The First Rule of Punk

by Celia C. Pérez

  “Gonna start working on my comic zine,” he said, holding up a page on which he’d sketched thumbnails of an eight-page comic.

  I gave him the thumbs-up.

  When the timer on my phone finally went off, Joe hopped up.

  “Time to rinse,” he said. “Here’s hoping your hair actually looks green.”

  We headed back into the bathroom, where I bent my head over the side of the tub. But we didn’t get a chance to start rinsing before I heard the front door open.

  “Malú, are you here?”

  “Oh, no, my mom,” I said. “I didn’t think she’d be back so early.”

  “I think we’ve been caught . . . green-handed?” Joe said.

  “Don’t joke,” I said. “In the bathroom,” I called out to Mom. I heard her make her way down the creaky-floored hallway, each step counting down to what would surely be an epic Mom freak-out.

  “¡Ave María purísima!” she said when she appeared in the doorway.

  I knew it was bad when Mom got religious and invoked the Virgin Mary. She looked around the bathroom, taking in the damage.

  “What have you two done?”

  Joe sat on the toilet lid; locks of my hair covered the floor around his sneakers. What was left of my hair was tucked into a plastic shower cap, though not tucked in enough to keep it from drip, drip, dripping. A splotch of green dye landed on my shoe. Mom looked at my shoe, then at me. Only then did I notice the green everywhere. On our hands, on my shirt, on the sink, on the floor.

  The container of Neon Iguana hair dye sat on a ring of green on top of the toilet tank, a little too close to the toilet paper doll Señora Oralia had given us. While her lemon-yellow skirt was spared, the doll attached to it was not as lucky. I thought it was an improvement on her overall look, but based on Mom’s reaction, she didn’t agree.

  “Out!” Mom said.

  “But, Mom, I need to rinse this off!”

  I pointed to my head, afraid to touch it for fear of making contact with the hair dye and spreading more green.

  “Not you,” she said. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Joe.”

  Joe flashed her a sheepish smile as he gathered a pair of rubber gloves, a plastic bowl, and the half-empty container of hair dye into a shopping bag.

  “Bye, Señora Morales,” he said.

  “Good-bye, Joe,” Mom said in her I-am-not-at-all-happy tone.

  “See you at school in a little while,” he called back to me as he headed out the door. “If you-know-who lets you out, of course.”

  He looked at Mom and wiggled his eyebrows.

  “You’re cleaning this up, señorita,” Mom said. She left the bathroom and came back holding a dustpan in one hand and a broom in the other. The look on her face was one of surprise, as if she were seeing my hair for the first time.

  “I can’t believe you left all your hair on the floor,” Mom said.

  She kicked a clump of hair with her shoe before turning her attention to the rest of the bathroom.

  “Ay, Malú,” she said. “Look at this mess.”

  She looked at the towel I held, formerly solid yellow now with faded green splotches. There were a couple more stained towels from the matching set lying in a pile on the radiator cover.

  “What possessed you to do this?” she asked. After assessing the floor situation, I had to agree with Mom. It did look like I had left all my hair on the floor. I figured now wasn’t the best time to tell her about the band, and that I couldn’t be in a punk band with my little-kid braids.

  “Clean all of this up,” she said. “Including yourself.”

  Mom left the bathroom, and I got to work. I swept until all the hair was in the trash and I scrubbed the green dye off surfaces as much as possible.

  When I was finished, I undressed and stepped into the tub, letting the warm water run over me. Rivers of green trickled down. They mixed with the water and swirled at the bottom of the tub like little green eddies before being rushed down the drain. I scrubbed my neck hard to try to get all the tiny pieces of hair off.

  Finally, when the water ran mostly clear, I climbed out. I wiped condensation from the mirror and looked at myself. My bangs weren’t the same shade of green as the Neon Iguana hair dye in the jar, but they were green.

  “Awesome.” I grinned at the me I saw reflected.

  Chapter 33

  “Why are you knitting?” I asked.

  Mom sat on the couch with her yarn monster. She looked up from her needles with a frown.

  “Because I feel like it.”

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “You only knit when something’s up.”

  “You think you know me pretty well, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “I know that scarf is a sign that something’s up,” I said.

  “Maybe I’m knitting to stay calm,” she said. “What is this about?” She pointed to my head with a knitting needle. “Is this part of your rebellious stage?”

  “I’m not rebelling, Mom,” I said, even though maybe I was doing that too. “I like the way my hair looks.”

  I pulled my fingers through my wet bangs and ran my hand over my head. It felt soft, like a piece of velvet.

  “Anyway, it’s just hair,” I said.

  “Sí,” Mom said. “That’s exactly what your dad would say. Just hair. Just clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?” I asked. “This morning you said I looked nice.”

  I’d changed back into the outfit I’d picked out for Fall Fiesta and thrown on an old oversized red cardigan that belonged to Dad. Before coming out of the bathroom, I’d consulted a cool photo of Teresa Covarrubias that I’d printed out. I’d lined my eyes in the same dark cat-eye style, applied a dark lipstick, and gelled my hair so that it was kind of spiky on top with bangs over one eye. Mom was already mad about the hair, so I might as well finish the look.

  “You know who you look like?” Mom said. “La Chilindrina. With green hair. No, wait. I know. You look like the child of la Chilindrina and Nosferatu!”

  For a minute Mom forgot her anger and laughed at her own joke.

  “You remember la Chilindrina, right? She was on that show you used to watch with your abuelo.”

  “I remember her,” I said. La Chilindrina always wore a red sweater twisted in the back—like she couldn’t figure out how to dress herself—thick, black-framed glasses, and her hair in two ponytails. “And that is probably the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “That’s who you two are, you and Joe,” Mom said. “La Chilindrina and el Chavo del Ocho. A couple of troublemakers.”

  She laughed even harder.

  “That’s not funny, Mom.”

  Mom tried to talk but couldn’t because she was laughing so hard.

  “Okay, I’m glad you find it amusing,” I said. “Why can’t you be cool like Dad?”

  I looked at her sitting there, long hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a purple rebozo over a T-shirt and jeans. Her legs were crossed, and a brown leather sandal dangled off her big toe. I could not see how my parents were ever together. Mom was obviously from an entirely different planet than me and Dad.

  She finally stopped laughing and took a breath.

  “One of us has to be the uncool, mature one,” she said, dropping her knitting into the bag next to the couch.

  I crossed my arms and waited for her tell me what my punishment would be, hoping she wouldn’t ground me and forbid me from going to Fall Fiesta.

  “I need you to walk Señora Oralia to Fall Fiesta,” Mom said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes!” I said with more excitement than I might have under other circumstances. “So . . . I can still go?”

  “Yes, you may go,” Mom said.

  “Are you going to Fall Fiesta?” I asked, care
ful not to push my luck.

  “I don’t know,” Mom said. “I brought papers home to grade, so we’ll see how much I can get done in the next couple of hours.”

  “And you aren’t mad about my hair?”

  “Oh, I’m still mad,” she said, getting up. “But you’re the one who has to walk around looking like a green-haired Chilindrina. I hope you don’t give Señora Oralia a heart attack.”

  Mom laughed as she walked away, but I was too relieved I wasn’t going to miss the show to get upset about her jokes.

  I went to my room, where I scooped up my worry dolls and put them in a pocket of my bag. Then I took a picture of myself to send to Dad. By the time I came out of my room, Mom was already in the hallway, chatting with Señora Oralia.

  “Here she is,” Mom said. “Your colorful escort.”

  “Pelo verde,” Señora Oralia said with a laugh. “Ah, nothing these children do surprises me anymore.”

  “Well, I’m glad,” Mom said. “Malú, help Señora Oralia down the stairs. Hopefully, I’ll see you in a little while.”

  Hopefully not, I thought as Señora Oralia and I hooked arms and walked carefully down the stairs.

  “Tell me, why do you kids do that to your hair?” Señora Oralia asked. “I don’t understand.”

  I thought about Señora Oralia’s question, and about my asking Joe earlier why he’d dyed his hair blue.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I like the way it looks. Plus, I don’t want to look like everyone else. I like being unique.”

  “But you look like everyone else who colors their hair some bright color, ¿no?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said.

  Señora Oralia shook her head. “No entiendo,” she said. “I don’t understand why you kids try so hard to stick out.”

  “It’s hard to explain.” I said. “I just know that I like my hair like this. It makes me feel good. Like I’m being me.”

  “Bueno, if you’re happy, and you aren’t hurting anyone, who cares?”

  “What do you think of my hair, Señora Oralia?” I asked.

  “¿La verdad?”

  “Yes, the truth,” I said.

  “I would have picked purple myself,” she replied, and touched her hair. “¿Qué piensas?”

  “I think you’d look cool with purple hair,” I said.

  “You know what you look like?” I waited for her to laugh at me like Mom did. “You look like un pajarito quetzal.”

  She gave me a wink. Somehow Señora Oralia had known that was exactly the look I was going for.

  Chapter 34

  After I dropped off Señora Oralia in the auditorium, I went back outside to wait for the band. The parking lot of Posada Middle School looked like an autumn wonderland. It was decorated with bales of hay and pumpkins and red and orange balloons. Long banners of colorful papel picado hung overhead. There was an impressive food and drink table. Ms. Anderson, the art teacher, poured pink sugar into a cotton candy machine. I watched as it slowly turned into pink spiderwebs.

  “Wow, what happened to your hair, María Luisa?” Selena sauntered up, and her eyes got wide as she looked at my hair.

  The hypnotic whirl of the cotton candy machine helped keep my full-on panic about our secret show at bay. The last person I wanted to see was Selena.

  “Did you fall into some toxic sludge?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Do you fall into toxic sludge every morning?” I asked, wrinkling my nose back at her.

  Today Selena wore a long fuchsia skirt and a white off-the-shoulder blouse embroidered along the neckline with flowers. Her hair was up in a fancy crown of braids. She had on bright red lipstick and blush, and her eyes were made up. She didn’t look like she’d just fallen into toxic sludge. She looked like she came to dance and take care of business.

  Ms. Anderson held out two paper cones topped with pink sugar clouds.

  “No, thank you,” I said. My stomach couldn’t handle food right then. But Selena grabbed hers and bit into it.

  “You know hair dye is against the dress code,” Selena said.

  “Of course I know that,” I said. “Don’t worry about me and the dress code.”

  “That’s too bad your little talent show plans fell through, huh?” she asked, giving me a big red smirk. A little piece of cotton candy stuck to her lipstick.

  Nerves and anger bubbled up inside me like someone had poured vinegar into a science-project volcano full of baking soda.

  “And it’s too bad your Irish dance class didn’t happen,” I said. “It’s a bummer your mom said no.”

  I didn’t know why I’d said that, but it had come out of my mouth like . . . toxic sludge. As soon as I’d said it, I felt terrible. Especially when I saw Selena’s face. She looked like I’d smacked her. I could see her chewing on the inside of her lower lip. Finally she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She turned on her heel and started to walk away.

  Before I knew it, I found myself speed walking to catch up with her.

  “Wait!” I called out.

  She stopped but didn’t turn around. I dug into my bag until I found what I was looking for.

  “Here,” I said. I handed her one of the few copies of our talent show flyer that I’d saved.

  “What’s this?” she asked, looking at it. “I mean, I know what it is, but why are you giving it to me?”

  “We’re still going to do our show,” I said. “Joe’s mom is going to help us. And if you want, you can be part of it too.”

  “Why would I do that?” Selena asked. “I’m already in the talent show. The real talent show.”

  “I know,” I said, and shrugged. “But if you decide you want to do something different, maybe something you’ve always wanted to do but felt like you couldn’t, that’s what the Alterna-Fiesta show is about.”

  Selena looked at the flyer, then up at me. She didn’t suck her teeth or swat me away. She was quiet and hard to read.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Keep it or throw it away. Whatever.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I walked away, back toward the band’s planned meeting spot. I watched as Selena folded the flyer and stuck it into the pocket of her skirt before going inside the auditorium.

  Chapter 35

  “It’s showtime,” Joe said, trotting up. “Oooh, cotton candy!”

  A large black mariachi hat hung around his neck from a strap.

  “What is that?” I asked, pointing to it.

  “What does it look like?” Joe asked. “Dude, you have no idea how hard it was to keep this thing from getting smashed. It’s so big.”

  He pulled the hat onto his head.

  “You’re not serious,” I said.

  Benny walked up with Ellie in tow. Both of them wore matching mariachi hats.

  “You planned this and didn’t tell me?”

  “Are you mad?” Joe asked.

  “Or just jealous?” Benny asked, and they both laughed.

  “Well, yeah,” I said.

  “No worries.” Ellie had been hiding a similar hat behind her back, and she placed it on my head. “Did you think we’d leave you out?”

  “That totally completes your look,” Joe said.

  “You should’ve seen your face when you thought you weren’t getting a hat,” Benny said, playfully shoving me.

  “Whatever,” I said.

  I caught our reflection in the glass wall. Joe with his Henry Huggins look, tall Benny with his long hair and trumpet case, Ellie with her army jacket covered in pins, her long red hair sticking out from under her hat, and me. A group of outsider weirdos in matching T-shirts and mariachi hats. We looked ridiculous and amazing at the same time.

  “We can’t bring these into the auditorium,” I said. “The four of us in mariachi hats would definitely
sound an alarm.”

  We dropped the hats off in the library then filed into the auditorium with kids and parents to watch some of the principal-approved talent show before meeting up with Mrs. Hidalgo.

  Principal Rivera walked onto the stage and welcomed the audience to what she called a “very special celebration.” She went on to explain how on this thirtieth anniversary of the school it was important to remember Posada the man as someone who proudly represented Mexican people and culture through his art. She showed some slides of his prints, including the really famous one of a skeleton woman wearing a big hat.

  “I’m sure Posada would be proud of our students who are performing today,” Principal Rivera concluded, “most of them representing Mexican culture. Please give them your undivided attention and enjoy today’s show.” She clapped, and the audience joined in as the lights dimmed.

  “Did anyone else just suddenly become nervous?” Joe whispered when the first performer came onto the stage.

  “Yeah,” I said, watching the kid play the violin. “I’m about to be sick.”

  “Don’t get sick on us,” Benny said. He pulled a candy bar from the pocket of his jacket and unwrapped it.

  “How can you even eat right now?” I asked.

  “I’m hungry.” Benny shrugged. “Want a bite?”

  I stuck out my tongue like I was gagging.

  “Aw, come on,” Ellie said. “You guys aren’t really nervous, are you?”

  “Yeah, this is going to be fun,” Benny said.

  “Fun. Right.” I slumped in my seat to watch the show.

  An eighth grader sang a familiar song. Her voice cracked when she first opened her mouth. I knew the feeling well.

  “What if that happens to me?” I whispered to Ellie.

  “Don’t freak out,” she said. “You’re going to be great.”

  The girl got through her song, but she rushed off the stage near tears. I swallowed hard as I watched Mrs. Larson meet her at the edge of the backstage area.

  When it was Selena’s turn, she walked out, straight-backed, hands holding her skirt so it was on full display. She didn’t look nervous at all, like this was something she did all the time. I remembered all the awards at the dance school. Then the jumpy familiar guitar sounds of “La bamba” started.