Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass (10 page)

“Eh kyoos me?”
I say, trying to imitate Ma’s accent.

“Quit it, Piddy. It’s me: Darlene.”

“Oh.” I let out my breath. Making attendance calls must be one of her aide duties. I can hear phones and voices in the background. “You scared me for a second. What do you want?”

She turns on her secretary voice.

“I’m verifying your illness today.”

“I’m sick, Darlene. My mother knows.”

Darlene lowers her voice.

“Well, who cares about that?” It sounds as if she has her hand wrapped around the receiver. “Of all days to be absent, Piddy! You missed it all. You won’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“She got busted!” she says.

“Who?”

“Are you kidding me?
Who?
Yaqui Delgado, that’s who! The cops came with dogs and everything.”

My mouth hangs open.

“Is this a joke, Darlene?”

“Dead serious. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Gotta go,” she says. “Oh, and bring an excused note, or I’ll have to write you up.”

The phone goes dead.

I’ve heard the ladies at Salón Corazón say that miracles happen every day. You wake up to find your garden statue of
la Virgen
crying tears. Your uncle’s bad tumor dissolves overnight like a sugar cube. Once one of the manicurists even found a hundred bucks in her smock pocket on rent day, though Gloria swore she didn’t put it there.

I always thought they were lying, but now I get this early birthday present from God, and what can I say? It’s like
el Señor
himself put his hand out to help me in my time of need.

Darlene is waiting for me in the school yard when I get there the next day. She fills me in on the good news. Yaqui Delgado was suspended.

“The po-po hauled her off.” Darlene is practically hopping up and down like a third-grader — not exactly gangsta. “They caught her stealing somebody’s cell phone right out of their backpack in the hall yesterday. I was subbing in the front office while they were writing her up. That’s, like, larceny. You had to see it. She told the cop to eff himself.”

“Did her parents show up?” If I stole something, Ma would be a much worse fate than any cop. Besides, I’ve been wondering what kind of people spawn a Yaqui. It’s not every day you get Hate on Two Feet.

“Just a caseworker. Big surprise.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I’ll bet that’s a level-four offense — an automatic three days out of school — or at least in-school suspension for a week! Who knows? Maybe she’ll get jail time, and she’ll rot in prison! You never know.”

I can’t believe my ears, but Darlene’s smile tells me God’s miracle is true. I’m going to light our Virgin candle when I get home.

The bell rings, and the herd of kids starts up the stairs. I wonder if the cops will give back the stuff Yaqui took. Will I get my jade elephant back again, after all? I let out a breath and imagine Yaqui lying helpless on a jail floor, rats in her hair. It’s going to be a great day.

Ma used to try to make me feel better about things by pointing out people who were worse off than we were. Back when I used the free-lunch form, she’d tell me about all those kids in the Third World starving and getting worms through their bare feet. I suppose she thought that would make me feel better about having to turn in that form in my old shoes, right there in front of everybody’s prying eyes.

“You could be one of those hungry kids,” she’d tell me as she forced the paperwork into my hand. “Be grateful you’re not.”

That’s what comes to mind when I get to my locker. I’m unpacking, still a little drugged from the joy of a Yaqui-free school day, when I notice that there is a new word written on Rob’s locker.
HOMO
, it says. The go-to insult when “loser” isn’t quite enough.

Jesus. Where’s the Bully-Free Zone now?

Maybe it’s all the light-headedness over my Yaqui-free day ahead that gives me courage. But just like that, I uncap my Sharpie and get busy covering the letters with thick squiggles. I’ve had some good luck today. Why not pass it on?

I’m practically done when someone suddenly taps me.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

It’s Coach Malone. He sniffs at the strong scent of marker and gives me a nasty look.

“It had a bad word.” Instantly, I feel like a liar, even though it’s true. There’s no proof left. You can’t see a trace of anything under my handiwork.

He whips out his pad and pen.

“Name.”

Mr. Flatwell, dean of student discipline, is not a friendly man. According to his framed diplomas, he’s actually a graduate of John Jay College of Criminal Justice, a pretty screwed-up springboard for a high-school educator, if you ask me. He’s tall and dark, with buzzed hair. He’s wearing a clip-on tie, I notice, in case someone tries to choke him, I guess. His muscles show through his shirt. Nothing decorates his desk but a computer, stack of passes, and a walkie-talkie that keeps clicking and sputtering, even with the volume turned down low. He has my school record pulled up on his computer screen, and his burly hands are folded.

“Pee-ay-dad Sanchez,” he says, scanning the referral. “Let’s see what brings you in for a visit this morning.” When he finishes, he looks up at me coolly. “Defacing school property.”

“That’s not true.” I pull nervously on my turtleneck. This office is hot, or maybe it’s my nerves.

“Really? Coach Malone lied?”

Uh-oh. A trap.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “The locker was already messed up. I was trying to fix it.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“With a permanent black marker?” He leans back and pulls out my confiscated Sharpie from his shirt pocket. Exhibit A. Contraband per the student handbook.

The whole thing sounds stupid, even to me.

“Somebody wrote an ugly word on the locker,” I explain. “I wanted to get rid of it.”

“I see. What did they write on your locker?”

“It wasn’t on my locker. It was somebody else’s.”

“Okay: somebody else’s locker. What did it say?”

I try to size him up. You never know who you’re talking to. He could be a closet homophobe, and then I’m really done.

“Homo.”

No reaction.

“
You
didn’t write it, did you?” he asks.

I can feel my cheeks going red. “No. I was covering it up, that’s all.”

“And why is that?”

For a second, I’m quiet. I have no idea why, except that I didn’t want Rob to see it. “It was mean,” I say finally.

He picks his spotless nails, thinking.

“Whose locker is it, exactly?”

“Rob Allen.”

“Ah. Mr. Allen.”

I look straight at him, but he doesn’t give me an inch about what he’s thinking. He is definitely not surprised. Either he thinks Rob is gay and won’t help, or he just knows that Rob gets picked on. Why doesn’t he do something about it? Isn’t that his job? I decide to remind him.

“I don’t know whether or not it’s true, but Rob doesn’t need it written on the front of his locker. It’s none of anybody’s business, right? Besides, this school is supposed to be a Bully-Free Zone, isn’t it?” The sour thought is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “We have posters and everything.”

He stares for a few seconds without saying anything. Maybe he doesn’t like my “tone.” He glances back at the screen and scrolls through some details.

“You’re new this year, Miss Sanchez, and yet I notice you’re already starting to collect tardies and detentions. You cut study hall two days ago. Not a very good start. Any reason you’re having trouble getting to class?”

“No.”

“And you like school so far? Things going well?”

I pick at my chipped nail polish, thinking.

“I liked my old school better,” I say carefully. If I tell him about Yaqui, everything will just get worse. Being a narc means you’re too weak to take care of yourself. You need a grown-up to be your shield. Where will that leave me? I’ll be even more of a social outcast than I am now — open season for anyone to get after me.

Just then, there’s a knock on the open door behind me. For a split second, I’m relieved for the interruption. But then I see it’s Coach Malone. I try my best to make myself small, wiping my eyes when Mr. Flatwell looks away.

“Staff meeting at four today,” Coach Malone says with all the enthusiasm of announcing a colonoscopy.

“Oh, and here’s the list of wrestlers,” he adds, walking over to Mr. Flatwell’s desk. “Let me know which of my darlings isn’t eligible.” Just as he hands over his clipboard, he takes me in. “Ah. The locker artist.”

Mr. Flatwell cocks his head at me, like a cat staring at a canary.

“Can I go?” I ask desperately.

“Not yet.”

I keep staring into my hands while they finish their business. After Coach Malone leaves, Mr. Flatwell leans back, waiting.

“Anything else you want to tell me, Miss Sanchez? Why you liked your old school better? If you’re having problems, we can try to help.”

I sit in silence, refusing to let him break me. I can’t trust him. Yaqui’s suspension means nothing but a little vacation. What happens when she comes back from home or prison, or wherever she is? I’m no dope.

“Miss Sanchez?”

“No,” I say. “I’m just still adjusting, I think.”

Mr. Flatwell sighs.

“Defacing school property is a big deal,” he says. “You should have reported the graffiti to a teacher and not taken it upon yourself to remove it.” His voice gets lower, and he leans toward me. “We can’t help unless we know what’s going on.”

Help?
Help?

The ridiculousness of it all grabs me tight. My head goes light and prickly, my hands start to shake, and a little giggle ripples up my throat. Before I can stop them, tears leak down my cheeks. I can’t stop giggling, no matter how hard I try.

“Is something funny?”

“No.” I take a deep breath and bite my lip hard to keep from grinning. “Can I please go back to class
now
? I have work I need to make up.”

Mr. Flatwell’s eyes narrow. I can see he doesn’t like being left out of a joke.

“Yes, but you’ll need this.” He hands me an official-looking disciplinary form.

“What’s this?”

“You have a Saturday detention, eight fifty-five, sharp. That’s the consequence for defacing property. Have your parents sign.”

Suddenly I’m sober. I can practically hear Ma’s shouts.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not known for my jokes, Miss Sanchez.”

“But . . . Saturday is my birthday,” I blurt out.

“Oh.” He turns to the computer screen to check my date of birth. “You’re right. Happy birthday.” With that, he opens a file folder and starts reading the next referral in the stack.

Now I’m desperate. “But, Mr. Flatwell, I work on the weekends —” I begin.

He doesn’t look up.

“Not this one, I’m afraid. Good-bye.”

Mr. Flatwell’s papers are burning a hole in my pocket as Ma and I get off the bus at the old building on Friday afternoon at six. I haven’t asked Ma to sign them, but maybe I can talk Lila into it, if I can get her alone. That might be tough. When Lila throws a party, it’s always mobbed.

When we get to the lobby, we find a handmade poster taped near the mailboxes. A picture of a werewolf is staring back at us.

COME TO A MASQUERADE PARTY!
RUM, MUSIC, AND BEAUTY MASKS
TONIGHT, APARTMENT 3E
AVON BY LILA FLORES

Ma sighs.

“I hate parties,” she says.

The lobby door opens just as she says it, and Mrs. Halper steps out. She’s holding her mailbox keys. She has Joey’s same blond hair, but none of his cockiness or spark. She’s a thin lady and quiet. She glances at the flyer and nods quickly at Ma.

“Hello.” Ma’s eyes flit to Mrs. Halper’s arms, the same way mine do. Five little bruises, like black pearls, ring her wrist. “
Vamos
, Piddy,” Ma says.

I hurry up the stairs, trying not to stare at Joey’s apartment as we go past.

Lila’s hair is still in hot rollers when she throws opens the door. She’s in a clingy black dress and slippers.

“
Ay
, thank God you’re here. I’m running so late!” The furniture has all been pushed to the wall, and spice-scented candles are burning everywhere. She gives Ma a look and pouts. “You guys promised me you’d wear costumes.”