Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass (8 page)

“You’re not going to tell, are you?” she whispers. “If you are, leave me out of it, for God’s sake. I
don’t
want to be a witness.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.

“Get out of the way.” I push past and slide into my seat. How stupid does she think I am?

My head is starting to pound. I’m too mad to take the quiz Mr. Nocera hands me. Instead, I put my head down and stare out the grates until I don’t see the bars of this cage anymore. There’s only one thing I know for sure: I have to get my necklace back. The question is: How?

The guidance office is in room 109, along the only sunny stretch of hall in this whole stupid school.

I watch through the glass of the office door, where Darlene is on the phone, looking like the thirty-year-old she’d like to be. She’s a student aide there, getting credit instead of taking a study hall, which she refers to as a “waste of learning time.” Naturally, all the secretaries adore her. When she’s wearing the volunteer badge, she’s responsible, a little snippy, and has a good phone manner. A Mini-Me of their very own.

It has taken some convincing to corrupt her. I had to swear I’d never use her as a witness, no matter what. Also that I’d help her with physics homework for the rest of the year.

I pretend the bulletin board in the hall is interesting as I wait for her to get what I need. Our crime is taking even longer than I thought; I should already be in study hall, and any minute one of the wandering teachers on duty is going to find me and shake me down for a pass. It’s not like I can hide in the bathroom. Who knows what would happen if Yaqui’s crew found me in there?

The board is crammed with posters. Registering for the draft. College visits. SAT dates and codes. A science academy for juniors and seniors at the community college. One poster catches my eye. It has a bulldog inside a circle with a diagonal red line.
BULLY-FREE ZONE. STAND UP. SPEAK OUT
, it says. I almost laugh out loud.

“Here,” Darlene whispers, peeking out the door a few minutes later. “Yaqui Delgado’s schedule.” It’s tucked under an application for the science academy. She tugs at her skirt nervously as I look the paper over. “I hope you know I could get in real trouble for this. Accessing student records is, like,
illegal
for an aide.”

“You’re a secret badass, though,” I say to make her feel better. “Thanks.”

I look at the home address and try to place the street. If I’m right, it’s in the Bland — a shit hole if ever there was one. Figures. I scan the schedule for room numbers and classes. Yaqui and I don’t share a single teacher or classroom in this school, and yet I can’t get away from her. How does that happen? I fold the sheet carefully and slip it inside my backpack.

“You’re welcome,” Darlene calls.

I hurry down the hall.

There are two little rectangles of glass on the classroom door, both covered with black construction paper. Through a space at the edge, I look inside. According to her schedule, Yaqui has health this period.

I’m almost giddy standing there. My head is starting to thud at the temples, a faint beat getting louder by the second until at last I recognize what’s sneaking out through my brain. It’s the steady
clave
of a salsa, a classic two-three beat.
Pa-pa/pa-pa-pa/Pa-pa/pa-pa-pa
. The band in my aching head is waiting to play so Yaqui and I can go
mano a mano
in our dance.

What am I going to do, now that I’m standing here? What do I tell the teacher? That I need to talk to Yaqui Delgado? And if I do get to talk to Yaqui, it will be to say what, exactly?
Give it back, you thief?
The whole plan suddenly seems stupid.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

Ms. Shepherd has come out of nowhere, and when I turn around, I find her pointing at me with the antenna of her walkie-talkie. She’s on hall duty, looking for skippers like me, and she’s even wearing sneakers for the occasion. It occurs to me now that I’ve never skipped before. Ms. Shepherd looks surprised when she sees me at first, then just disappointed.

“Piddy?”

I don’t answer, but not because I’m being rude. It’s as if she’s talking to someone else. I don’t feel anything like the kid Ms. Shepherd hoped for a few weeks ago. The fact is I’m losing my shine in her eyes, the same way I’m losing it for Mr. Nocera and all my other teachers. I didn’t turn in my English homework yesterday, another dent in my shiny armor. Somehow, I couldn’t find the energy to care about participial phrases.

“What are you doing out of class?” she asks.

My head is swirling, and it feels as if she is talking to me from far away.

“Are you all right? You look sick.”

“I thought I had health, but I made a mistake,” I lie.

She puts her finger on the walkie-talkie’s button and taps the antenna to her lips. She could check my schedule in a second and bust me right here. “The bell rang six minutes ago.”

“I had to stop in guidance first. To pick up magnet-school stuff.” I hold up the stapled application to show her.

She nods, thinking.

“Piddy, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your work in English.”

Before she has a chance to say more, I take a step back.

“I’ll do better,” I mumble, losing my nerve completely. “I should get to study hall.”

The beat in my head is threatening to split my skull wide open. I make my way down the hall, but when I get to the stairwell, my eyes become glued to the exit door. I don’t have the courage to face Yaqui, and now I can’t breathe in this school. I can’t see who I am or hear my own voice. I’m already late, and who cares if I’m marked absent and unexcused from study hall? I reach for the side doors and push myself into the quiet world outside. The cold sunshine is blinding.

I don’t go home. Instead, I walk two blocks to the bus stop and climb on the next bus to kill time. This one is headed toward the subway, but in the middle of the day, it’s nearly empty. I settle in at the back.

She stole my elephant necklace
. I type the message to Mitzi into my phone and wait for her reply as I ride. Ten whole minutes go by and nothing.

I stare out the window, brooding and feeling ignored. The bus skirts the projects where Yaqui lives. Tall buildings and tagged benches with guys just waiting for nothing. I look high up as we go by, trying to imagine from which ugly window Yaqui looks out onto the world.

Up at the front of the bus, a man signals for a stop. He’s about Ma’s age, tall with salt-and-pepper hair. A folded newspaper is tucked under his arm. I can’t help it; I start to play my old game. He likes
plátanos fritos
and cheeseburgers like me, I decide. He likes nature shows. By the time he’s climbed down to the sidewalk, I can almost imagine his voice deep and calm in my ear as he tucks me into bed.

“Piddy, I’m so sorry for everything. I’ve thought of you all these years. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe. And here, I’ve written a song just for you.”

I ride to the bitter end of the line, thinking of my imaginary father and humming his made-up tune.

“You’re not doing your work?”

Ma’s voice is tight as she sits down at the kitchen table while I’m trying to do my homework. The fried steak and white rice I made for her is still wrapped on the stove. She hasn’t touched it.

Instead, she’s staring at the progress report from Daniel Jones that arrived in today’s mail. Had I known that DJ mails home interim reports, I would have watched the mailbox more carefully, maybe bombed it with firecrackers or set it on fire the way Joey does to his. Now Ma’s mad, and she’s asking questions. She rubs her shoulders and frowns as she reads in her heavy accent.

“The student is inattentive. The student has missed assignments.”

“Ma —”

“The student is not working up to his or her potential.”

She puts down the page and gives me a disgusted look. Then she counts the row of zeroes on the computer printout with her pinkie.

“It says here you have six zeroes.
Seis
.”

I don’t answer. My head still hurts, and Ma’s voice makes my shame worse.

“Well?”

“It’s a hard school,” I explain. Hard to survive. Hard to be left alone. I stare at my math book and try to look busy. I haven’t paid attention in class all week, and now I have no idea how to apply this stupid theorem. I read the directions over and over, but nothing penetrates. Ma doesn’t make it any easier with her eyes boring into me.

“A zero doesn’t mean something is hard,
niña
,” she says. “It means you’re lazy. It means you’re not studying.
Nada. !Qué vergüenza!
”

Ma sits down across from me. “You should be ashamed. You used to be an excellent student. Now this. Do you want to end up a little lowlife? Eh?
¿Una chusma?
Look at you! You’re practically playing the part.”

She points to my new T-shirt that I got when I went shopping with Lila. It’s a little tighter than I usually wear, and it has a V-neck. Lila said it showed off my figure.

“I bought it with my own money,” I point out. “I can’t dress like a ten-year-old my whole life.”

Ma sighs. “So what if it’s your money? A shirt like that sends a message,
oíste
? What? You want people to think you’re no good like your father?”

“I wouldn’t know about my father, would I?” I mumble.

“Eh?”

“I said, ‘I wouldn’t know.’” I reach for my necklace to comfort myself, but of course it’s not there. It’s like a phantom limb on a soldier. Bile rises into my mouth. I feel sick. Why can’t she leave me alone?

“What do you mean?” she says.

Ma scoops out some Iodex and rubs the ointment into her neck as she waits for my answer. Her Attronica name tag is pinned on crooked, and there are sweat stains under her arms. For a second, I can see her the way her boss does at the warehouse: just another nobody loading boxes, and I hate her for it.

I grip my pencil until I feel like it might snap.

“It means you don’t bother to tell me anything about my father, Ma. How would I know what he was like? I don’t even know what he looks like thanks to you. I have to hear about my own life from other people at a friggin’ hair salon.”

She stops rubbing and gives me a careful look.

“Oh? And who has been talking about us at the salon?”

“Forget it.”

She wipes her hands clean, shaking her head in disgust. “That place is like a radio station, you know. It broadcasts everything.” She crosses her arms. “So, what is it, then? Somebody is spreading gossip about me and Agustín?”

I ignore her.

“What have you heard?” she asks louder. Her oily hand covers up the words on the page and makes a mentholated stain on the problem I’m trying to work out.
“¡Contéstame!”

I snatch the book away and glare.

“Do you want me to do my homework, or do you want to bother me all night? Jesus, Ma, you’re such a pain! I can’t stand you!”

The minute I say it, Ma flinches, and I wish I could eat my ugly words. I’ve never been so mean to her, but now all I want is to make her feel small. I need her company down here at the bottom of this pit, where maybe she can hug me and tell me it’s all right. But she’s made of sturdier stuff. She doesn’t fall after me the way I want. Instead, she sits back and arches her brow.

She lets out a deep laugh, shaking her head, as if I’m the stupidest little kid she knows. Then she folds the progress report carefully, her hands barely trembling as she leans in.

“You know what, Piedad Maria Sanchez? This has nothing to do with Agustín. It has to do with you. You’re going to do better in school, you hear me? You’re going to do better, or I’m going to go down and see what’s so hard for you at that new school. Understand? I didn’t sacrifice —”

I slam my book shut and head for the door. It’s dark outside, and it’s me who’s shaking now.

“Where are you going all alone? It’s dark,” she says.

“Away from you!” I shout.

I ring and ring at the lobby doors, but Lila is not home. The apartment looks dark from the street. She is probably out dancing with her William Levy look-alike. The whole idea makes me even angrier. Worse yet, I didn’t grab a coat, and now I’m shivering under my sweatshirt. I rattle the door to see if someone might have left it loose, but it’s locked tight.