The Princess of Las Pulgas (20 page)

“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 stage, Jamal and
K.T. are stacking a third mattress on top of two others in the
center of the stage.