The Princess of Las Pulgas (16 page)

Mr. Smith gets out of his
chair and scoops up the handkerchief. “Let’s try it this way.
Othello says, ‘Your [handkerchief] is too little.’ He pushes her
hand and the handkerchief falls. Now, you can’t see it fall, either
one of you, and you won’t if you are
looking
at each other, correct?
Othello says blah blah blah, and Desdemona says, ‘I am very sorry
that you are not well.’” He speaks her lines with a falsetto voice
and everyone laughs at the tall, elegant black man flicking the
lacy handkerchief like a girl.

The tension melts and I get
through the small scene. I have a long scene coming up that I don’t
know at all, so I find a table and chair backstage and sit down to
study. It’s hard to concentrate with Juan’s voice booming from the
other side of the curtain. Phrases like
kisses on her lips,
and
her sweet body
keep
distracting me as I try to learn my lines.

How can Othello be such a
dope? Iago’s a sleaze, and if Desdemona weren’t so lovesick and
blind . . . Well, there wouldn’t be a story then, would
there

I’m so tired. Between play
rehearsals, Keith’s trouble, the commotion in the apartment next to
ours, the loud music that blasts me awake at odd hours, and now
this latest crap from Chico and Anthony and his friends—I’m not
sleeping very much anymore. I put my head down on the table next to
my script and close my eyes.

“All cast and crew on
stage, please.” Mr. Smith’s voice snaps me awake.

Yawning, I gather my script
and grope my way around the curtain.

“All right everyone, based
on tonight,” he looks at the cast, “we have to add a few hours of
rehearsal.”

A collective groan
interrupts him.

He ignores the students who
sink into their seats or hold their heads. “And on Saturday nights
we’ll add another hour of practice until we open.” He holds up his
calendar. “Anyone have conflicts?”

“As long as it’s after two
on Saturdays, I can make it,” Juan says. “I work until one-thirty.”
He looks at me and I pretend to make notes on my
schedule.

“All right, cast and crew.
I will see you tomorrow, with eyes bright and homework completed.”
Mr. Smith shuts down the lights, leaving the flood on at the back
until everyone files out, then he locks the stage door. “Gentlemen,
we shall walk the ladies to their cars, if you please.”

I wait until Anthony and
Chico head out to the parking lot, then I pull out my keys and
hurry toward my car. Juan falls in next to me, his arm brushing
mine. “So are you ready for our big scene, Princess?”

“I’ve already written a
letter, telling my mother to notify the police if anything happens
to me on that stage.”

“Oh, Princess, I’m
hurt.”

“I don’t
want
to be.” We reach my
car, and I say, “Thanks for the escort.”

“My pleasure.” He walks
across the now empty parking lot toward the street.

I follow behind, my
headlights casting a giant shadow of him over the pavement. When he
reaches the sidewalk he turns right and keeps walking.
Where’s he parked?
Then
it hits me. He doesn’t have a car. I slow and roll down the
passenger window. “Want a lift?”

“Are you a safe
driver?”

“Get in.”

We drive past the school to
the main highway. “Which way do I go?”

“South to Escondido, then
left. I’ll tell you where to stop.”

Escondido’s the opposite
way I take home. I shouldn’t have offered him a ride. I’m going to
be later than I told Mom I’d be.

Soon he says, “Stop here.”
He points to a hotel with an iron barred front door and ground
floor windows. On the second and third floors light glows from
behind drawn curtains.

“Is this home?”

“Home to many.”

The front door swings open
and the bars clank shut behind the man who’s leaving. He’s reached
where I’m parked when the door opens again and a woman sticks her
head out. “¡Bastardo!” she shouts.

“¡Calla la boca!” the man
shouts over his shoulder, then gets into a car and guns the engine.
His tires squeal as he backs up and makes a quick left on
Escondido.

“Carmen and Miguel are at
it again,” Juan said.

“Yes, I see.”

“That sounds a bit like the
Super Princess talking.”

“Get off the princess
stuff, okay? I’m just not used to people yelling at each other on
the streets. Is that a crime?”

Juan shrugs. “People get
upset. They yell. It’s no big deal.”

“We don’t do
that.”

“We?” He arches one
eyebrow.

“Look, I’m tired. Let’s
just forget it.” I fiddle with my seat belt.

“By we, you mean the upper
classes in Channing?”

“Holy crap, Juan. You are
such a pain. I didn’t mean
we
in any big sense. I meant my family, that’s
all.”

“So you don’t yell because
you’re not Mexican like me or,” he nods toward the hotel, “those
people.”

“What? Look I don’t care if
you're Mexican, Martian or . . . Malaysian.”

His laugh barely ruffles
the air in the car. “Go ahead and lie to me, but remember what our
favorite playwright said, ‘To thine own self be true.’”

I need to ward him off,
along with the headache that’s ready to pounce behind my eyeballs.
“I don’t have anything against Mexicans or anyone else from Las
Pulgas.”

For a moment he looks up
and stares at the roof of the Tercel.

“Now what?”

He turns his head so his
eyes to meet mine. “It’s no use.”

“I’m tired. I’ve got tons
of homework to do and two scenes of dialog to memorize. If you
think I’m some kind of bigot, you’re wrong, but I don’t have the
energy to argue about it tonight.”

“Well, you are a very
pretty bigot.”

“Merde.”

“See?”

“What are you talking
about?”

“French.”

“So because I study French,
I’m a bigot?”

He doesn’t
answer.

“That’s so . . . dumb. It’s
important to know another language, appreciate a different culture.
Can’t you understand that?”

“Sure I do, but why do you
study French? Because you live in the middle of a densely populated
French-speaking state?” He leans over and kisses me, stifling my
witty response. “Adios.”

I don’t have time to react
to his kiss before he’s out of the car, loping across the lawn,
dodging broken bicycles and shopping carts. He doesn’t go in the
front door, but goes heads down the driveway alongside the
hotel.

That was so . . . unfair,
untrue. I crank the car into a sharp U-turn. Absolutely baseless!
“Grrr.”

Why is he making me crazy? So what if he
lives in a hotel with Carmen and Miguel and who knows how many more
people? What’s that to me?

I live in a dump of my own,
so we have a lot in common. The difference is he doesn’t care if I
see his dump.
How can he be so sure of
himself?
He was even sure I’d let him kiss
me. As I turn onto the main highway I trace my lips with my
fingers. “I’m not letting him do that again
."

Chapter 28

By the time I ease the
Tercel into the carport, I have a strategy for getting through this
play. I’ll be the super-prepared Desdemona, knowing all my lines.
I’ll square off with K.T. and look her in the eye the next time she
has some ratty thing to say about my acting. So far I’ve survived
two run-ins with her and lived. I might as well go for a third time
and see how charmed my life is. As for Chico and Anthony and Juan,
I’ll pretend they don’t exist except as Iago and Cassio and
Othello.

I park the car, get out and
wait by the door, listening, looking into the shadows, my fist
curled around my keys so I can use them as a weapon if I have
to.

A cat yowls and something
with a long tail scampers across the driveway to dive under a
dumpster. My throat closes and feels like it did when I came down
with the mumps. I flash on a memory of Dad, sitting on the edge of
the bed, pushing tiny spoonfuls of ice chips into my teeth, mouth,
then stroking my hair and telling me I’m beautiful in spite of my
bullmastiff jaws.

“Carlie love, this is going to take time. Be
patient. Take small pieces and let them melt slowly. That’s my
girl.”

“This is worse than the mumps, Dad.”

Locking the door, I hurry
from the car toward the gate. I wish I had my cell phone. Calling
Mom, hearing her voice while I cross from the carport to the
apartment would make me feel much safer.

Once inside the pool area I
run toward the apartment complex and mount the stairs, holding onto
the rickety handrail.

I sprint to #148 and, hand
shaking, jab the key at the lock. On the second try the key slips
in, but won’t turn. The carport gate opens and clangs shut.
Someone’s entered the pool area. Still twisting the key, I pound on
the door until it swings open, pulling me forward.

“Carlie? What on
earth?”

“Key—got stuck.” I focus on
removing the key, so I don’t have to look at Mom. I feel like all
the blood has drained into my feet and my face must be the color of
paste.

“You’re later than you
said. I was getting worried.”

“Sorry.” I suck in oxygen
before facing Mom. “I gave someone a ride home.”

“A ride? Carlie—" She’s on
alert, code red. I’ve broken a major rule.

“It was a friend from the
cast, Othello . . . I mean Juan Pacheco who plays
Othello.”

“Oh.” She takes a deep
breath. Her exhale is a loud sigh. “I don’t—never mind. I’m glad
you’re homr safe.” She locks the deadbolt on the door. “Nicolas
Benz called twice. He said he’d call again about ten.” Mom tilts
her head questioningly. “Date?”

“Maybe.” I can’t think
about a date while every nerve in my body is still
short-circuiting. I need to be alone in a quiet place, somewhere I
can concentrate on something besides the scary track team members
out to get any Edmund they catch alone. Unfortunately, that quiet
place is the room next to the loud smoker and her husband, Gerald.
“I have to get some homework done,” I tell Mom.

“Me, too,” she says. As I
start for my room, Mom reaches out and takes my hand. “I feel
better when you’re not out after dark.”

“It’s only a few more
weeks, Mom. Then the play is over.” I don’t tell her there’s
no
time I feel better
anymore.

She takes my hand, then
lets go and drops onto her usual chair at the kitchen table.
Rubbing her temples, she opens a book. “See you in the
morning.”

Quicken pads down the hall
in front of me and into my room. THen she jumps onto her cushion
and carefully runs her tongue down her side and along her tail. Her
ritual has a calming effect as I lean against the closed
door.
Wake up your computer, check your
email, then do your chemistry assignment. Focus, Carlie. Calm down
and stop being so wired
.

I follow my advice and open
my inbox. The first message is from Sean.
About time.

“Had some problems with Mom
these past weeks. When can I see you?”

I type: “How about I come
over on Saturday?” Send.

Lena has left three
messages: #1 He’s calling tonight. #2 Did he call? #3
Well?

The sharp rap on my door
shoots my heart out the top of my head. So much for calming myself,
and when I look at Quicken’s cushion, it’s empty. She’s probably
under the bed and who can blame her? We’re both on edge.

“
Call for you.” Mom pushes
open the door and hands me the phone, mouthing, Nic-o-las.” She
blows me a kiss and leaves, closing the door behind her.

“Hi,” I say.

A voice says, “This is
Nicolas.”

I hear the way his mouth
forms the O in his name. I often feel like calling him Nic to see
how he’ll react to the missing two syllables. Then I picture his
blue eyes set deep under dark honey brows, his hair like the sun,
the way his appearance in any class changes the room. That’s one
kind of chemistry I do understand. Any girl in Channing would pay
him to take her out.

“Sorry you’re not still at
Channing.” The rich sound of his voice reminds me of what I don’t
have anymore.

Nobody’s sorrier than I am, Nicolas.

“I made debate captain this
year. We’ll be going to Washington D.C. if we win the state level.
Are you on the team at Las Pulgas?”

“Uh. No.”
Las Pulgas doesn’t debate. They use fists to
settle disputes.
“No time.” I don’t want
to hear about Nicolas Benz and his fabulous year at
Channing.
Is he going to get to the
point?
“I’m glad you called. What else is
new?”