Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass (16 page)

Yaqui is a rabid boxer, her fists balled. I tower over her by several inches, but not even my size helps. She’s done this before. I kick and try to twist out of her grip, but nothing stops her from toppling me and pressing my face into the pavement. She kicks me hard in the ribs as her friends say, “Ooh,” and cover their mouths to laugh.

“Stop! Let me go!” I yell.

I’m fighting with all my might, scraping my nails deep along her arms, but I’m in no-man’s-land now. Though Daniel Jones is still in sight, I’m off school grounds and there are no crowds to help, just passersby who stop, point. Only a cop can save me now, and there’s none around. Mrs. Boika looks out her kitchen curtains in shock, but she’s too scared to move.

Yaqui lifts me from the ground by the hem of my shirt and yanks it straight over my head so I can’t see. I kick blindly. The girls are hooting even louder as I fight to keep my arms in the sleeves. She’s not going to steal the shirt off my back.

Then the fabric tears, and with a sickening rip, I go hurtling to the ground half naked. I run for my door and pound. My hands are shaking too hard to find my key.

“Let me in, Mrs. Boika! Please!” I scream.

Yaqui lunges again. I can feel the rage in each slap and bite; it’s like I’m being devoured alive. Finally, she reaches for my total humiliation. She rips off one of my lacy bra straps and pulls the remaining shreds down around my waist. I’m left huddled in my doorway cupping my hands over my breasts, wearing only my jeans for all of Parsons Boulevard to see. Drivers slow down and crane their necks.

When she’s done, Yaqui wraps my shirt around her shoulders like a towel. She’s out of breath and glowing. Strands of her hair have come loose around her face, and she wears the bloody scratches with pride. She’s victorious — almost beautiful even.

“Want this?” She gives me one final shove and drops something to the pavement. It’s my broken elephant necklace, which she grinds into the pavement. “Keep away from Alfredo.” Then she walks off with her friends, a slow promenade up the street.

Lila takes one look at my face and steps inside, out of breath. Her fingers are still wrinkled from the sinks at Corazón. I called the salon as soon as I got inside. “It’s an emergency!” I screamed at Gloria. “Tell Lila to come now.”

She grabs my hand and leads me straight to the bathroom without a word. Yanking aside the shower curtain, she points at the edge of the tub.

“Sit.”

I’m shaking all over, from a pain I’ve never known before. Pebbles are pressed deep inside my scrapes. Lila works my cheeks and palms with a soapy washcloth trying to lodge the grit free. I start to cry all over again.

“Sh, sh, sh, sh . . .”
It’s her nervous sound, the same noise a pressure cooker makes. As she turns me, like a seamstress fitting her model, she studies the little circles of teeth on my shoulders, the welts on my ribs. She stops at the long pink scrape across my back from the bra hook. Her lips narrow to white lines. “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

The last time someone saw me naked, I was six. I hold my hands over my breasts as Lila dissolves a handful of Epsom salts in the full blast of the tub faucet.

“Take a deep breath and hold it. It’s gonna sting for a second, but it’s the only way to get this mess clean,” she says, helping me in.

I crouch in the water with my knees to my chest. It’s like alcohol on a paper cut. Lila holds me still as I try to get out.

“Wait. It’s going to be better in a second.”

I squeeze my eyes tight until every burning scrape starts to feel numb. When I finally settle into the pain, she sits down on the edge of the tub and lights up a cigarette. At first, she doesn’t say anything.

“What
puta
did this to you?” she finally asks. “The one who came to Corazón?”

“Her friend. A girl named Yaqui,” I say.

“Yaqui who?”

“Delgado. She’s from the Bland.”

Lila takes a long drag, thinking.

“You take her boyfriend?”

“No!”

She lets the smoke out slowly through her nostrils.

“Please don’t tell Ma,” I whisper. “Promise me.”

Lila looks down at me.

“Are you crazy? We
have
to tell Clara.”

Water sloshes over the side as I lunge for Lila’s hand. Getting Ma involved scares me more than Yaqui does.

“No! You can’t tell her!”

Lila’s pants are soaked, but she doesn’t move from the puddle I’ve made all around her.

“And how do you think you’re going to explain your face, Piddy?” She flicks her cigarette butt into the toilet. “You look like you kissed a runaway truck, in case you don’t know.”

I start bawling. I know she’s right.

“Don’t you see? Ma will go to school. She’ll make a
scene
, Lila — in front of everybody. You know what happens then? I’ll get dragged to the dean’s office with Yaqui to shake her hand and say sorry, because nobody ever gets expelled at DJ, no matter what they do.”

“Sit down. Calm yourself —”

I’m crying hard now, and my voice echoes too loudly off the tile.

“I won’t sit down. Don’t tell me to calm down! Yaqui will just get me worse the next time — her or one of her friends. I swear to God, if you tell Ma, you’re digging my grave.”

I scramble over the side of the tub and grab for a towel to cover myself.

“I’ve kept your secret about Ma and my father. Now you have to keep mine. If you don’t, I’ll hate you forever.”

Lila doesn’t follow as I run to my room and slam the door shut.

By the time Ma’s keys jangle in the door, I’m at the kitchen table, my hands cupped around a mug of tea to keep them steady. Lila has boiled rice and opened a can of beans for Ma. I tug on the sleeves of my clean sweatshirt to make sure I’m covered and she can’t see all the places I’ve been hurt.

At first, Ma doesn’t notice a thing except the stink of cigarettes. She shakes her head when she sees Lila smoking at the kitchen table. The ashtray is overflowing.

“
Cristo
, how many times do I have to tell you? Piddy is allergic to smoke. And you’re gonna get a cancer!” She waves her hands to clear the smoke and is about to pull the butt from Lila’s lips when she gets her first good look at me. Her face goes pale as she reaches for her own throat.

“¡Ave Maria purísima!
What happened to you?” She comes at me, hands outstretched.
“¡Dime qué te pasó!”

She tries to touch my swollen eyelid, but I turn away in time.

“It was the stupid stairs,” I say. “I slipped and hit my face on the end of the handrail. Thank God Lila came by after work. ” Every breath hurts as I speak. “Nothing’s broken.”

Ma looks from me to Lila.

“You fell down the stairs.” It’s not a question. Ma is no dummy, and her wheels are whirling. I can smell her doubt. I can almost see a hundred pictures of me on Attronica TV screens, my face made a pulp. She walks to the door and opens it. “Where exactly?” Her voice carries in the hall, maybe right to Mrs. Boika’s apartment. “Where did you fall down the stairs?”

“I hit my face somewhere at the end there. It’s not like I can make a map, Ma. It was so fast.” I take a deep swig of tea, hoping to end the interrogation. I try not to let her see me trembling.

Ma closes the door and comes back to the kitchen. My lie is just out of reach, but she’s too cautious to edge out on this thin branch. She wants me to confess instead, tell her what really happened. But I stay quiet. She takes off her coat slowly, turns to Lila, and crosses her arms.

“
Imagínate
. All those years we spent crawling up and down crumbling steps in the old place, and look where my daughter falls. That’s pretty strange, right, Lila?”

My heart squeezes in the long quiet that follows; I can’t breathe. Smoke has snaked over all our heads as Ma waits for her best friend to answer.

Lila stubs out her cigarette and gets up to warm the food.

“It’s a strange world, Clara. You know that. ”

I stay in my room all weekend, studying myself in the mirror every chance I get. The girl looking back at me is someone new. Mitzi texts me twice to try to make up, but I don’t answer. If she saw this girl now, what would she say? My eyebrows are thin, crooked, and mean as a murder. My left eyelid is swollen into a slit, and the whites are demon red. The scrape on my chin makes my face look lopsided. All over, the bruises have settled in, deep and black, even in places no one can see.

“Piddy!” Ma calls.

Piddy’s dead, Ma
, I want to explain.
Gone. Adiós
. I picture myself like one of those Day of the Dead skeletons wearing a grin.

But maybe Ma already knows, because when I come to the kitchen to see what she wants, she looks at me for a long time in an unnatural quiet, like someone at a funeral. The worry in her eyes is lye on my skin.

“You need some aspirin?” she asks.

“No.”

“Don’t be stubborn.” She points at the knot on my forehead. “That
chichón
has to be giving you a headache,
niña
. At least put some Iodex on it. Or let me press it down with a cold quarter.”

I turn around to leave.

“Piedad Sanchez,” she snaps.

“What?”
My voice is loud in the kitchen, suddenly sharper and bolder than hers.

Ma considers the peppers she’s chopping and stops, confused by this new girl. Finally, she sighs and points to the trash bag with her blade.

“Take that outside. The truck comes tomorrow. And use the handrail!”

It’s quiet on the street as I hesitate at the outside door. Fear is my new best friend. It stands at my elbow in chilly silence. The trash cans are around the back of the house, and the thought of getting there makes my heart race. Anyone could be hiding in the nearby bushes. Yaqui, Vanesa, anyone at all. Even when I close my eyes to steady myself, I can still see Yaqui and her friends. I can practically smell her breath on my neck. This is what it’s like to be haunted by spirits — I’m sure of it.

Just as I’m working up my nerve, something rustles in the front yard and makes me jump. It’s only Mrs. Boika, leaning over the stupid rosesbushes, wrapping the branches in burlap for the winter. A plant, she can protect. A neighbor who is being beaten like a dog? Forget it. She straightens up and stares at me through the thorny branches. I refuse to look away or smile. Instead, I let her get a good look at what she let happen.
I hate you, Mrs. Boika
, I tell her with my devil eyes.
Get back to your thorns
.

I finally force myself to get moving and start for the back of the house. I walk faster the farther away I get from the door. In a panic, I toss the bags toward the closed trash cans. An animal will probably make a mess of it, and Ma will pitch a fit. But I don’t care; it’s the best I can do. I hurry back to the front door, desperate to get inside. Sweat has beaded along my lip. Suddenly I notice something on the sidewalk.

It’s pale green and tiny — my jade elephant, or at least what’s left of it. The chain is gone, and the trunk is broken off. One whole side is scraped white from being crushed under Yaqui’s heel. The sight of my ruined charm makes me angry all over again. I wish I could have crushed Yaqui flat beneath an elephant’s foot, abandoned her on the street with no shirt. My eyes well up as I reach for my charm.

“Piddy?”

The voice makes me flinch. I look up to find Darlene. She’s probably here to cash in again on my debt for Yaqui’s schedule. I ignored her calls all morning. I haven’t been answering my phone. Not for Darlene. Not for Lila. I deleted every message as soon as it came in. But apparently Darlene can’t take a hint. She plucks out her headphones and stares in shock. I try to look away and hide my face, but it’s no use.

“Holy crap,” she whispers.

I snatch my elephant off the ground and straighten up, trying to look natural as she takes inventory of the damage in detail. My bruises feel even deeper with her gawking at them.

“I can’t help you with homework today,” I say. “I’m busy.”

Darlene shakes her head. “That’s not why I’m here. I didn’t believe it, but I saw . . .”

“Go home, Darlene.” I turn for the door, then pause. “What did you see?” Instead of answering, she fishes in her purse for her phone. When she finds it, she scrolls quickly and holds the screen in my face. A spider of dread creeps up my spine.

A grainy phone video starts playing from the web. A crowd of girls is hooting around another girl. It’s me, of course, or at least the old me. My stomach plunges as I watch the fight happen all over again. The camera catches one hard slap after another, the tear of my blouse, my hands grabbing to cover myself.

Darlene stops the video just as the me on the screen is pounding on this door, naked from the waist up.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the side of the house. I’m ruined.

“Seven hundred and four hits so far,” she says. “I mean views. Sorry, Piddy.”