High School 2 - Diversity - The Clash
Page 4
“Miss Cross, one more thing. Kindly think before you do stuff like this. All right?”
She nodded, turned, and stalked out of the office; she could feel tears starting up at the corners of her eyes, and blindly she ran right into someone. It was passing time already, and the halls were beginning to fill with students.
“Oh. Sor …”
It was Frank. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Sure, half-pint. You nearly knocked me over. And what’s this?” He touched a skeleton finger gingerly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Like you never heard of the Day of the Dead, either?” She sniffed and realized that if she didn’t get a tissue to her nose soon she would drip and totally embarrass herself.
Frank shook his head. “Surely not. I’m one hip Mexican dude, and I don’t know about one of the most important celebrations in Mexico?”
She fished in her purse and came up with a slightly-used tissue and held it to her nose. “Well, the principal didn’t know from Joe about skeletons and El Día de los Muertos. And he told me to keep them out of sight. Might scare the kiddies. Or something really bad.”
Frank chuckled and reached into a side pocket of his backpack. “Dude’s an ign’ant fool when it comes to la raza, isn’t he? Here, hold out your hand.” And he dug into his shirt pocket and then dropped a white skull with garish pink coloring in the eye sockets and teeth into her hand. She dropped the tissue back into her purse.
“Um … what …?”
“Listen, Carla, your dancing skeletons are old school, and from the looks of these, they’ve been out of school for a long time. Now, mi abuelita sent me this from Monterrey. My grandmother. This is what we use nowadays.”
Carla examined it. If the skeletons would frighten a child, this object would either push one over the line into a hissy fit, or leave it on the floor with uncontrollable laughter. It was garish, like a ’57 Chevy lowrider with extended tail fins, and yet it had a grim appearance.
“It’s made of sugar, so if the principal spots you with it, you can just eat it on the spot.”
Carla sighed. “Well, I certainly made a complete fool of myself in his office when I tried to explain the Day of the Dead.”
Frank nodded. “You’re not the only one. He doesn’t much approve of ethnic celebrations. Says that they’re too ‘disruptive’. Whatever.” A thoughtful look came over Frank’s face, and he studied Carla’s face.
“What?” she muttered.
“About what you said about being part white and part Hispanic yesterday. You know, there’s no such thing as a full-blooded Mexican. Way back to the time of the Aztecs and the Spanish conquerors, we’ve had to deal with our dual heritage, both Indian and Spanish. And we don’t even quite know what to call ourselves … are we Mexican? Hispanic? Chicano? Brown? You ever watch any of the soap operas on Univision?”
Carla shook her head. She had no idea of what he was talking about; basic cable service at home provided only the local TV programs from Joplin and Pittsburg and the PBS channel and a few others, not including any Spanish-language on them, except for “Sesame Street”. And she hadn’t watched that program for years and years.
“Well, half of the actresses are platinum blondes or redheads, which means that THEIR heritage is probably almost pure Spanish, although I suppose most of them got their hair color out of a bottle.”
A warning bell sounded, and Frank looked down the hall.
“I gotta run; one more tardy and it’s an hour of detention for me. We’ll talk some other time, okay? I want to show you a photo of a plaque just off the Zócalo in Mexico City. It will explain everything.”
Carla grimaced. American History was complicated enough without her trying to get into Mexican history, too. “Look, I’ll think about it, okay?”
Frank’s face fell. He nodded and turned.
“Wait! Frank!”
He turned, an expectant look on his face.
“Just what does bolilla mean, anyway?”
His head dropped. “I’ll tell you later, okay? I gotta run.” And he disappeared into the crowd.
Carla sighed. No fair. I get called names, and I don’t even know what they mean. She reached into her bag to pull out the call slip, but she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to look squarely up into the face of Miranda.
Chapter Eight
Carla froze and considered her options. Oh, wait; she was still standing directly in front of the principal’s office. She would be safe for the moment, at least.
“Why, Carla. I’m so fortunate to have run into you today.”
Carla grimaced. “Yes, I’m sure it’s your lucky day.”
Miranda took another step forward. Again their noses were about four inches apart. “No, it’s YOUR lucky day, and you can just consider me your guardian angel. Maybe it escaped your notice, but Frank is taken. He and Sandra are a couple now. So unless you feel like getting slammed, you might want to think again before you get too friendly with him. Just a word to the wise.”
Carla nodded her head slowly. “Well, maybe it escaped your notice that both Frank and I happen to be Hispanic. That’s “Mexican” to you, okay? It just so happens that we were in the middle of an intellectual discussion about El Dia de los Muertos. It’s a very important day in the life of your average Mexican person.” She flipped her hand. “But of course you wouldn’t understand.”
The final bell rang, and Carla pretended to look at a watch on her empty wrist. “My, my. How the time does fly. Sorry our little chat made you late for class.” Carla crossed her arms and regarded Miranda, who appeared as if she might break into a two-alarm fire at any second.
“Oh, no problem for me, anyway. I just happen to be the office proctor this hour. And, hey, I have full access to student records … you know, like where people live and stuff.” Miranda smirked at her for a second, flipped her purse strap over her shoulder, and stalked into the office.
Carla pretended to wave bye-bye to her through the glass windows. So much for that bitch. Records? Her father was listed in the phone book. Who needed records?
She again dug into her purse for the call slip; it was good for maybe another five or six minutes out of class, just enough time for her to hide in the bathroom and think about what Frank had said. But she felt a tap on her shoulder again. What, Miranda again?
She turned to give her a piece of her mind, but this time the face behind her was the face of an older black male, although for a second she thought that it was T. J. Watkins, another American History classmate.
“Hi, Carla, I’m Jace Watkins, but you probably know that.”
“I … guess so. Um … hi. You must be T. J.’s brother.”
“That’s right. Unfortunately, so to speak. Listen. Can we talk for a few minutes? It’s about T. J.”
He looked around; a few students were still visible in the hallway. One was hurrying, the other two appeared to be walking as slowly as possible. “The library is just down the hallway, and it will be a little more quiet in there, okay?”
She nodded and followed him. Maybe she’d get ten, even fifteen minutes worth of time out of class out of this little interlude.
Jace pulled a chair out from a large table and motioned for her to sit and then pushed the chair in for her. He sat across from her, leaned forward, and spoke in a low voice that barely carried across the table.
“Okay. I think the whole school knows that my brother isn’t a saint …”
That wasn’t news to Carla; she had heard that often his disagreements with females ended with a backhand from a large hand, and she shuddered a little.
“But way down deep, he’s not a bad guy. He needs … well… guidance now and then. Look, you probably can tell that things didn’t exactly go his way when he was younger. Both of us grew up on the streets of LA, so to speak. And do I have to tell you what that’s like?’
She took a breath and expelled it slowly. “No, I suppose not. But … well, I know that he’s struggling in
some of his classes, and I have a feeling that you’re going to ask me to work with T. J. in American History, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve had some talks with him about those incidents, and I think I can guarantee that he now understands that girls are NOT for hitting.” Jace rubbed his hands over his face. “We’re lucky – T. J., my mother, and me – to be out of that LA scene and here in Niotaka. Only T. J. hasn’t quite made the adjustment to this life. He still thinks he has to fight for everything and that if someone doesn’t agree with him immediately, they’re the enemy. He doesn’t trust anyone, even me. But he’s coming around, except that this is the second time for him in American History, and his grades aren’t good enough for him to be guaranteed a spot on the basketball team right now, and … well, I need for someone to help him out with some of his studies.”
Carla leaned back in her chair and put both hands, palm down, on the table. “And I suppose that someone is me?”
“Yeah. Your teacher recommended you. Please? I’m not just talking a little help now and then, either; I’m talking paid tutoring for American History class. I make enough working part-time at the candy factory here in town to offer you … ah … six bucks an hour. Probably two to three hours a week.”
Carla leaned back in her chair. At least he didn’t ask me to tutor him in Algebra, she thought. “However. There is one thing, Mr. Watkins. I already have a job after school. At the radio station.”
Jace looked at her quizzically, as if she wasn’t quite big enough to take on a real job.
“You’re a disk jockey?”
“No … at least not now. I do production and stuff. You know, record commercials and help out.”
“Oh. Every day?”
“No. We haven’t worked out a schedule, but it looks like about three days a week, maybe a little time on the weekend.”
“Perfect. If you could slip in an hour or so during your off days, I think that’s all he’d need.”
“Eight bucks an hour, you said?”
“Si … all right, seven. If you can work in at least three hours a week. And you’d be meeting T. J. right here in the library, during the Winner’s Group study time. I’ll make sure that you’re designated as a tutor so you two will be able to talk back and forth, even though that’s supposed to be a no-talking time for athletes who don’t quite cut it in their classes.”
“I think I can do that. Deal. Only I’ll have to see what kind of schedule they’ll be putting me on out at KNTK. I don’t know yet exactly what days they want me. Probably towards the end of the week, though.”
Jace extended his hand towards Carla, and she took it. Jace’s grip was actually gentle, as if he didn’t want to crush her hand. “And if there’s any problem, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”
Carla nodded slowly. “Count on it. Look, I gotta get to class. Um … can you initial this call slip? I can’t afford to be counted tardy again, being as how I’m a tutor and all.”
Jace initialed it and added the time. “Thanks, Carla. Yeah, I gotta get back to work myself. Luckily they’re flexible about me taking off for a few minutes from the candy factory when I have school stuff to take care of during school time. As long as I don’t overdo it. Okay, see ya. And thanks.” He lifted himself out of his chair and disappeared through the library doors.
Carla leaned back in her chair and gazed at the call slip. Two jobs in hand, Frank is actually treating me like a human being, Jace just promised to be my protector, and her good friend Justin Jefferson had her back, too. Maybe she could deal with Marv, Sandra, Miranda and her group, and the principal later, too. Things were looking up for Miss Cross. Definitely.
Chapter Nine
Carla followed Jace out of the library and made a right turn for the restroom. She really didn’t need to think alone now, but why turn down a little free time? she thought.
The stench in the restroom drove her back into the hall. She rubbed her nose in distaste as she stepped toward her classroom. As she approached the last corner before the hall leading to her classroom, she heard voices ahead of her and stopped. Carefully, she poked her head around the edge of the wall. Jace and T. J. were close together, and T. J. didn’t look very happy. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying but caught her name and realized that Jace probably hadn’t told T. J. before about her future with him as a tutor. Suddenly, Jace reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package and stuck it into T. J.’s jacket pocket.
“You know what to do with that.” This time she heard Jace clearly.
“All right, bro.” She heard T. J., also. Both brothers then headed away from her down the hall, and she waited for them to round the next corner before she continued on her way down the hall.
Mrs. Hill gave her the usual scowl as she entered the English room, and she pointed at the bell-ringer prompt on the chalkboard behind the teacher’s desk.
“Here, Mrs. Hill. Had to talk to the principal. AND the basketball coach.” She slapped the call slip down on the desk and waited.
Her teacher sighed. “Okay, fine, whatever.” And she marked something in her attendance book.
Carla made her way to her seat, also behind Justin in this class, careful not to spoil her little victory over Mrs. H. by tripping over someone’s oversized backpack and falling on her face, and she took out her notebook and pencil and wrote some random stuff in response to the directions on the board.
She waited until the teacher was explaining Thoreau’s motivation to live in the boonies next to a pond and then tore a half-page from the notebook and wrote on it: “Got to meet with you. Maybe Buck, too. Lunch. It’s about T. J.” She stuck it down the back of Justin’s shirt and giggled when he slapped it like a flea. He read it, turned, rolled his eyes, and nodded.
* * *
The pizza roll at least was still warm, but it had the consistency of a well-worn shoe. Carla gnawed off one corner of it and chewed. It made her teeth ache.
She spotted Justin and Buck weaving their way through the crowd, took a swig of her chocolate milk, and swallowed. The lump of pizza roll carved its way to her stomach and landed with an almost audible plop. She shuddered.
“All right, tiny one, what’s up this time?” Justin eyed his plate and thumped his pizza roll. It sounded like a dead animal; Carla almost expected it to explode if he tapped it once more. Buck plopped his plate onto the table and immediately dug into his chicken-and-noodles-over-mashed-potatoes, a mildly-blissful look on his face. Apparently being the son of the superintendent and having to eat school food every day wasn’t a problem for him, she thought.
“Listen. I just saw T. J. and his brother Jace in the hallway, just before algebra class. And you know what? Jace gave T. J. a packet of something that looked like drugs.”
Buck eyed her. “And you would know what drugs look like, how?”
“Everyone knows what drugs look like. I mean, in the package. Don’t they?”
Justin chuckled. “You’ve been watching too much TV, Carla. Hello! Wake up! Real life here!”
“What do you mean? You don’t think that Jace …”
Buck swallowed and wiped his lips delicately with a paper napkin. “Okay, Carla, I’m not saying that it couldn’t happen, Jace being from big bad La-La-Land and all, but I do know … do NOT ask me how … that he’s trying to keep his brother away from drugs and bad stuff, not get him hooked on them. You probably saw him giving him an allowance. T. J. gets one now every week so he can eat lunch and stuff. Or it could even be something from his relatives in LA. Who knows? But I’d be willing to bet that it wasn’t drugs. You gotta be careful with that kind of talk, you know.”
Carla looked from Buck to Justin and back to Buck again. “Okay, how can you tell that someone’s on drugs? Part two of this story is that Jace asked me to tutor T. J. for American History class. So Mr. T. J. is going to be right in front of me a couple of days a week, and I do not want to be around a druggie. Period.”
Buck finished his last forkful of noodles. “Carla, seriously, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about T. J. turning into a druggie. His brother could tell instantly and that would pretty much be the end of him. And my dad checked out Jace’s background pretty carefully before he put him on a contract. He doesn’t hire anyone to work in this district before checking out things pretty carefully. Okay?”
Carla sighed. “Okay, guys. I guess I’ll have to trust you on this one. But I’m going to keep an eye on both of them.” She picked up her pizza roll, stared at it for a second, and dropped it on her plate. It bounced.
Justin’s eyes focused on something behind Carla, and he raised his eyebrows. Someone pulled out the chair next to her, and she turned and looked up at a very tall girl in a cheerleader outfit.
“Hey.” The greeting was to no one in particular and everyone there.
“Hey, Kerry,” Buck grinned. “What’s going on?”
“Listen, are you guys going to be at the Dairy Spot after practice tonight?”
“I suppose so,” Justin grunted. “Why?”
Kerry looked at Carla. “Congrats on your new job as American History tutor, Carla.”
“Damn! Does everyone know everything about my life two seconds after it happens?” Carla poked at her pizza roll.
“Around Mayberry here? Pretty much,” Kerry chuckled. She then looked around her and dropped her voice. “Anyway, I tracked down some information about his brother. Walls around here have ears, so you’ll have to wait until we are at the Dairy Spot before I can share it with you. And you’re not gonna like it, either.”
Chapter Ten
Carla could barely keep her mind on recording a pair of 30-second spots for Herbert West Chevrolet, and she had to start the second one over three times before she managed to stuff the copy into a 28-second period, short enough to let the music bed fade up and out. Bob had told her just to record the voice part and that he’d add the music bed later, and maybe when he thought she was ready, he’d show her how to mix the two together. Her mouth was dry, and her lips and tongue felt as if they’d been through Olympic exercises when she finished, so she slipped some coins into the station pop dispenser and got back a can of Dr Pepper in return.