by Meg Medina
Monsters have long been part of literature. Whether snake-headed women, vampires, or aliens from outer space, monsters have always represented the dark side of human nature. If you could invent a modern-day monster, what would it look like? Describe it. What would it represent?
I shiver, even though my shirt is plastered to my back. The steam is hissing through the pipes as I let my mind wander, filling it up with Yaqui’s hateful face. Soon my pen is scratching along the paper, the sound like mice digging in the dark.
“Miss Sanchez?”
Mr. Flatwell is standing over my desk. I look up and rub my eyes. It’s 11:59. My fingers are cramped around the pencil, and my papers are rumpled and damp from where my head has been lying on them.
“You’re free,” he says.
When I look around, I notice that the others have already left. On my desk are six pages of my messy handwriting that I shuffle quickly into a stack.
“English paper?”
I shake my head and shove the papers away fast. Has he been reading my stuff ?
“Just an essay.”
He puts on his coat and cap, not a bead of sweat on him as I collect my things. His desk is as spotless as when we arrived.
He clicks off the lights and walks to the door to wait for me. “What’s the topic?”
I sling on my backpack, suddenly embarrassed.
“Nothing. It’s just . . . nothing.”
Dread is building in my stomach as he walks down the hall with me. What if Yaqui is waiting for me outside? The last of the ESL students are leaving and I slow my pace so they can go first. Finally, it’s just Mr. Flatwell holding the door for me.
“Something the matter, Miss Sanchez?”
Sunshine is streaming through the open doorway. I ought to be happy to be through with detention, but the thought of what could be out there cements my feet. I have to force myself to edge past him to get out.
I don’t bother to put on my coat. Instead, I start jogging for the corner.
“Miss Sanchez,” he calls.
I turn around, but my feet don’t stop moving. My head is still thick from the heat, and I’m scared to walk home. The cold bites into me, deep like a vampire. My courage is draining like blood.
“I don’t expect to see you here again,” he calls.
I break into a panicked run for home.
“You look beautiful,” Lila tells me. It’s my birthday, and we’re out for dinner with Raúl, so she’s fixed my hair, loose around the shoulders. She also lent me a pair of heels to go with the African-print dress I bought with Mitzi.
Ma scowls. She’s still cranky about my hickey, and now this dress just adds to her ever-lowering opinion of me.
“Can’t you smile, at least?” Ma says to me. “What’s the matter? A bad day at Corazón?”
Smile? It took me all day to calm down after seeing Yaqui this morning.
Lila hands Ma a menu fast. “What looks good?” she says.
Ma is dressed up, too, which almost never happens unless someone has died. She’s wearing her black dress with fake pearls. She’s even wearing pointy-toed pumps. She looks so different that I almost forget it’s really her — except for when she talks, of course. I think she feels the same about me. I keep catching her looking at the neckline on my dress — and the fading hickey.
That’s not the only thing that’s different. This is also the first time Lila has brought a date along on an outing with us. I don’t know what to think. She said it was actually Raúl’s idea to celebrate my birthday here. When she told him I love roast pork as much as he does, he said, “Oh, I’ve got the lechón place for her.”
At first Ma said no.
“Why not?” Lila argued. “Piddy’s older now. A sweet sixteen is a special night for americanas like Piddy. We’re not doing a party. It’s not like we can take her to the zoo anymore, Clara.”
To be honest, I sort of miss the zoo. But I know I’m too old for it. So, instead, we’re at El Rincón Criollo, in Jackson Heights. I’m not much in the mood for celebrating anything tonight, not even my sweet sixteen. Ma was more excited about last year — my fifteenth, even though I didn’t do a quinceañera, the way some people do. That would have meant rhinestone tiaras and poufy dresses like you’re a doll in a box. No, gracias very much. Ma didn’t have the money, and I didn’t have the ganas. Living through Mitzi’s was bad enough. Her mother planned a big party at Leonard’s of Great Neck Banquet Hall last year, but Mitzi is so shy that her mother had to beg people to be in her court. It was horrible.
“Kill me now,” Mitzi said when I zipped her into her satin dress. She was miserable the whole night, surrounded by kids she barely knew.
I wish Mitzi were here tonight, but she’s not. Her badminton team went to finals someplace out in Riverhead. She was all excited when she told me yesterday. I could hear her new friends in the background.
“We’ll celebrate next weekend,” she promised in a rush. We didn’t even talk long enough for me to tell her the homo-locker detention saga.
It made me mad. She claims she never got my text about Yaqui ripping me off, but I don’t know. Would Mitzi lie? I have so many things to tell her, but it’s getting harder. She doesn’t know about me and Joey and the hickey, which she will never, ever, believe. She always thought he was cute, but so are grizzly bear cubs, and no one is dumb enough to get into bed with one, she’d say. But lately, every time I call, she’s been busy, and I wonder if maybe she doesn’t really want to know about me and my problems anymore.
I try to concentrate on the positive, like the fact that we’re eating somewhere fancy for once. From the outside, El Rincón Criollo looks like a dive with blackened windows. But inside, it’s a different story. The hostess wears a dress and high heels, colored lights glow in the silk palms, and good music pipes through the speakers. The whole dining room smells like garlic, cumin, and melt-in-your-mouth pork chunks. I’m in heaven.
“This place has class, right?” Lila whispers to me. She waves at Raúl, who is chatting at the bar. He knows the owner, and his good friend José moonlights as the bartender. A few young guys are looking our way, probably at Lila, although one of them actually smiles at me. I turn around to make sure he isn’t looking at somebody else.
It takes forever for Ma to look over the menu, even though I’m sure she can hear my stomach growling. “Let’s split something,” she says.
“But I’m hungry.”
“These places serve too much food. You’ll never eat it all. It’ll be a waste.”
Lila purses her lips. “Ay, Clarita. It’s her cumpleaños. Let the kid eat. Raúl will pay.”
Ma looks alarmed. “De eso nada. Absolutely not. I’ll pay for us, or we’re not eating.”
I sigh.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll split it.”
“Here you go, ladies.” Raúl puts down two mojitos and winks at Lila as he slips in beside her. Tonight I can see what all the fuss was about at Salón Corazón. Raúl is tall, and he’s got muscles everywhere, even in his jaw. His short hair is spiked, and he has light-brown eyes, just like his skin. He smells like spicy aftershave, too, which is nice. Ma complains that he’s too fussy about himself — never a good sign in a man, she says. Fussy or not, though, he’s cute, and, besides, you always feel safe with a guy packing a Glock.
“Oh, I love this song.” Lila closes her eyes and sways to a rumba as she tilts back her glass. It’s got a great piano tumbao. “You used to know how to play this, didn’t you, Clara?”
“I don’t remember,” Ma sniffs.
“Let’s dance, then,” Raúl tells Lila. “Come on.”
Lila is about to get up when she looks across the table and gives me a sly smile.
“I have a better idea. Dance with Piddy; she’s amazing! I’ve been teaching her everything I know.” She leans forward and whispers. “Give those fools at the bar something to wonder about.”
I almost spit up my soda, but Raúl doesn’t seem to notice. I know h
e’d rather have Lila in his arms, but he smiles with those big teeth, which look nice now, and holds out his hand. “My pleasure.”
He’s not so great on the dance floor, as it turns out. At first, I feel like a broom in his arms, with Ma watching. But finally I let the music in, and I start to relax in a way that has been hard lately. My hips start to move like they’re meant to. Lila is all smiles at the table as I turn, turn, turn into my salsa without missing a single step, just like she showed me. From the corner of my eye, I can see that the guys at the bar have stopped talking. They’re watching me. Even Ma looks like she’s easing up, although I can’t guess what she’s thinking. Yaqui Delgado melts away from me, if only for a few minutes.
“That’s the way!” Lila hoots, raising her glass.
Finally, when the number is done, Raúl leads me back to my seat and holds out my chair like a gentleman. My skin is shiny, and I’m sweating beneath my dress, like I’ve outrun some beast.
“You’re right, Lila. She’s a great dancer.” Then he turns to Ma. “Your daughter is going to break a lot of hearts, Clara.” He tilts his head toward the bar. “Maybe even some tonight.”
Ma nods and studies the menu again. “Don’t remind me.”
The rest of the night, Lila and Raúl tell stories to make us laugh as we gorge. He says he grew up with four brothers in Washington Heights. His brothers were always in one scrape or another, which is how he first got to know cops in his neighborhood. His oldest brother, Luis, got into drugs, though, and couldn’t get out. He’s dead now. “That’s why I’m a cop today,” he says.
Ma keeps stirring her drink, listening. I’m thinking the city must be so exciting — better than Queens, anyway. We hardly ever go into Manhattan because Ma hates the subway and all its germs. I wonder, too, what it’s like to live in a house with boys wrestling and making noise, what it’s like to have a father or brother around all the time, even if they’re trouble. Safe, I decide. It must feel safe.
Then Raúl mentions something that perks me up.
“It’s a lot harder today, though. The Bland is a rough beat.”
“That’s your beat?” I ask. That’s Yaqui’s neighborhood. “You’re there every day?”
Raúl nods.
“I could park the squad car on any corner and stay busy dusk to dawn, unfortunately.” He shakes his head. “Last week, we found a kid shot through the head in the lobby of his building.”
Ma crosses herself.
Just then José sends over refills, and our waitress appears with four individual flans. Mine has a candle sparkling from the center. The whole place sings to me an off-key “Las Mañanitas” and then “Happy Birthday” after that. Even Ma smiles and applauds when it’s over.
The ride home late that night is quiet. Ma and I are in the back. Lila is sitting close to Raúl. The radio is playing a nice bolero, the kind you’d dance to slowly with someone you love. And maybe that’s just what they’ll do later up in her apartment. The night air is cold, but those two look toasty warm. I want to hold on to this ride forever.
“You ever been married, Raúl?” Ma’s question seems to come out of nowhere to shatter the quiet.
I can see his handsome eyes in the rearview mirror. Ma, however, is still staring outside, like she’s a million miles away.
“What?”
“Clara —” Lila starts to say.
“Married. Ca-sa-do. Have you ever been married?”
Raúl’s smile doesn’t fade, even as his eyes flit to Lila’s.
“Yes. In fact, I was married — a long time ago.”
“Where’s your wife now?”
“Ma,” I mumble. How is this her business?
“Ex-wife,” he says. “She lived in Bayside last time I knew. Why?”
Lila is blushing, and it feels like the air is going to explode into a ball of fire.
“No reason,” Lila says firmly as she cranes her neck to look at Ma severely. “Clara is my best friend. She’s just being nosy.”
Ma finally turns from the window to meet Lila’s gaze, but she doesn’t say anything else. She looks so sad; the little lines around her mouth are showing.
The rest of the ride home is quiet except for the music on the radio, the magic ruined by a poison no one names.
“Thanks for the lechón,” I tell Raúl when he drops us off at the curb a little while later. I lean in the window to say good-bye. “It was delicious.”
“No problem. Thanks for the dance,” Raúl says.
Lila looks past me at Ma, who has already climbed out. Then she pulls me toward her and gives me a big kiss.
“Te quiero mucho,” she says.
I hurry for the door, but Lila calls to me just before I step inside behind Ma. “Happy sixteenth, Piddy.”
I turn and wave as their headlights disappear down the road, their private bolero fading on the air.
There’s only one bathroom at DJ that you can use without risking somebody messing with you, at least according to Darlene. It’s the one by the main office. And wouldn’t you know my luck — the custodian has blocked it off with his buckets. Darlene starts to step inside, but he stops us with his mop that reeks of disinfectant.
“Toilet overflowed,” he says, pointing at the puddle oozing out the door. “Use the locker rooms.”
Darlene cuts him with her eyes. “Right.” Then she turns to me. “We’ll go to the nurse’s office next hour. Say you’re having your period, and they’ll let you in.”
All things considered, it has been pretty calm this week. Yaqui is still serving her suspension, although I found out it’s an in-school suspension, which isn’t nearly as comforting. Still, she’s been penned up on the second floor, far from anywhere I need to be. I handed in my work on Monday, and I’ve been on time to every class. I try my best not to think about next week, when Yaqui will be free again. That really makes me want to pee.
“Hi, Piddy,” Rob says when we walk into English. He’s been staring at me even more than usual, so I have to wonder if he knows I was the one who scribbled on his locker. Darlene hustles me past him fast.
“God, he’s so revolting,” she whispers.
“Hi, Rob,” I say anyway.
“Seats, everyone.” Ms. Shepherd is handing back work. If I did a decent job on the extra-credit essay, I might manage to get a low B on my report card, despite the string of zeroes. Ma won’t like it, but it will be better than the D that I was really supposed to get, which would set her hair on fire. Darlene is beaming over her A paper and filing it away in her color-coded binder. I wait for Ms. Shepherd to finish giving out papers, but when she reaches the end of the stack, my desk is still empty. I’m positive I handed it in.
“Where’s mine?” I ask.
She turns around and studies me for a second. Maybe it wasn’t good? When I think back on it, I think I was delirious as I wrote that essay in Mr. Flatwell’s detention. In fact, the thought of it suddenly makes me cringe. The monster I described was a Yaqui. It’s disguised as a girl — a school-yard girl with a tight bun and steely eyes who eats people’s hearts for no good reason. I even gave her pointy teeth, a fat ass, and bad skin.
But Ms. Shepherd slowly breaks into a wide smile.
“Well, there’s good news — and now is a good time to share it. I’ve submitted the strongest writing this marking period to the school magazine. Yours was included.”
“Since when do we have a school magazine?” Darlene says.
“Since right now,” Ms. Shepherd continues. “This class will serve as the first editorial committee. In fact, I already have a managing editor in mind.”
Darlene holds up her hand to stop her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Shepherd. I’m too busy to manage a school magazine this term.”
Ms. Shepherd smiles. “Actually, I asked Rob if he would serve as managing editor this semester.”
Darlene starts gaping like a bass out of water. When I look at Rob, I can see his ears have turned bright pink. I look from him to Ms. Shepherd in a pan
ic.
“Where’s my essay?” I say again.
“The essays we’ve chosen are posted on the English department bulletin board as a teaser for our first issue,” she says, beaming. She puts her hand on mine. “Great piece on monsters.”
This can’t be happening. If anyone sees that essay and has half a brain, they might recognize the real monster I’m talking about. Then I’m dead for sure.
“I need it back,” I tell her.
“It will only be up for a week or so. I’ll give it back after that. I promise.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want my work up there.”
“Why not?” she asks gently. “You’re an excellent writer. You can be proud —”
“Because it’s private!” My voice is shrill, and it probably sounds like I’m being a brat. “Because I don’t want my work on that board. You should have asked me!”
“Calm down, Piddy,” Ms. Shepherd says. “We can discuss this after class.”
“No. I need my essay back right now. Where is the bulletin board?”
Everyone is watching us. Ms. Shepherd puts her hands on her hips and stands her ground. She’s nice, but even she has her limits.
“Well, you’re not going to get it back right now. I’ll be happy to return it — after class. We’ll discuss it then.”
I seethe all hour long. Shouldn’t she have asked my permission? But really, I have only myself to blame. What was I thinking? My only hope is that no one has seen it — especially not Yaqui or any of her friends.
Still.
When the bell rings, Ms. Shepherd calls me to her desk, but I bolt out the door instead. I don’t know what bulletin board she could mean or where it is, but I have to find it fast. I push through the crowds, checking the whole first floor for the display, but find nothing except an old trophy case with plaques from the 1990s. Then I remember that the English department office is on the second floor, not too far from the in-school suspension room. I take the steps two at a time and get there gasping for breath. Ms. Shepherd has advertised for the new magazine in big glittery letters that no one can miss. The board has already been trashed with doodles and tags, the corrugated border hanging off in a long ribbon. All the essays are stapled here. I scan them as fast as I can, but I don’t find mine. I look again more slowly, even though the warning bell has sounded. Then my heart sinks. Near the center of the board is a white space. Two staples are still attached to the ripped corners of loose-leaf paper, but the rest of the sheet has been ripped away.
