that.
I stop unpacking when I find the memory diary Emily and Janet made for me. I sit down on the carpet (it’s so new and beige and soft!) and read through the diary again, even though I ought to be doing something else. As I read, remembering the times we spent together, I feel the tears begin to swell. I want to talk to my friends. I have to talk to them. I know I shouldn’t make a long-distance phone call without asking my dad first — he can’t deal when I do something like that without asking — but some things you just have to do. Follow your heart, as Dad would say. I’m sure he’ll understand.
I call Emily’s house. My fingers fly over the phone number; it has been the same since grade school, and I’ve called it, like, millions of times. I will never forget this phone number for as long as I live. Em answers with “Paski!” (caller ID) and squeals at the sound of my voice. She tells me Janet is there, and Janet runs to get on another extension so we can all talk. They sound like home. I love their voices. I want to crawl into the phone line and get away from here. The more they tell me, the more I miss them. They ask about my new life. I tell them all about the town, the school, the crazy people here. I tell them about how, after school, all these moms come to pick up their kids and the moms look younger than the students.
“How?” asks Emily. “What do you mean?”
I say, “No, listen to me.” God, I sound like Tina. I hate how the people I’m around influence me like that. “Seriously. Listen. There are all these totally skinny little moms who’ve had so much plastic surgery they look younger than their own kids.”
“That’s crazy!” says Emily.
“And they dress all hoochie. It’s like they share clothes with their daughters.”
“Eew!” my friends shriek together.
I say, “Oh, and there’s this girl at school with fake boobs, too. They’re huge. She looks like if Pam Anderson and Britney Spears could have a baby.” My friends and I have this game where we like to say who people look like, as if they are the baby of this person and that person. It’s funnier when you do it with two guys or two females.
“How do you know they’re fake?” asks Janet, who has told us all once or twice that some people mistakenly thought her rather large breasts were fake, and she’s, like, really proud of that.
“Everyone knows they’re fake,” I say. I don’t mean to sound Californian, but that accent is wearing off on me already. “This girl brags about it.” I don’t know for sure if this last part is true, but I say it anyway.
Janet tells me that it’s snowing again in Taos, and she says that they miss me. She probably wants to change the subject because she doesn’t like to think that anyone our age might have bigger, better boobs than hers. Some guys in school took a poll once, back in seventh grade, and voted Janet the best boobs in our class.
I ask about Ethan, and there’s a silence. Someone coughs. I hear the silent noise between my brows that I get when I’m about to “see” something in my head.
“He’s good, I guess,” says Emily. I know her well enough to know she’s lying.
“We haven’t talked to him, have we, Em?” adds Janet.
“No,” says Emily. “But he’s good. I mean, we’ve heard he’s good.”
“You can tell me,” I say. “I had a vision about it. About that Stacey girl.” Emily and Janet know about my visions and accept them.
Again silence. Then Emily tells me Ethan has been holding hands with a horsey-looking older girl from work. “We didn’t want to tell you until you were settled in better over there,” she says. “We didn’t want this to be any harder on you than it has to be.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“We hate Ethan,” says Emily.
“Hate him,” Janet reiterates.
“He’s just a guy,” I say. “So, is it true about Stacey?”
“Yes,” says Emily. “She’s way old. I don’t get it. They’re all over town together, kissing in public. She could get arrested for that.”
“You’re so strong,” Janet pipes. “Paski, don’t worry about it.”
“It’s not that,” I say. “It’s that I already met someone.” I know Chris has a girlfriend, but I still have a really good feeling about him.
“Who?” they chorus.
“Just a guy. There are lots of them here. You would not believe the guys here. Oh my God. They’re all way hot. It’s so not normal how many hot boys there are here.”
“I told you!” screams Emily. “Why didn’t you take me with you? I am so tired of Taos boys. They all have hay in their hair.”
We talk a little more, and even though I don’t want to see it, I get a mental picture of Ethan holding hands with that Stacey girl. I get a knot in my belly as I realize he’s been intimate with her. He’s in love with her.
“I got invited to a party with the most popular kids in school,” I tell them.
“Already?” exclaims Emily.
“See? Girlfriend wastes no time,” says Janet.
“Are they snotty like the kids on The OC?” asks Emily. “Do they all have pools and big Hummers?”
I’m about to answer, but I’m interrupted by the most hideous noise, two noises, actually, coming from the parking lot downstairs. The first is a horrible screeching. The second sounds like a polka. It’s awful, and I am pretty sure I know exactly what it is, at least the polka part. It’s a really, really loud version of that stupid song “Frijolero,” an obscene joke of a song my dad loves by the Mexican rap group Molotov. Dad listens to it and sings along, dances around with his Chicano-tough-guy face on — you know, when he’s not dancing to Britney Spears or whatever. I can hear the sarcastic lyrics being spit over the top of the accordion lines. “’Don’t call me a gringo, you fucking beaner, stay on your side of the goddamned river, don’t call me gringo, you beaner . . .’”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
asks Emily.
“My dad has flipped.”
“Is he still acting all Mr. Hollywood?” asks Janet.
“Yes,” I groan/admit.
“Your dad is so cool.”
“No! He’s not. He’s getting worse the longer we’re out here. He has an earring now.”
“See?” says Emily. “My dad would never do that. Yours is way cool.”
I sigh. “Guys, can I call you later?”
We say our goodbyes, and I rush onto the balcony off the living room. Don Juan, who has been sunning himself out here, runs inside and hides in a closet. He doesn’t like this noise, either. The music is so loud I can feel the bass in my sternum. I hope to God it’s not my dad who is responsible for this, but of course it’s him. Who else would be blasting a Mexican rap group in the middle of Aliso Viejo?
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my dad is home, blasting Molotov and singing along with a big smile on his face and some old cholo sunglasses on. “’No me digas beaner, Mr. Puñetero, te sacare un susto por racista culero . . .’”
Oh. And I should tell you. He’s not in the Corolla. He’s sitting behind the wheel of some gigantic, scary convertible that looks really old, like from the fifties or something. It looks like the Batmobile, if the Batmobile was falling apart, rusted out, and a really disgusting color of puke-yellow-green. The car is the source of the screeching noise, like there’s something wrong with a belt somewhere in the engine. The booming Molotov polka blares from the car stereo, which appears to work better than the car itself.
But that’s not the worst part.
Just so you know, the worst part is that Dad’s not alone, and the guys he’s with look like total Hollywood gang members. There are three of them, two with shaved-looking heads and those shirts I call wife-beaters but that my dad asks me not to call wife-beaters because he finds the term anti-feminist and offensive. The other one has a beret and a braid of hair down his back. My dad’s friends always look like these guys for some reason. They’ve got sunglasses like him, and they look like total cholos. How has my dad already made friends with three cholos? We just got here. I haven’t even made three friends yet, but here’s my dad like cruising with a bunch of stinkin’ vatos. I see that one of them has tattoos all down the back of his neck like an inmate. I swear to God.
My dad looks up and sees me. He waves with a big old smile on his face, real proud of himself and his stupid car.
“Hi, Chinita! What do you think?”
I stare at the car with a frown. I don’t bother answering, because he wouldn’t be able to hear me anyway.
He motions for me to come downstairs. “Come check it out!” He says “check” like “sheck,” the way he does when he’s trying to sound like a street thug or something. It’s embarrassing. I think he’s trying to impress his new friends. Lately it seems like my dad is always trying to impress someone. But the more he does, the less he impresses me.
I turn to head back inside but see Keoni and Kerani on the balcony of their apartment with their mouths hanging open. They are peering down at the disaster of my father like he’s amazing. Like they like him.
“Wow,” they say in unison. “Cool.”
“No,” I correct them. I feel like crying. “It’s not wow. It’s not cool. It’s awful.”
“Can we go see it?” one of them asks me. I recognize him as Keoni.
“You want to go down there with the crazy people?” I ask. I’m baffled.
They nod. Keoni begs, “Please, Paski? Take us with you?”
I hear the engine cut out, but the music continues, only now it’s some song by that band Ozomatli that my dad loves. I see a blond lady peeking out of her apartment window with a scared look. My dad and his friends start to sing along like a homie barbershop quartet: “’Dib dob, socialize, get ready for the Saturday night . . .’”
Oh my God. I can only imagine what the neighbors think of this. My dad’s going to get us thrown out of here.
“Fine,” I say to Keoni. “Meet me downstairs.”
I go down, open the garage door, and, flanked by the neighbor boys, I greet my father.
He jumps out of the driver’s seat and hugs me. “What do you think, kiddo?” he asks. His face tells me he expects admiration.
“I think you should ask me about my first day of school before asking me about this weird car,” I say. I cross my arms over my chest. You know what? I’m glad I made that long-distance call now. I should have stayed on longer. I should have made a random long-distance call to, like, Bombay and stayed on the phone for an hour. I should have stayed inside. I should have ignored this nightmare. Maybe it would have gone away.
Dad hits himself on the forehead and gets that face on like he feels he’s a terrible father. “I’m sorry, Chinita.” He staggers around and puts an arm around me with the sensitive-dad look on his face. “How was school?” he asks. “I totally should have asked you that first. Damn. I’m sorry. Here, let’s go upstairs and talk. You want to do that, Punkin?”
“No,” I say. How can he go from being like a fake old gangster to being the most sensitive father on earth? My dad must be bipolar.
“Hey,” he says, digging in his pants pocket. He pulls out Grandma’s amulet. “At least I didn’t forget this!” He holds it out to me like he wants to be congratulated on his fine parenting skills. I take the necklace. It’s cold at first, but as it makes contact with my skin, it begins to almost vibrate and grow warm. Eerie. I put it in my pocket but can still feel its warmth. I try hard not to look at my father because I know he wants me to. Dad touches my arm. I ignore it. He points at his eyes with his fingers. I look at him but only because I don’t want a scene here in front of the neighbors. “Well?” he asks. “How was it? Did you make any friends? How are your teachers?”
“It was okay. I made a friend.” It’s sort of a lie. Tina isn’t exactly a friend. Neither is Andrew. “And my teachers are . . . teachers. They’re the same everywhere you go.”
“She already got invited to a party with the popular kids,” says Keoni to my father. Kerani nods. I look at Keoni and see he’s lighting up a cigarette. He smokes? That’s crazy. My dad notices, too, and seems as surprised as I am.
“How did you know about Trent’s party?” I ask Keoni. I like how when I say “Trent’s party,” it sounds like I already know Trent. It makes me feel important, because everyone seems to always talk about him.
“Word travels fast at Aliso Niguel,” he says with a sad shrug. “Just don’t turn hater on us. We thought you were good peeps.”
“’Sup, boys,” Dad says to the twins. He waves away the smoke dramatically. “What’s the shizzle dizzle today?” What? Shizzle dizzle? Please tell me my dad didn’t just say “shizzle dizzle.” Please?
“That’s a really cool car, Mr. Archuleta,” says Keoni. He hands his cigarette to Kerani and lights another one for himself. I am starting to think Kerani never talks unless it’s in unison with Keoni. Maybe he’s a mute. Maybe the smoke is some kind of therapy for boys without voices. Keoni points to the car and asks my dad, “What is it?”
I laugh even though the question probably wasn’t intended to be funny. My dad answers, “A 1958 Edsel Citation, almost mint.”
“An Edsel?” I ask. “Didn’t they ban those or something? Where’s the Corolla?”
“I traded it in,” crows my dad. He flashes his big fake teeth at me like I should be happy about this news.
“You what?” It takes everything I have not to cry. “Dad, there’s a reason they don’t make Edsels anymore.”
Dad looks confused. “Well, I wanted to get a Beemer or something like that, the way all these other people out here have, but we can’t afford it right now, and then I decided that it would be better to have a memorable car that nobody else had. This is it.”
I look at the guys in the car. “Did the Chicano posse come with it?” I say in a low voice. “We don’t have enough room in the garage for them. Unless you stack them up.”
My dad
gets a guilty face again. “Oh, man. Sorry. Paski, these are my new friends Lalo, Sleepy, and Bartolomeo.” The cholos wave. “Lalo’s a Chicano playwright from L.A. who used to know your mom back in the day. He’s got a show Off-Broadway in New York, and he won a bunch of awards. He’s heavy.”
“Nice to meet you,” says Lalo, far more gentlemanly than you’d expect from the tattoos on his neck. His voice is really, really deep, like a movie announcer’s or something.
Dad rubs his sideburns, which, now that I look at them, seem to be newly sculpted into strange little curls. When does he find the time to do this stuff? It’s crazy. What the heck is wrong with my dad? I swear.
He says, “Sleepy’s an artist like me, a friend of Lalo’s. He’s going to help paint the mural.”
“The mural?” I ask. Dad is one of those people who thinks you have to have murals to be a real Chicano.
“On the hood,” Dad explains.
“Oh my God.” I feel sick.
Dad continues to introduce his friends. “Bartolomeo here’s an attorney who went to Yale. He works in the state attorney general’s office now, but back in the day he was a lowrider. Bartolomeo, I’m telling you, Paski, he can really fix cars.”
The attorney in the beret grins and shakes my dad’s hand in some elaborate way that reminds me of an old movie starring Edward James Olmos. He’s even got old acne scars like that actor. I stare at the three wannabe hood rats — four if you count my dad — and try to get my mind around the fact that these men are professionals in their thirties or forties, really old. I might be imagining it, but it seems like in other eras, old people just acted like old people. Now it’s like they all want to be young forever.
“They’re here to help me work on the car,” says Dad. He slaps the hood, and I hear something fall off the bottom of the engine and clatter to the ground, like he knocked it loose. I don’t want to laugh. I try not to. But I laugh anyway. “And you can see it needs some work,” Dad acknowledges, embarrassed.
Haters Page 9