by Jaime Cortez
“You think you’re so big,” I say.
“That’s cuz I am. I’m five years older than you. I’m taller than you and all the little punks on this ranch. In a year or two, I’m gonna start driving and get the hell out of here. For now though, I have to live here, and to be honest, I’m the queen of the Gyrich Farms Worker Camp. I’m a Chicana, not a beaner like you.”
“What’s that?”
“Being a beaner means you don’t have papers to be in the USA. It means you’re a mojado, just another wetback.”
“No sir. I’m not no wetback. I was born over in Hollister, at Linda Hawkins Hospital. We’ve lived here in San Juan Bautista since I was a baby.”
“What about your mom and dad?”
“They have their papers.”
“They work in the fields,” says Cookie. “They don’t speak English. They live in this shitty camp with you. You think they got papers? No way, José.”
“Well you and your mom live in the camp, and you got your papers.”
“We’re Chicanos. We’re real Americans, not beaners. We belong here forever. Nobody can take us away to Mexico. We can speak English and we can write it too. We’re not going to be in this shitty camp forever. My mom says we’re leaving as soon as things get better. Maybe to Hollister or Watsonville, to live by the beach. We’re going back to a real house with a yard, flush toilet, telephone, and no beaners.”
“I’m not a wetback, and you ain’t no queen, and what are you going to draw?”
“Shhhh,” she says. “I’m an artist, mongoloid. I need quiet to do my work, so shut it.”
Fat Cookie stares at the wall, moves her head from one side to the other. Then she takes her pencil and draws a big, perfect circle on the wall. Then she draws these little curved lines coming out of the circle, and they’re the same size, same curve, same distance apart. It almost looks like they were made by a perfect drawing machine.
“Are you drawing the sun?” I ask. She doesn’t even look at me. She stares at the wall. With her eyebrows all bunched up, Cookie looks like she’s going to call out the wall to a fight, meet it after school behind the baseball field, and show it who runs the show.
* * *
She draws some more, and then I can see it. A pretty flower is growing right on the wall. Then she draws another flower that’s hiding behind the first one. She draws two more big ones, and lots and lots of tiny flowers all in a bunch like grapes. Then Cookie begins drawing little marks inside of the petals.
“Stop drawing right now, Cookie,” I say. “They’re super good now. If you do anything more, you’re gonna ruin them.”
“I’m not gonna ruin them. This is what they call shading, tonto. You do shading to make them look more better, more prettier. Besides, they’re my flowers. I can ruin them if I want.”
She draws a little more, and it’s true, she made the flowers more prettier than ever. Cookie draws teeny teardrops on the petals. They look so real, I can hardly believe it. She sketches curvy stems with little thorns. I want to tell her that only roses have thorns, well, roses, nopales, and other cactus. But I don’t want to get her mad again, so I shut up. She draws jaggedy leaves on the stems and shades them in so they look like they’re opened in the middle like a book, with veins.
Wow. This drawing is so boss. I always thought Fat Cookie only knew how to be mean. But she’s not only mean, she’s an artist.
Cookie outlines a ribbon under the flowers, but it’s not some boring ribbon. It’s all curved toward you in the front, then in the back it gets all twisted and the shading on this is the best ever. It’s been a while, and my feets are getting tired, and I think maybe I should go home. But I can’t stop watching. Cookie says, “Almost there.” She writes “CHICANO POWER” across the ribbon in cholo letters that look like chino letters at the Golden Dragon, but they’re not.
Cookie stops and steps back and stares at the drawing with me. Everything is floating. The flowers, the ribbon, floating in the air like the Virgin of Guadalupe.
“Wow, Cookie. I didn’t know you were a artist.”
“I just like to draw.”
“You’re a artist.”
“You think so? Thanks. That’s a nice thing to say.”
“Yeah, man. Do your mom and dad know you can do this?”
“My mom hates my drawing. She says I’m becoming a chola, asks me why I can’t draw nice things, the Virgin, ponies and shit. Fuck her.”
“That’s not cool, Cookie, what you said about your mom.”
“Fuck her,” she says again, this time in a louder voice.
“She brought you into the world, pendeja. She made you in her stomach and pushed you out of her vaginus. That’s a fact. She gave you life, the greatest gift in the solar system.”
“So what?” says Cookie. “Solar system. Pfft. You’re the only idiot I know who talks about the solar system. You’re so weird, Gordo.”
“And what about your dad? Does he know you draw like this?” Cookie turns her head so fast, her braid whips around, as if somebody had slapped her.
“Fuck my dad too, wherever he is,” says Cookie. “Also, Manny’s not my real dad, idiot. He’s only twenty-two. He’s not even a stepdad. Manny is just another creepy boyfriend my mom found.”
“I think Manny’s nice,” I say. “He gave me a ride in his Camaro, and that car is so fast. We drove all around the tomato fields, then to Lejano Market, and over to San Juan Bautista going ninety all the way. One day, I want to have a haircut and mustache like his.”
“You like him so much, maybe you should marry him, Gordo.”
“All I’m saying is that he’s nice.”
“Sometimes he’s nice. Sometimes he says nice things to me. Buys me nice things. But to tell the truth, that Camaro is the only really nice thing about him. He’s a creep with sweaty hands. I need to finish this drawing.”
Cookie draws one more leaf and steps back from her art.
“I think it’s done now. What do you think?”
“I think that’s really good art.”
“Thanks, Gordo.” She puts away her pencil and starts to walk away.
“You coming?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “You’re too mean today.”
“I’m not too mean. You’re too soft.”
“No, to tell the truth, you’re always mean.”
“Okay, Soft Serve, don’t hang out with me if you don’t want to. I’ll catch you on the flip side.”
“Later, Fat Cookie.”
“Fuck you, boobie man.”
“Fuck you to infinity,” I say.
“Fuck you more.”
“Damn, you’re stupid,” I say. “You can’t fuck more than infinity. Infinity is the end of the road. Maybe if you read some more books, you’d know that.”
She walks away, holding both her middle fingers up in the air.
“Hey, Fat Cookie,” I say. Cookie turns around, still giving me the double birdies. “In case you don’t know. You’re a crappy artist.” Cookie opens her mouth like she’s gonna say something mean, but instead she throws her pencil at me and walks away. I pick up the pencil. Dang. I wished I hadn’t called her a crappy artist, but she is so mean. Now I can’t tell her I’m sorry because if I say that, she’d win.
I look at Cookie’s flowers. Half an hour ago, there was nothing on the wall, only paint and dusty spiderwebs. Now flowers. I think art is kind of weird. Those flowers came from somewhere, right? They weren’t in the wall. They weren’t in the pencil. They were in her all along. I picture Cookie stuffed with flowers from her toes to her throat, like a piñata. All those flowers in her, waiting to get out.
I’m looking at Cookie’s masterpiece when WHAM, I get hit across the back of the head! I look behind me, and it’s Tia Sara from next door with a broom in her hands.
“Ouch, tia! Why’d you hit me? I didn’t do nothing.”
“Nothing? Last time I looked, that wall was clean. Now, it has cholo drawings on it, and you’re standin
g here with this pencil. What am I supposed to think?”
“I didn’t do that drawing. Did you see me do it?”
“No. But if you didn’t do it, who did?” Tia Sara looks at me all angry. She’s not my real tia. We call her that because she and my ma are really good friends. She’s really nice when she isn’t swinging that broom around.
“I know you’re lying, Gordo.”
“No, tia, I’m not telling a l—”
“Silencio. You’re going to tell me who did this, or I’ll have to talk to your father about this. Was it Cesar?”
“No. Wasn’t Cesar.”
“Was it Cookie?” she asks. “There’s another demon, just as bad as Cesar and twice as fat.”
“I don’t know who did it, tia.”
“That Cookie is bad news,” says tia. “But I guess it’s not all her fault. With a mother like that, a girl can’t be no good. Cookie thinks she’s a grown woman, and her mami acts like she’s a teenage girl, with that skinny plucked-chicken boy she calls her boyfriend. She thinks it’s cute to have this young boyfriend, but it makes her look even older and more rundown, running with that pimply boy. Pfft. Can’t even grow a good mustache yet. Now tell me, did Cookie do this?”
“Yeah. It was Cookie,” I say.
“I knew it. Nasty child. Always cussing and shaking her maracas like they’re something special. Drawing this mierda on the walls. I’m going to get her for this.”
“Tia, if you tell Cookie I told you, she’ll kill me.”
“If she kills you, I’ll kill her. And you should be glad I don’t tell your dad so he can kill you too. Also, Gordo, don’t lie to me ever again. I was married to a drunk for seven years. You think I don’t know a lie when I smell one?”
“Okay, tia. I won’t.”
“And stop by the house right now. We’ve been working the cucumbers at Calcano Farms, and we got some beautiful fresh ones to share. Take a bunch home to your mami.”
* * *
The next day is Monday, and Cookie doesn’t show up for school. I’m relieved I don’t see her because I’m sure she is going to be mad at me. On Tuesday she’s absent again, so I get to live one more day. It’s good not to get hit, but I worry that Cookie is going to jump me, punch me in the head with those big fat rings on her big fat fingers. Could happen. That was why she got thrown out of San Benito Junior High, jumping a girl after school. I should probably try to hide from Cookie, but I’m curious and I want to know what is going on with her. No one has seen her for two days. Right before it gets dark, I pass by Cookie’s house to see what is happening. I don’t see Cookie, her mom, or Manny’s Camaro. Everything is quiet. I go home and eat my dinner. I wash my dishes, and while I’m drying my hands, it gets very noisy. Everyone in the camp probably hears the screaming from Cookie’s house. My sister, Sylvie, zooms out the front door of our house and stands behind our station wagon to listen. I go and stand next to her. At first I think that Cookie is getting busted for drawing on the wall. But no, it’s not that.
“That’s what happened,” says Cookie. “I swear to God!”
“Well that’s not what he says, and you can stop your damned lying now because I don’t believe you, Cookie,” says her mom, louder and louder. “Spent my whole pinche life taking care of you and now this. How could you? I’ll never trust you again!”
“Then don’t trust me, Mom! Go ahead and trust Manny, till he dumps you like all the other ones! Trust him so he can make you look stupid!” Then it gets really quiet in the house. Sylvie says to me: “Her mom’s going to kill her.” Next, we hear bad sounds. I know what they are—fighting sounds. Cussing. A body hitting a wall. A door slamming. Pounding on the door. The sounds of different things getting broken. Glass. Dishes. Maybe saints.
“I hate you so much!” screams Cookie. “I want you to die! Get away from me!” Then Cookie kicks open the screen door to the house so hard it slams against the wall and bounces right back into her chest. Her forehead is bleeding. She runs past me and Sylvie and shouts, “Fuck you all, fuckers!”
Cookie’s mom opens the door. Her blouse is ripped at the sleeve and oooh, you can see some of her boob. She has a bloody scratch on her neck. Her hair is all over her face like a bruja’s. She shouts at Cookie: “I worked for you since I was sixteen, Cookie! Worked the tomatoes, apples, garlic. You’re gonna pay for that statue, cabrona!” Then she sees us behind the station wagon and tells me and Sylvie to get the hell out of her yard. Me and Sylvie go back into our house, close the door, and right away we start laughing. Maybe it’s weird to laugh, but we don’t know what else to do.
“Her yard?” says Sylvie.
“Oh my God, her yard,” I say. “No grass. No fence. No flowers. Not even weeds.”
“It’s only dirt, and she calls it her ‘yard.’”
We keep saying “my yard,” and every time we do, we laugh more and more. Finally, we stop. I have tears on my cheeks. I clean my face. We both get serious.
“That was really bad,” says Sylvie. I thought we’d seen all the fights. Fathers with mothers. Sisters with brothers. Fathers with sons, brothers, friends, neighbors, strangers. Friend fights. Cousin fights. Girlfriends and boyfriends. Dog fights. Cat fights. Roosters. Billy goats. But dang, I never even heard of a mother and daughter fight.
* * *
Two days later, Sylvie, Olga, Tiny, Cesar, and me are all hanging around by the canal. Cesar is using matches to try and burn a tire to roast some weenies for a feast when Cookie walks up to us with a big smile on her face. She looks pretty good. The bruise and cut on her forehead aren’t too bad. Usually, Cookie puts her hair in a big braid, but today she is wearing it down. But the real surprise is the big smile on her face.
“Look what my mom got me, everybody.” She is holding out a shiny red radio with a handle on top like a lunch box.
“Wow, that’s nice,” I say.
“It’s a Panasonic,” says Cookie.
“Does it work?” asks Cesar.
“Of course it works,” says Cookie. “It’s brand-new. My mom gave it to me.”
“I thought your mom was mad at you,” I say.
“She was. Then her stupid boyfriend, Manny, and her got in a big fight and I took her side and he left in the middle of the night and now me and mom made up.”
“Does it play good music?” asks Tiny.
“Only the best music.”
“Does it play ‘The Hustle’?” asks Olga.
“Pssht. All the time. Every day I can hear ‘The Hustle’ five or six times. You guys wanna hear it?”
Everybody thinks it’s a good idea. Cookie says, “C’mon then, let’s play American Bandstand, over by the pump house. Bring your weenies. We can cook them with my lighter.” We march out toward the pump. Cookie asks us what songs we hope we’ll hear on the radio. It’s weird that she is being so nice, but it’s nice too. We make up our song list.
“‘The Hustle’!”
“‘Seasons in the Sun’!”
“‘Tell Me Something Good’!”
“‘Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room’!”
We’re all getting excited until somebody says, “‘I Honestly Love You.’” Most of the girls like that song, and I secretly like it too, but Cesar and Cookie hate it. Cesar starts singing “I Honestly Love You” like he’s going to cry. Then he covers his face with his hands and howls like a wolf and everybody laughs because he is proving that the song is stupid.
At the pump house, Cookie goes to the ditch and pulls out a cattail. She uses the long stem like a giant pencil, drawing big squares in the dirt.
“What are you doing, Cookie?” asks Sylvie.
“I’m getting ready to start American Bandstand.”
“How do you play American Bandstand?” I ask.
“Everybody has to dance, but you have to stay in your box. I’ll be the judge and pick the best dancer. The most best dancer will get a special grand prize. Okay? Now get in your squares and I’ll play the music. Only the best dancers will have
a chance, so you better shake it till you break it.”
Cookie clicks on the radio. It’s some boring dude talking. Boo! She changes the channel. We hear cumbias. Boo! Country music. Double boo! Finally, she gets to Big Daddy Mario V. on KTOP. He’s doing the Top 40! Cookie cranks the volume all the way up.
The first song we hear on the countdown is song number five, “The Locomotion.” Yaay! Everybody cheers.
“Dance, you kids!” shouts Fat Cookie. We freeze. Nobody wants to be the first one to dance.
“I said dance, retards, dance!” shouts Fat Cookie. Then we start to giggle. Fat Cookie walks up behind Sylvie and smacks her in the head. That was a professional slap. You could really hear it.
“Dooooon’t!” cries Sylvie.
“Well, then dance. All of you, DANCE!” We start dancing. I’m trying to look cool, but I’m not sure how. Tiny is still clowning around and dancing silly. Cookie goes up to her and kicks her in the ankle.” Tiny crouches down, rubbing her ankle.
“Oooooouch!” says Tiny.
“This is not a game,” says Cookie, bending down so her face is right above Tiny’s. “This is American Bandstand.” Then we get dancing, and Olga is obviously the best. Fat Cookie watches her and says “Pretty good!” whenever Olga does a fancy step. When the song is over, everybody claps. Cookie says, “Round one winner and heavyweight champ is Olga.”
Olga shakes her hips at us and we clap. Big Daddy Mario V. starts talking about song number four. He tells us how it climbed seven spots in one week, and everywhere he went to DJ, everybody asks for him to play it. In Watsonville, Hollister, Gilroy, they all want … “Kung Fu Fighting”! Oh yeah! For a long time, this has been the number one greatest favorite hit of all the kids at the camp. We hear the flute at the beginning, and as soon as the singing starts, we begin kung fu fighting, jumping and punching and kicking and going “Huah!” when the song goes “Huah!” The competition is tough now. I’m dancing hard and the sweat is getting in my eyes. I wipe it away and keep on dancing. I feel like I’m in a cool kung fu movie, like I have the five fingers of death and the thunder kick. Huah! Fat Cookie is cheering and laughing. It’s so cool when she’s not shouting or hitting.
