The Almost Murder and Other Stories (11 page)

Since I came home, I can't stop comparing this place to camp, no matter how hard I try. I can't shut up about it, either. I torture myself, and everyone else, with my moaning.

Maybe I was immune to it before, but now I see things as if I have X-ray vision. Trash, beer cans and garbage were always all over my block, but now I take notice. I see the broken windows—and broken lives, too. I wish I didn't.

Grown-ups complain about New York's high taxes. I can tell you one thing: Bloomberg sure doesn't spend those bucks in
this
neighborhood. It pisses me off.

Moms says she wouldn't have let me go to camp in the first place, if she knew I'd be so mad about everything once I got home. I can't exactly blame her.

Basically, I think about camp all day long, and I even dream about it. It's like being obsessed. Sometimes camp seems more like a dream than a place I actually went to. Maybe I think about it so much to convince myself that camp, and you, really exist.

Maureen, I know you live in Queens, in a nice neighborhood and all that, so I was wondering: Do you miss
camp a lot, too? It's kind of embarrassing to ask you that, but please write me back with your answer.

I know that lots of kids around here have way harsher lives than I do, not to mention people in Iraq and Africa. But I still feel lousy. Actually, worse than lousy. Depressed. My chest feels tight, about to explode.

I told my social worker, Beth, what's going on. She says I'm “mildly depressed.” It doesn't feel mild to me, but she's probably right. She usually is. Beth thinks I have “separation anxiety,” too. In other words, I miss you and camp more than I'm glad to be home. Beth says kids who get out of the 'hood for awhile have trouble readjusting sometimes. Well, I'm proof of that.

After having you for a best friend, the kids here seem more messed up, either looking for trouble, or in it already. Some kids, including girls, have already done time in Juvi. They even brag about it. Sick, huh?

Boys here are enlisting like crazy. An army recruiter hangs out near the school, telling them the war's a big adventure, a great way to escape from the Bronx. But what if their legs get blown off? What if they end up in body bags? Nobody talks about that. They should, shouldn't they?

There aren't much good news to report from here, so I feel guilty writing all this. I hope you understand I'm saying this stuff because we're best friends.

I didn't tell you at camp, but do you know what kids in my class call me? “Worm”—short for bookworm. They think reading's for freaks. Teachers have to force them to get through even one book.

Kids here always said I acted like I was better than they were. Since camp, they say I'm even worse. Maybe they're right. Ha! Am I worse or am I better?

My family's apartment is a nuthouse. Moms yells non-stop with a voice like a police siren. My brother Pedro blasts rap with nasty lyrics my parents don't hear or
ignore. The twins are two; they fight, cry and make a mess. I can't get mad at those two. I mean, they're babies.

Pops is having an affair. This time, it's a big one. We all know about it, including Moms. She says she's deciding what to do. Probably, she'll just wait it out.

Pops' squeeze, Sonia, lives in our building, so we see her in the halls. I admit I give her dirty looks. She's from the D.R., where her teenage daughter still lives. I wonder if that girl knows what her mother's up to, besides being some yuppie's nanny?

Sonia's so tiny, she probably weighs less than ninety pounds. Maybe her being so little makes Pops feel like a he-man. I mean, the woman's half Moms' size. But Sonia didn't have twins at forty!

Pops barks orders like he thinks he's some general. Pedro gives him sarcastic salutes behind his back. Pops is no general. He's a frustrated factory worker with a boss he despises. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't cheating on Moms.

So, my house is never quiet. I can only do homework in peace late at night, and by then, I'm wiped out. Thank God for this library. I'd go insane if I couldn't come here.

Once I get into a book, my problems evaporate. You and I talked about books being like magic or a drug. For me, books are lifesavers. I mean, literally.

Our librarian, Mrs. Díaz, grew up here. I call her “Díaz.” It suits her. Díaz went to NYU but came back to work in what she calls “our community.” I'm glad she loves helping kids, especially me. I tell her I'm not coming back here once I escape. She says I might change my mind when I'm older. We'll see.

Díaz acts like my shrink or guidance counselor, and I don't even mind. I need someone to tell stuff to, and I only see Beth once a month.

I worry about Díaz. She's thirty but looks way older. Her skin used to be brown like mine, and now it's gray.
Plus she has a cough although she never smoked in her life. Díaz says not to worry, but I still do.

Maybe the Bronx is wearing Díaz out or even killing her. Maybe she should save herself and move away, even though I'd feel worse without her. Writing this is creeping me out. I'll talk to Díaz when she's back from break. She needs to take care of herself.

My English teacher, Mrs. Cantor, says books and reading are going to save me. She suggests titles for Díaz to order. I'm lucky they care about me so much—I'm not their relative or anything.

Last week, Mrs. C told me about the Manhattan Gifted Charter School. She showed me brochures and articles on it and said it was a perfect fit for me, a place smart kids from all over the city commute to. And there's no tuition. I was desperate to go.

I had such a strong feeling I'd get into Gifted Charter. I just knew, know what I mean?

Mrs. C came over and asked my parents to let me take the admissions test. She showed them the brochures, too. I begged them to just let me try. You know what they said, Maureen?

“No.” Just like that: “N-O.”

Pops said commuting by subway at my age is dangerous and a WASTE OF TIME. I mean, how can education be a waste? Parents are supposed to WANT kids to learn, aren't they? I can't tell you how mad I am.

Moms said I have to finish high school here. Then, if I get a scholarship, I can go away to college. Is this nuts? If I went to Manhattan Gifted, I'd get a great education and have a better chance at scholarships. They don't even send recruiters here!

Mrs. C got Díaz to call my parents and give it one more try. She came for dinner and gave them her pitch in Spanish. She was so persuasive, I started to think Moms
and Pops would change their minds. Instead, they got even more stubborn and even told Díaz that she finished high school here and did just fine.

I met with my mentors, and Díaz told Mrs. C she couldn't convince Moms and Pops to even let me test. Mrs. C was so upset, she called my parents “ignorant” right in front of me. Instead of being insulted or defending them, I wanted to agree but just kept quiet.

So, for three more years, I'm stuck in a school with kids so lazy they don't even try. They smoke cigarettes, reefer and anything else they get their hands on. It's pathetic. I hear they even do crack in the bathroom. I wouldn't know, since I don't use the facilities there. I value my life too much!

I see most kids in my school as people with no future. They see me as a freak. So, my social life is nonexistant. I wish I had kids to really talk to and study with. Kids like you. At Manhattan Gifted, I'd have met kids like us. Instead, I'm with gangbangers and wannabes who put me down for trying to get ahead.

Anyway, I really wanted to ask you a question, or, actually, a favor. Do you think I could come visit you and your family in Queens some weekend?

I'd invite you to my house, but, like I said, it's a zoo. You wouldn't be comfortable. I live there and it's uncomfortable for me.

What do you think? Would your parents be okay if I came to visit? I mean, we never talked about anything like that when we were at camp. Maybe I'm too pushy asking you this, but Beth says, “You never know until you ask.”

It's embarrassing to invite myself, but I really miss you, Maureen. I'd also like to have a break that I could look forward to. It'd be great for us to be together just like we were at camp. If I spent a weekend with you, we'd have two days to just hang out and talk.

Talking, really talking, isn't easy where I live. The only people I can be open with are grown-ups, not anyone my own age. Meaningful conversation isn't something teenagers do here. I don't want to constantly chatter on and bother Mrs. C and Díaz. After all, I'm part of their jobs, not their girlfriend.

In the meantime, I feel like my words are stuffed down inside me, with nowhere to go. Maybe that's why this letter's getting so long. The words I can't speak to anyone in my “real” world just keep spilling out all over these pages.

Until camp, I never had a friend like you. Someone who feels like a smart weirdo. Someone like me. Just knowing you exist makes me feel less lonely.

It's hard to believe, but most girls here never leave. Marriage, kids and a place near their families is all they want. If they know there's a world outside, they sure don't act like it. They call Manhattan “the City,” like the Bronx is a tiny village.

Moms loves me to pieces, but she has her hands full, worrying about my brother staying out of the gangs, keeping up with the twins and dealing with Pops' affair.

Moms prays for me and does her best. She says it's a blessing from God that educated women are taking an interest in me. That's cool of her. I mean, Moms could feel threatened or jealous about the other grown-ups in my life, but she doesn't.

There's another woman in my life, too, my godmother Inez. She's actually a distant cousin, but we always connected. When I was eleven, Inez asked my parents if she could take me on field trips sometimes, and they actually agreed.

Once every few months, Inez comes in from Jersey to get me. We've gone to museums, galleries and even the opera. I didn't understand much, since it was in German, but I loved it anyhow. Inez is a secretary. She wanted to be a singer, but her parents talked her out of it. Now she really,
I mean really, wants me to go for my dreams. Inez tells me to do it for both of us. I plan to.

I called Inez to tell her how weird I'm feeling. She asked me to write a story about it, and even enter it in a contest. Hey, why not? Maybe this letter is the beginning. Writing this made me feel better.

Maureen, I'll be straight. I know your parents are Irish and Italian, so maybe having a Puerto Rican like me stay at your house wouldn't be cool with them. Some white people don't like Latinos. It wouldn't be the first time I've dealt with it. So, if they don't want me there, just tell me. I can take it.

Well, it's almost dinnertime and I have to help Moms force the twins to take a bath. Write soon, okay? Central Park's safe during the day, so maybe we could meet there and hang if a sleepover's not cool. Sorry this is so sloppy. I'm writing like lightning. Let's at least get together soon, okay? Miss you!

Love, your friend,

Lorena