“Nah, man, I have to go check on Mandy.” My sister probably sneaks over there after school while I work and then rushes home when she knows I should be on my way. Besides, the last thing I need is for Awilda to see me with Nestor and go flap to Rubio, who’ll bother my moms again.
Nestor shakes his head as if to say That’s messed up, so I shrug back to tell him It’s like that. If he wants to be chivalrous, I ain’t mad at him, but don’t hate on me because I have my own family to attend to.
In fact, it’s all I think about as I walk the three flights up to my apartment. My parents aren’t officially divorced, and my mother has too much pride to sic the courts on Rubio for child support. From time to time, he swings by the crib to give us money or hands Mandy some cash when he sees her playing outside, but that’s just it. From time to time, when it crosses Rubio’s mind, if Awilda’s not around to give him grief … In two words: never enough. And forget about hitting the man up for any money for something beyond the basics. What kind of man lets a woman tell him which of his kids he can and cannot father? Unless Awilda “tells” Rubio to do what he wants to do anyway.
Worst of all, my mother has to deal with this every day. Bad enough he played Moms dirty left and right; this time he had to go knock up some breezy around the way. Rubio wasn’t even man enough to tell her about the pregnancy himself. Sleazy Awilda waited until she was four months along, rolled into Yannis’s store, and lifted her T-shirt to show off her belly. “This,” she said, “is Rubio’s.” My mother had heard the gossip before then—we all did—but she refused to believe it until the proof was literally in her face.
So now Moms makes Mandy and me lug our dirty clothes to the Laundromat three blocks away. She claims that the dryers across the street cheat you out of two minutes of the ten your quarter is supposed to buy. Mandy believes her, but I know she doesn’t want to bump into Awilda or any of her people. It’s one reason why I can’t wait to leave for college. I can’t stand to see the look on my mother’s face whenever that mujeriego’s in her line of sight or she overhears some humiliating chisme about his latest exploits. But when all you make is seven twenty-five an hour, running an errand a quarter mile out of your way is the only escape you can afford.
Oscillate (v.) to sway from one side to the other
After I get upstairs and check in on Mandy, I jump on my college applications. When I started this process, I put myself on a schedule and stick to it. Homework can wait. Then I make the mistake of trying to tackle the financial aid forms on my own. Harvard costs thirty-two G’s. So does Princeton. Yale is thirty-five. If I did want to go to Columbia and decided to commute into Manhattan every day instead of moving into a dorm to save eight thousand dollars each year in room and board, tuition alone would still set me back thirty-seven grand. I lose my way in the stack of paper and figures, and I try so hard to refocus, I give myself a headache and have to lie down. Then the phone rings.
“You promised to call me, son,” yells Chingy.
“Man, I forgot.”
“Don’t make me go over there and chop you in the neck. You didn’t see GiGi yet, did you?”
“That’s what I forgot.”
“You must be on crack to forget that you had a date with Jessica Alba Junior.”
I laugh hard. Chingy just kills me with his lines. “I swear, kid, I forgot. A brother has a lot on the mind.”
“Even more reason to go over there.”
“Chingy, after struggling for the past two months in physics, how am I going to roll up in Mr. Harris’s class with not one but two perfect assignments?”
“Yeah, that might make him suspicious.”
“You think?”
“Shut up, cuz. I’m trying to help you. Okay, when you get the assignment from GiGi, jack up enough of the answers to maintain your lousy average.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” I hear the call-waiting beep. When things are not hectic at the store, my mother calls to check in on us. “Yo, Chingy, my moms is on the line. Let me holla back at you in a few.”
“A’ight. One, cuz.”
The beep sounds again. “Peace.” I hit the Talk button on the cordless. “Hello?”
“Efrain!”
Who’s this strange girl screaming on me? Then it hits me. “GiGi?”
“Don’t get it twisted, Efrain,” she yells. “I have better things to do than finish your stupid physics homework and wait for you to come and get it.”
“GiGi, I’m really sorry,” I say, and I actually find myself meaning it. “It’s just that my mother works late, and I really can’t leave my little sister here by herself.” Not a total lie. Mandy’s not so young that I can’t leave her alone for a while sometimes. After all, she’s alone for two hours every school day while I tutor. But when it gets dark earlier, my mother’s not too keen on my leaving Mandy alone for too long. Truth is, I’m not too crazy about doing it either. I might hang out on the stoop, run to the bodega, or even catch a game of hoops with Chingy and some guys at People’s Park. But if Mandy really needs me, all she has to do is throw open a window and holler, because my family is the only one in the free world without cell phones.
“Oh.” GiGi almost sounds sorry, but in true girl fashion, she doesn’t apologize, and Candace flashes through my mind. She says, “So, when are you coming over?”
“Man, GiGi, I appreciate you lookin’ out for me, I really do.” Again, I find myself meaning it. “But I just don’t think I’m going to make it over there tonight.”
GiGi sighs. “Well, how about I give you the answers over the telephone?”
“Yeah, that’s peace.” I reach for my worksheet and pen. “Ready when you are.”
As she gives me the answers, GiGi is mad sweet, sometimes even explaining the right answer to me. I think it actually makes her feel good to help, but I have mixed feelings about her attentiveness.
After giving me the final answer, GiGi yells, “Now you owe me, Efrain.”
All I say is, “All right, GiGi.” I knock on my desk. “But I gotta go now.”
“You owe me big-time!” GiGi finally hangs up on me.
I don’t know what she wants from me, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have it. I don’t have what I want, and I don’t even want it all. Being Brown and broke has been a seventeen-year-test in just how badly I want an average life. A life where doing the right thing is punished with the luxury of having to choose between the things I need and those that I want. Why does the valedictorian have to choose between his class ring and an SAT prep class? Why does a clean-cut teenager have to decide between showing up to his minimum-wage job and going to the movies with the most popular girl in school? Why do I have to fight so hard just for the mere chance to have it all?
A real knock on my door interrupts my funky train of thoughts. “Efrain, are you there?”
“C’mon in, Mami.”
My mother pokes her head through my door. “You okay, honey?”
“Just studying.”
“Did you eat?”
“No, I got caught up in homework. I was thinking of just running down to the pizzeria for a slice.”
“That’s a good idea.” My mother reaches into her pocket and pulls out a twenty. “Why don’t you pick up a pie for all of us?”
“Save that,” I say as I slip on my kicks. “My treat.”
My moms smiles at me in that sad way of hers and leaves the room. Did she always look like that when she smiled, and I’m only noticing it now because she has reason to be sad? Or has all the drama with Rubio broken her smile? Can I do anything to fix it even though I’m just a son? Can Moms stand strong for Mandy until I can reach back to them?
Mandy sits in the living room watching a stupid reality show where a bunch of D-listers move in together and work each other’s nerves, hoping to convince the network to give them their own stupid reality show. “Turn off that garbage,” I tease as I head for the apartment door.
She jumps to her feet and catches up to me. “Efrain, can I go with you
to the pizzeria?” Before I can answer, she reaches for her jacket. Oh, so now she has love for her big brother.
“Nah, stay here.” I didn’t mean to snap at her. It’s just that I really wasn’t hungry, never mind craving pizza. I just needed an excuse to go outside without raising my mother’s suspicions, and I can’t risk Mandy overhearing my conversation. To make up for my nastiness, I ask, “So what you want, Beyoncé? Pepperoni or sausage? How ’bout both?”
She cuts me a look. “I don’t care.” Then Mandy spins around and marches back into the living room. Poor thing’s been cooped up in the apartment all afternoon.
“Okay, I’ll get half and half.” I can’t be mad at her. And she’ll get over it.
When I hit the sidewalk, I cross the street toward the bodega where Nestor plies his trade. “What’s up, E.?” He’s with two other guys that are usually out there with him. The corner boys wish me peace, and I return the favor. In a neighborhood like mine, you don’t turn your nose up at the thugs just because you don’t roll with them. You holler but keep it moving to avoid static. My moms taught me that so I wouldn’t be book smart but street dumb. That’s the kind of thing a son should learn from his father, but Rubio was too busy looking for younger women to turn into single mothers.
Without breaking my stride, I say to Nestor, “Yo, roll with me to the pizzeria, kid. I need to holler at you about something.”
“No doubt,” says Nestor as he falls into step behind me. “What’s up?”
“Can you hook me up with a job?”
Obstinate (adj.) not yielding easily, stubborn
Although I’ve been to Hunts Point to shop for clothes on Southern Boulevard, I’ve never walked through the neighborhood on the other side of the Bruckner. At first, it doesn’t seem much different than mine in Port Morris. There are tenement buildings and walkups, bodegas and lechoneras, liquor stores and nightclubs. As Nestor leads me farther away from the highway, it becomes less residential—huge loft buildings, with no lights through the broken, dusty windows. On one side of the street is a McDonald’s with an indoor playground, but on the other side is a strip club. A group of young girls strut down the avenue, trying to act grown.
Nestor juts his chin toward them. “Little hos.”
“Malo.” I jab him in the arm. “You wrong for that.”
Nestor jabs me back. “For real, those little girls are on the stroll.”
“You’re kidding me?” I stare at one wearing a jacket that looks just like one Mandy owns. The thick eyeliner and heavy lipstick can’t hide that she is not a day over thirteen. She turns and catches me. When she flutters her lashes, I look away.
Within minutes Nestor leads me to the most industrial part of the neighborhood, practically at the Bronx River. There are large factories with garages wide enough for trucks. I ask, “Just where are you taking me, kid?”
“Right here.” Nestor leads me to this small door a few yards down from a closed garage. He pulls out a cell phone and dials a number. He says, “Yeah, it’s Nes with my boy E. We’re outside. Okay.”
We wait for a minute, and the door opens. The Black guy behind it seems a bit older than we are. From the Pelle Pelle leather jacket on his back to the Air Tour Spectators on his feet, he’s official. “What’s up, son?” Nestor grips his hand, and they pull toward each other for what my sister calls an “ug.” She says that boys don’t get close enough to each other, so they should never call it a hug. The guy catches me smiling at the thought, so I switch up my grille so he won’t think I’m an herb.
Nestor says, “Trace, this is my boy Efrain. E., Trace.”
I offer Trace a pound. “Peace.”
Ignoring my hand, he says, “Assume the position, yo.”
Nestor gives a nervous laugh and flattens his palms against the wall as if he were just arrested. “Business precaution, man.”
“Yeah, Snipes don’t know you,” says Trace as he pats down Nestor for God knows what. “You could be a snitch for Hinckley.”
I don’t even know who that is, but I mimic Nestor. Trace moves over to frisk me, patting me so hard on the crotch, I have to catch my breath and suck down the pain.
Finally, Trace backs off of us and says to Nestor, “You know where he is.” Then he steps aside. Nestor leads me inside and into an office where a bald Latino guy in his late twenties pours himself a glass of rum and watches SportsCenter. Nestor says, “Snipes, this is my boy Efrain. The one I was telling you about.”
Man, I feel like a fool. I had the entire stereotype in my mind, expecting Wesley Snipes in that movie Sugar Hill or New Jack City. I hold out my hand to him and say, “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Efrain Rodriguez,” like Mrs. Colfax taught me in her professional development course.
Snipes takes one look at me, then says to Nestor, “Take off.” Nestor hesitates, then tells me he’ll wait for me outside. As soon as the door closes, Snipes motions for me to take a seat and turns off the television. He rises from his chair and takes a sip of his rum, never pulling his gaze from me. Finally, he scoffs, “Get the fuck out of here. This ain’t for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Scout. I told you to get the fuck on up out of here! You ain’t trying to work for me.”
I know this is a test. I ace tests. I have to. “Yes, I am.”
“What for?”
“Because I need the money.”
“Who the hell doesn’t?”
“But I’m the one who’s here.”
Snipes squints as if he wants to like my answer. “You in some kind of trouble?”
“No, sir.”
“You owe anybody any money?”
“No.” Then I come clean. “Not yet. Not if I can help it.”
“Oh, I get it. You got some nasty habits. Gambling, drugs, or some shit.”
“Not at all.” Chingy pops into my mind. “I stay shy.”
Snipes laughs. “You stay shy? Okay, Scout. Here you go.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. He peels off one hundred-dollar bill after the other, tossing them into a stack on the table. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. “Is that enough for you?”
I should take the money, say peace out, and never show my face around these parts again, but there’s more at stake now than money. “Hardly.” This man doesn’t know me to rate my needs so damned cheaply.
Snipes bends down and hollers in my face, “How much is enough, then?”
“Thirty!” I yell back.
“For what?”
“College!”
“College?” He laughs like my name is Ernie and I want to buy a truckload of rubber ducks. “College?”
“I didn’t stutter.” I’m not two feet from Cerebus, and I unleash this pent-up bravado. Who is this guy, and why is he trying to get me killed?
“What freakin’ college costs thirty grand?”
“The best.”
“Oh, is that right?” Snipes laughs again. “What do they teach for thirty G’s that you can’t learn at the College of Mount Okey-doke?”
“How to run the world.” It may sound like a slick response, but that’s real talk. “And that’s thirty G’s per year and not including room and board.”
Snipes finally straightens up. He finishes off his rum and sits back down beside me. “You really out there slinging so you can afford to go to some rich White boys’ college? Da Man’s University.” He laughs at his own joke. I neither laugh nor answer. “You think a nickel bag here, a white top there is enough to take you where you trying to go?”
“With all due respect, why does it matter why I want to do this?” I ask. “So long as my incentives fuel my hustle and move your product, we’re both good.”
He leans over and scoops the money off the table. “You want Da Man’s U that bad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see you there,” he says. “Not on no sellout shit either. I see you keeping it real. Representing. You gonna become one of my good fr
iends in high places, aren’t you, E.?”
I swallow. “Damn straight.”
Conciliatory (adj.) friendly, agreeable
On Monday, when I rush out of physics to speak to Mr. Sweren before everyone else arrives, who’s there with him but Mrs. Colfax. On another day, I would have held back and waited for her to bounce, but today I’m on a mission. “Excuse me, Mr. Sweren, but I need to speak to you about something important.”
Mrs. Colfax puts her hand on my arm. “So, how are your college applications going, Efrain?” she asks.
Like you really care. I step out of her reach. “Fine.”
She says to Mr. Sweren, “Efrain’s intent on going Ivy League.”
“Good for you,” he says, not sounding the least concerned about my being overwhelmed.
Mrs. Colfax fidgets. “But don’t you think Efrain should apply to a range of schools?” Her tone makes it obvious that Mr. Sweren should back her up.
He says, “That’s right, Efrain, you want to apply to three types of schools. One, apply to a few dream schools. You know, the ones that seem like long shots for whatever reason. Then you want to apply to a few safe schools. Those are ones that you can afford and know you can get into with no problem. And then you want to have a few schools in between those two extremes. This way you’re neither shooting too high nor aiming too low.”
“Thanks, Mr. Sweren. I’ll do that.” I appreciate Mr. Sweren schooling me. I haven’t applied yet to any schools in the middle, only concentrating on my dream and safe schools. He did more for me in one conversation than Mrs. Colfax ever did.
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