Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass

by Meg Medina

  I pull back my hair to put on the shower cap and stop. It suddenly occurs to me that this is not so different from how Yaqui wears her hair. I fish through Ma’s drawer for hairpins and finish fastening it in place. I don’t step into the shower. Instead, I search my pants pockets and find one of Lila’s lipstick samples. It’s a dark burgundy that Ma would never let me wear. Slowly I draw in my lips. Then I dig under the sink for Ma’s ancient makeup bag and find her tweezers. I work carefully, painfully. My eyebrows grow thinner and thinner until I’m teary and my skin is red and swollen, until there is only the barest line remaining. When I’m done, I stand back and inspect myself again. I look expressionless and strangely vicious. If Ma walked by me, she might never recognize me at all. That’s not my daughter, she’d think.

  And she’d be right.

  Maybe this is the new me I need to find. A girl tough enough to face Yaqui. But if that’s true, why do I still feel afraid?

  I don’t tell Mitzi I’m coming. It will be a surprise. We were supposed to get together this weekend — a rain check for my birthday. I’ll sit in her room and tell her everything. She’ll know what I should do.

  Ma didn’t try to stop me when I told her I was going. She calls Mitzi a good influence. Maybe she thought that’s what I needed right now, considering my recent cosmetic handiwork.

  “What have you done?” she asked when she saw me this morning. She put down her cup of coffee and shook her head. “What’s happening to you?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her honestly.

  The bus hums along Northern Boulevard for a long while, but eventually the wooded neighborhoods after Great Neck take over, each one blending into the next. There are fewer people on the streets out here, fewer kinds of people, too. Everything looks clean. I sit by myself in the back, staring out the window as the world outside gets more peaceful with each passing mile. I ride by Italian delis and bakeries, by cobblers and candy stores. I can’t help but wonder if Mitzi remembers what it’s like back in Queens. Sometimes I wonder if she’s starting to forget me, too.

  It takes longer than I thought to get there — almost two hours, including waiting for the bus transfer — but I find the address okay. It’s a small house, a few blocks off the main avenue. It’s one of those doll-size things with a pointy roof, like something out of “Hansel and Gretel.”

  For a second, Mrs. Ortega doesn’t recognize me when she opens the door. She frowns a little, but then her eyes go wide.

  “Piedad! Is that you?” She holds the door wide. Mrs. Ortega is a small woman with jet-black hair and sparkly eyes. She’s a plump, old version of Mitzi. She crushes me in a hug.

  “Come in, come in! Did Mitzi forget you were coming?”

  I shake my head and pull down my hood. The house feels warm compared to outside. It smells of garlic and roasting meat; the Ortegas have a Sunday-afternoon dinner every week, so I knew Mitzi would be home.

  “No. It’s a surprise.”

  “¿Sí? Well, that’s perfect. You’ll stay to eat, then. But why don’t you go find her? She’s at the basketball court with Sophia and some other girls.”

  “Who’s Sophia?”

  “Mitzi’s new friend,” she boasts. “They’re practicing for basketball. Tryouts are coming up.”

  My heart squeezes a little, even though Mrs. Ortega looks so happy at the prospect, I think she might burst.

  “Mitzi doesn’t play basketball,” I point out. She’s always hated to run on account of her chest and the endless jokes.

  “She does now. Can you imagine it? She might be part of the team!”

  She walks me out to the stoop and points up the street. “It’s three blocks that way and then a left. You can’t miss it — Saint Ana’s. You’ll see the girls on the court.”

  My feet feel heavy as I go.

  I hear the girls playing before I actually see them. They’re grunting and laughing, trash-talking a little. I hang back near the bushes to watch. Saint Ana’s is a pretty church with a few school buildings attached. Beside them is a carpet of soccer fields surrounded by a track. There are five girls on the basketball courts besides Mitzi. From the looks of it, Mitzi is playing point guard — badly.

  “Arms up, Ortega!” one of them shouts, slipping around Mitzi for the shot. It’s all net. The other girls cheer.

  “Ugh,” Mitzi says. “I am never going to make it.”

  “Don’t say that!” a bushy-haired girl says. “We have two weeks to get you ready. That’s plenty of time.” She’s plain-faced but pretty. Her curly hair is in a ponytail, and she’s wearing track pants and Under Armour, like someone in an ad for health food or yoga.

  Just as they’re about to set up again, I step out.

  “Hi.”

  Mitzi looks at me blankly for a second, like she can’t recognize me at all. I pull down my hood and smile.

  “Piddy?” she says.

  “Surprise!”

  Mitzi drops the ball and comes running over.

  “Hi! Oh, my God, what are you doing here?”

  I shift my weight uncomfortably as the other girls turn to watch us. She’s forgotten we were supposed to get together, but at least she looks happy that I’m here.

  “Nothing. Just thought we were going to hang out this weekend.”

  Mitzi smiles brightly and gives me a hug. Then she turns to the others.

  “Come meet everybody. This is Heather, Miranda, Chloe, Olive, and Sophia. Everybody, this is Piddy.”

  “Hi,” I manage. I’ve never seen Mitzi talk to so many people at once. It makes her seem like a stranger to me. “Basketball, huh?” I say.

  Mitzi blushes. “Yeah.” She lowers her voice a little. “We’re almost done here, I think. A few minutes more. We’re getting ready for —”

  “Tryouts. Yeah. Your mom told me.”

  It sounds like an accusation, even though I don’t mean it that way. I glance around at the girls. They’re all nice enough, but I can feel them trying to make sense of me, my clothes. Mitzi is studying my face, maybe even noticing my new brows. I’m noticing things about her, too. Her sneakers are blindingly white and new, for one thing.

  I look out at the fields.

  “It’s like a country club out here, huh? Peaceful.”

  Mitzi looks embarrassed. “I guess.”

  Sophia, who’s been listening, comes to stand closer.

  “We’re going to get something to eat. You can come, too, Patty,” she says politely.

  “Piddy,” I say. My rudeness surprises even me, but I don’t know the first thing about Sophia or any of these girls, and that alone makes me uncomfortable. “No, thanks.”

  “Piddy —” Mitzi begins, frowning a little.

  “It’s just that your mom invited me to dinner,” I add quickly to soften things.

  Mitzi turns to Sophia and offers a pained smile. “I’m sorry, guys. I have to be home for dinner. Do you mind if I cut out early?”

  I can feel their stares on our backs all the way down the block. It’s as though I’ve walked off with their prize.

  The rest of the night is hard for Mitzi and me. I know it’s my fault. I pick at my dinner as Mrs. Ortega chatters away about Mitzi’s this-club and that-club. When she asks me how school is, all I can offer is a lame “Fine.” What am I supposed to say?

  Later, when we’re eating ice cream in her room, I can’t bring myself to tell Mitzi what’s been going on. It makes me feel like a loser to tell her about Yaqui when her own life is going so great out here.

  When it’s time to leave, she walks me to the bus stop, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. It’s almost dark out, and I can hardly see her face. Still, I know the look she’s wearing. The corners of her lips are down.

  “You’re acting really different,” she says.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re hardly talking. You looked at all the stuff in my room like you’re a crime detective.”

  “Actually, you’re the one who’s different. I’m sti
ll in Queens, remember, Mitzi? Same as always.” It comes out harsher than I want.

  Mitzi stops walking. “But you’re not the same.”

  “The same as what? You’re the one who moved out here and got all new snooty friends, not me. I’ve been calling you for, like, two weeks.”

  “They’re not snooty. And what’s wrong with making new friends, Piddy? You want me to sulk about a new school and be all alone?”

  I give her an ugly look.

  “Are you saying I’m sulking? Is that what you think?”

  “I’m saying that if you’d give Sophia and them a chance, you’d see they’re smart and nice. Which is more than I can say for you right now. What’s with you, anyway? Look at you!” She points at my hair, my face. “You even look mean.”

  In all my life, I’ve never wanted to hurt Mitzi, but if I could clock her right now, I would. Thankfully, my bus rounds the corner. I wave my hand to flag it down, taking off at a jog.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Mitzi. Nothing at all.” I’m practically shouting. “Everything is just perfect. Why don’t you just forget me and enjoy your new life.”

  And with that, I’m on my way home.

  I should have noticed them waiting at the corner, but the girls are tucked far inside the doorway of the apartment building, and I don’t see them until I go by. They’ve been smart; I’ll give them that. It’s Friday. All week, no one messed with me. I should have known it was too good to believe.

  When I pass by, they slip out and follow me down the block like a wolf pack organizing their hunt.

  I walk faster, trying to get home as soon as I can, but somewhere deep inside I already know it’s too late. They’re giggling behind me. Someone tosses a rock. A voice whispers, “Bitch.”

  Nearly jogging now, I’m close enough to my front yard that I can see the dying edges of Mrs. Boika’s rosebushes. But it’s no use. All at once, Yaqui rushes up from behind and grabs a fistful of my hair. She yanks my head back until my feet tangle. Vanesa holds up her phone, recording my face. Click, click, click. Someone yanks my jacket right off my back.

  Yaqui is a rabid boxer, her fists balled. I tower over her by several inches, but not even my size helps. She’s done this before. I kick and try to twist out of her grip, but nothing stops her from toppling me and pressing my face into the pavement. She kicks me hard in the ribs as her friends say, “Ooh,” and cover their mouths to laugh.

  “Stop! Let me go!” I yell.

  I’m fighting with all my might, scraping my nails deep along her arms, but I’m in no-man’s-land now. Though Daniel Jones is still in sight, I’m off school grounds and there are no crowds to help, just passersby who stop, point. Only a cop can save me now, and there’s none around. Mrs. Boika looks out her kitchen curtains in shock, but she’s too scared to move.

  Yaqui lifts me from the ground by the hem of my shirt and yanks it straight over my head so I can’t see. I kick blindly. The girls are hooting even louder as I fight to keep my arms in the sleeves. She’s not going to steal the shirt off my back.

  Then the fabric tears, and with a sickening rip, I go hurtling to the ground half naked. I run for my door and pound. My hands are shaking too hard to find my key.

  “Let me in, Mrs. Boika! Please!” I scream.

  Yaqui lunges again. I can feel the rage in each slap and bite; it’s like I’m being devoured alive. Finally, she reaches for my total humiliation. She rips off one of my lacy bra straps and pulls the remaining shreds down around my waist. I’m left huddled in my doorway cupping my hands over my breasts, wearing only my jeans for all of Parsons Boulevard to see. Drivers slow down and crane their necks.

  When she’s done, Yaqui wraps my shirt around her shoulders like a towel. She’s out of breath and glowing. Strands of her hair have come loose around her face, and she wears the bloody scratches with pride. She’s victorious — almost beautiful even.

  “Want this?” She gives me one final shove and drops something to the pavement. It’s my broken elephant necklace, which she grinds into the pavement. “Keep away from Alfredo.” Then she walks off with her friends, a slow promenade up the street.

  Lila takes one look at my face and steps inside, out of breath. Her fingers are still wrinkled from the sinks at Corazón. I called the salon as soon as I got inside. “It’s an emergency!” I screamed at Gloria. “Tell Lila to come now.”

  She grabs my hand and leads me straight to the bathroom without a word. Yanking aside the shower curtain, she points at the edge of the tub.

  “Sit.”

  I’m shaking all over, from a pain I’ve never known before. Pebbles are pressed deep inside my scrapes. Lila works my cheeks and palms with a soapy washcloth trying to lodge the grit free. I start to cry all over again.

  “Sh, sh, sh, sh . . .” It’s her nervous sound, the same noise a pressure cooker makes. As she turns me, like a seamstress fitting her model, she studies the little circles of teeth on my shoulders, the welts on my ribs. She stops at the long pink scrape across my back from the bra hook. Her lips narrow to white lines. “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

  The last time someone saw me naked, I was six. I hold my hands over my breasts as Lila dissolves a handful of Epsom salts in the full blast of the tub faucet.

  “Take a deep breath and hold it. It’s gonna sting for a second, but it’s the only way to get this mess clean,” she says, helping me in.

  I crouch in the water with my knees to my chest. It’s like alcohol on a paper cut. Lila holds me still as I try to get out.

  “Wait. It’s going to be better in a second.”

  I squeeze my eyes tight until every burning scrape starts to feel numb. When I finally settle into the pain, she sits down on the edge of the tub and lights up a cigarette. At first, she doesn’t say anything.

  “What puta did this to you?” she finally asks. “The one who came to Corazón?”

  “Her friend. A girl named Yaqui,” I say.

  “Yaqui who?”

  “Delgado. She’s from the Bland.”

  Lila takes a long drag, thinking.

  “You take her boyfriend?”

  “No!”

  She lets the smoke out slowly through her nostrils.

  “Please don’t tell Ma,” I whisper. “Promise me.”

  Lila looks down at me.

  “Are you crazy? We have to tell Clara.”

  Water sloshes over the side as I lunge for Lila’s hand. Getting Ma involved scares me more than Yaqui does.

  “No! You can’t tell her!”

  Lila’s pants are soaked, but she doesn’t move from the puddle I’ve made all around her.

  “And how do you think you’re going to explain your face, Piddy?” She flicks her cigarette butt into the toilet. “You look like you kissed a runaway truck, in case you don’t know.”

  I start bawling. I know she’s right.

  “Don’t you see? Ma will go to school. She’ll make a scene, Lila — in front of everybody. You know what happens then? I’ll get dragged to the dean’s office with Yaqui to shake her hand and say sorry, because nobody ever gets expelled at DJ, no matter what they do.”

  “Sit down. Calm yourself —”

  I’m crying hard now, and my voice echoes too loudly off the tile.

  “I won’t sit down. Don’t tell me to calm down! Yaqui will just get me worse the next time — her or one of her friends. I swear to God, if you tell Ma, you’re digging my grave.”

  I scramble over the side of the tub and grab for a towel to cover myself.

  “I’ve kept your secret about Ma and my father. Now you have to keep mine. If you don’t, I’ll hate you forever.”

  Lila doesn’t follow as I run to my room and slam the door shut.

  By the time Ma’s keys jangle in the door, I’m at the kitchen table, my hands cupped around a mug of tea to keep them steady. Lila has boiled rice and opened a can of beans for Ma. I tug on the sleeves of my clean sweatshirt to make sure I’m covered and she can’t see all th
e places I’ve been hurt.

  At first, Ma doesn’t notice a thing except the stink of cigarettes. She shakes her head when she sees Lila smoking at the kitchen table. The ashtray is overflowing.

  “Cristo, how many times do I have to tell you? Piddy is allergic to smoke. And you’re gonna get a cancer!” She waves her hands to clear the smoke and is about to pull the butt from Lila’s lips when she gets her first good look at me. Her face goes pale as she reaches for her own throat.

  “¡Ave Maria purísima! What happened to you?” She comes at me, hands outstretched. “¡Dime qué te pasó!”

  She tries to touch my swollen eyelid, but I turn away in time.

  “It was the stupid stairs,” I say. “I slipped and hit my face on the end of the handrail. Thank God Lila came by after work. ” Every breath hurts as I speak. “Nothing’s broken.”

  Ma looks from me to Lila.

  “You fell down the stairs.” It’s not a question. Ma is no dummy, and her wheels are whirling. I can smell her doubt. I can almost see a hundred pictures of me on Attronica TV screens, my face made a pulp. She walks to the door and opens it. “Where exactly?” Her voice carries in the hall, maybe right to Mrs. Boika’s apartment. “Where did you fall down the stairs?”

  “I hit my face somewhere at the end there. It’s not like I can make a map, Ma. It was so fast.” I take a deep swig of tea, hoping to end the interrogation. I try not to let her see me trembling.

  Ma closes the door and comes back to the kitchen. My lie is just out of reach, but she’s too cautious to edge out on this thin branch. She wants me to confess instead, tell her what really happened. But I stay quiet. She takes off her coat slowly, turns to Lila, and crosses her arms.

  “Imagínate. All those years we spent crawling up and down crumbling steps in the old place, and look where my daughter falls. That’s pretty strange, right, Lila?”

  My heart squeezes in the long quiet that follows; I can’t breathe. Smoke has snaked over all our heads as Ma waits for her best friend to answer.

  Lila stubs out her cigarette and gets up to warm the food.