Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass

by Meg Medina

  “Wait — I’m not finished,” I say. “It’s really good.”

  “Your stuff would be better than most of what we picked,” he says quickly.

  This is not a conversation I want to have, much less with people listening in near us.

  “We should edit the rest of this stuff,” I mumble, reaching for the next page of layout.

  “I hate Darlene’s sappy poem, for instance,” he says a little too loudly. “I put it near the end.”

  “Did you say my name, Rob?” Darlene gives us a dirty look from across the room.

  “She can be such an ass,” I say.

  “Everyone is sort of an ass now and then,” he says, shrugging. “Sometimes even nice people.” He blinks. “You’re absent a lot. That’s ass-ish.”

  “You’re the one who is being pretty ass-ish right now,” I point out.

  “See? It happens.”

  That’s when there’s a knock at the door. A slant of light comes in through the opening, and Mr. Flatwell steps inside and scans the room. He motions to Ms. Shepherd. I close my eyes and duck down. Maybe I can play dead like a possum near the trash cans. No luck. His rubber-bottomed shoes barely make a sound as he comes near. I feel him standing next to my desk.

  “Hello, Mr. Allen,” he says to Rob, who goes from red to purple. Then he turns to me. “Miss Sanchez,” he whispers. “Please come with me.”

  A teacher I’ve never seen before is waiting in his office when we get there. She glances at me from a seat at a student desk he keeps in the corner.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Castenado,” Mr. Flatwell tells her. When he shuts the door, I realize she’s probably there as a witness. The thought of Mr. Flatwell getting funny with me is gross, but I guess you never know.

  He leans back in his chair and takes me in.

  “You’ve been out for several days, Miss Sanchez. I understand your mother wasn’t aware you weren’t in school.”

  I shift in my seat. “She knows now,” I say. “And here I am.”

  “It’s nice to have you back,” he says without a trace of sarcasm. He’s quiet for a while. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say something else.

  “Am I here for a reason?” I ask.

  The teacher looks over at me and then at Mr. Flatwell. My tone must be a problem again.

  “I’ve received a report,” Mr. Flatwell says. “It has to do with you.”

  “My mother already knows about my absences,” I tell him.

  Mr. Flatwell leans forward and folds his hands. “Have you heard of SUSO?”

  For a second, I’m confused. “What?”

  “SUSO. Miss Castenado runs it,” he says, pointing at the teacher. “It’s a new program this year. It means Stand Up/Speak Out.” He hands me a flyer with a bulldog on it. I recognize it from the guidance office. “Bully-Free Zone,” it says.

  Miss Castenado clears her throat and rolls her chair closer to us.

  “It’s an anonymous way for people to report bullying,” she explains. “Anyone can send us a form, no questions asked.”

  The room fills with a silence that hurts my ears. Mr. Flatwell picks up a sheet of paper from his desk, but I don’t move my eyes from his face.

  “I’ve received a SUSO report that says someone at this school has been bullying you.” He looks over his glasses at me. “Is that true?”

  “Who filed that report?” I pull my sleeves down over my wrists nervously. Darlene made it clear she didn’t want to get involved. But I can’t think of anyone else who would even know there was a no-bullying program in place.

  “The report was made anonymously, but it’s obviously somebody who’s concerned about you.”

  Someone concerned about me? At DJ? That’s a laugh. But as he waits for my answer, I suddenly think of Rob. How he’s gotten me out of tough spots before without me even realizing it.

  “What you tell us in this room is confidential,” Miss Castenado says. “We can help before things get out of hand.”

  A poster of a kitten hanging from a tree limb is tacked to the wall behind her. HANG IN THERE, it says. My throat tightens into a wad of sadness. Things are already so out of hand, she has no idea. I’m thinking all at once of Joey and Mrs. Halper and all the days we heard her through the pipes. All those times the cops came and left, empty-handed. It’s all right, she’d say. Nothing happened. She didn’t accept help, but maybe she was just too afraid to take it.

  Miss Castenado goes to the water cooler and fills a cup of water for me. She puts a box of tissues in front of me, too. I don’t touch either one.

  “Sometimes we can get the people involved talking,” she begins, “and we can help them solve their differences.”

  “No.” My voice is sudden, firm.

  Mr. Flatwell clears his throat.

  “Last year, you were an A student at your old school.” He unclips a wallet-size school picture of me from inside a file folder. I recognize the old school portrait. Ma has one floating in her photo box somewhere. It was taken last September at my old school. I must have missed this year’s Picture Day when I was playing hooky. He considers the girl carefully. “I’ve read your records. It says you were in advanced sciences and language arts. Ms. Shepherd agrees that you have talent.” He leans forward. “What’s happening here, Miss Sanchez? Something isn’t right.”

  Last year? I can barely remember it. That was when I could sleep at night, dreaming of my elephants and the Sahara. I could feel the rhythm of old salsa records in my bones. I could laugh with Mitzi and plan what we would wear. Agustín Sanchez was my mystery father, someone I wanted to know about. Now I can’t lift my eyes or walk the way I want. I have no friends. Not even my own father wanted to get to know me. If there is a way to get that smiling girl back, I don’t see it.

  The room is spinning now. Talking about a secret is like finding a way out of a cave, isn’t it? You can’t be sure whether you’re going deeper in or climbing free. What’s the sunlight and what’s just a mirage?

  I close my eyes to think as hard as I ever have. It’s Lila’s voice again in my head.

  It’s you that has the real strength in all this, Piddy. You just don’t know it yet. One day you’ll be so far away from Parsons Boulevard, you’ll think you dreamed this hellhole. Her aspirations for me are blinking above like fireflies just out of reach.

  “Miss Sanchez? Is someone bullying you?”

  I’m thinking, too, of Rob and his wolf picture for all to see, the way he’s still standing despite all the abuse that’s heaped his way, even from people who should know better. He sucks at people, and yet he’s the most humane.

  “If you would give us the name . . .”

  The question is, What kind of person will you be? I hear Ma in my ear.

  Finally, I pull out my elephant charm and put it on Mr. Flatwell’s desk. It has no trunk. The sides are chalky and ruined. It’s nothing more than a trinket.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yaqui Delgado.”

  Miss Castenado keeps me company through the lunch period until Mr. Flatwell returns. I had a choice to leave the room, but what’s the difference? Yaqui is going to know I told, either way. At least now, when Mr. Flatwell brings her in, I’ll see her face up close — and she’ll have to see mine. We can fight even, for once. The crazy thing is that I may never know what we’re actually fighting about. Was it because a boy looked at me? My swishy butt? Or maybe because she’s worried I’m better than she is? It hardly matters anymore. All this time, I’ve been afraid of Yaqui Delgado hurting me, and now it’s time to confront her — not in a school yard but in a way that I choose. No matter how she fights, I’ll make sure I win in the way that matters to me.

  It takes a long time for Mr. Flatwell to return. When he comes back, he has the school cop, Officer Roan, along, too. As soon as Yaqui sees me, she shakes her head, as if she’s already thinking about everything she’s going to do to me. I still can’t quite look at Yaqui directly, but I look by her — like looking through a windshield ins
tead of focusing on what’s stuck on the glass.

  Mr. Flatwell sits down and folds his hands.

  “Have a seat, Miss Delgado,” he begins.

  “I don’t know her,” Yaqui says, still standing. “I don’t even know her.”

  She’s right, of course. She doesn’t know me at all, but now I stare right at her, even though my hands are shaking. Yaqui’s hoop earrings graze her shoulders. She wears gold rings on her index fingers, and there’s a tiny white scar that splits her brow. There are two scabs on her elbows, and for a second I wonder proudly if I managed to do her some damage, too.

  “You looking at something?” she snaps.

  Mr. Flatwell holds up his hand and gives her a warning look before turning back to me.

  “Miss Sanchez, can you tell me what’s been happening between you and Miss Delgado?”

  I don’t say anything at first. I can feel Yaqui’s rage in the air around me. She’ll find me when no one is looking; I know she will. She’ll hit me harder, hate me more, even pound her raging story into my flesh until it’s a little part of me I can’t let go. She’s already made scars I’ll have when I’m old. I try to keep myself calm, thinking that maybe it’s like Ma says, after all: God put your eyes in front of your head so you can see forward and not look back.

  I try to focus on what’s far ahead — after high school, after all of this has faded a bit. There is going to be an after for me, one that’s much better than hers.

  I start out quietly, my voice flat as I tell Mr. Flatwell about Vanesa coming to me in the school yard. About her visit to the salon. About Yaqui stealing my elephant charm in the hall. Officer Roan is taking notes. Yaqui keeps interrupting, denying all of it.

  “She’s lying,” she says.

  “I’m not.” And then I reach across Mr. Flatwell’s desk and take his pen and notepad. I write the string of humiliating numbers and letters that have been branded into my brain.

  “What’s this?” Mr. Flatwell asks me, when I hand it to him. “A website?”

  My face is burning red.

  “Yes,” I say. “A movie, actually. Yaqui and I are the stars.”

  Mr. Flatwell turns to his computer and types in his access code and the YouTube link on his keyboard, and the video begins to load. The screen is reflected in his glasses, frozen on a frame of the fence outside my apartment. Mrs. Boika is in the window, a group of girls standing around with their backs to the camera.

  I feel no shame as I watch the video start to play. This time I don’t even cry.

  “Someone can walk you out if you like,” Miss Castenado whispers as she escorts me to the front doors of the school. “But I’m sure Mr. Flatwell will keep Yaqui in his office for a good while. We’ve alerted the school-yard monitors, too. And don’t worry — we’re getting the video offline immediately.”

  I tell her I’m fine, but I realize this is my new life as a narc. I’ve seen this maneuver on plenty of court shows. The judge gives the witness a head start so the accused can’t break his knees in the parking lot. Or, in my case, the school yard.

  I’m about to step out when someone walks by us toward the doors.

  “Where are you going, sir?” Miss Castenado asks. “There’s fifteen minutes left until the bell.”

  Rob holds up a pass but stares at his shoes.

  “I have a pass for early dismissal,” he says. “Dermatologist appointment.” He steals a glance at me while Miss Castenado checks it out and nods.

  He holds the door open, waiting for me to follow, and I do. We walk to the fence without a word, then he turns and hands me something.

  “What’s this?” I ask. When I open it, I find a one-page application for McCleary, the science magnet school Darlene told me about.

  “See the date?” he says. “Due Friday. Hurry.”

  I stare at the application, my mind moving in a million directions as he walks away. When I look up, he’s halfway across the street.

  “Hey!” I call, jogging after him.

  He turns and waits, the cold air making his nose run a little. When I reach him, I don’t know what to say. Then I blurt it out — Rob-style.

  “You told Flatwell that Yaqui Delgado was after me?” My voice sounds more accusing than I mean it to be. I take a step closer and whisper, “Somebody filed an anonymous SUSO report, and I think it was you.”

  He blinks and shifts his feet.

  “This is where you answer,” I tell him.

  “Yes,” he finally says. “You fixed my locker?”

  Now it’s me who’s momentarily tongue-tied. I don’t know if it’s a statement or a question. “Yes.”

  Rob gives the briefest smile I’ve ever seen.

  “See you tomorrow,” he says.

  When I get to Mitzi’s house after school, no one is there. She’s probably at basketball or badminton practice or whatever sport is now in session. I have to sit on the stoop to wait. It’s a quiet street, with almost no cars driving by, so I have plenty of time to think. Mr. Flatwell and Officer Roan say I have to tell my mother what’s been happening; I have to bring her to school tomorrow. “There are options for how to handle this,” Mr. Flatwell said. Like what? I wonder. The Witness Protection Program?

  I pull the application for McCleary from my pack and read all the questions, wondering if I’ve slipped too far for them to take me now. Sometimes mistakes can mess you up forever, just like Mr. Nocera always warns: screw something up in the beginning of a problem, and your whole answer is wrong. Is there partial credit in the world, I wonder, or just in math?

  I don’t know how long I sit there, but finally I hear someone coming up the walkway. I stand up and find Mitzi walking toward me. Thankfully, she’s by herself.

  “Piddy?”

  Her bulging backpack is slung over one shoulder. She smiles and suddenly winces. That’s when I notice she has a fat lip.

  “What happened to you?” I ask.

  “I took a ball to the face in the game Saturday night.”

  “You win at least?”

  “No.” Then she juts her chin at the last of my greenish bruises. “What’s your excuse? You get run over by a truck?”

  “More or less.”

  There’s an awkward quiet.

  “You get my message?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “I wanted to come, but I couldn’t,” I add.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “There’s been a lot going on.”

  For a second, neither one of us says anything. Then Mitzi reaches inside her jacket for the key around her neck and unlocks the door.

  “Well, then, you better fill me in.”

  Just then, my phone vibrates, and I check the message. Relief floods through me.

  “What?” Mitzi asks.

  I hold up the screen to her. It’s a picture of Joey and the kitten in someone’s kitchen.

  She looks closely, and then her eyes go wide. “No way. Is that who I think it is?”

  “Yep. We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” I say as we step inside.

  Maybe we only tell our scary secrets when we have no choice. It takes me hours to get the guts to call Ma, but Mitzi is right there beside me when I call Attronica.

  “If you don’t do it now, you’ll lose your nerve.”

  They page Ma and bring her to the phone.

  “Meet us at Corazón at nine tonight,” I tell her. Mitzi nods encouragingly. She thought a public meeting place would be smarter. “Tell Lila to wait, too.”

  “Why would I go there?” She’s out of breath. “I’m exhausted, Piddy. I just want to go home.”

  “Just meet me and Mitzi there after work,” I say. “I have to talk to you, Ma. It’s important.” I hang up before she can argue.

  By the time we get to Salón Corazón that night, they’re already waiting. Mitzi and I walk up the block and peer inside the shop. It’s past closing time, and the door is locked tight, though the grate hasn’t been dragged down. Lila and Ma are talking with Gloria li
ke old friends. They’re sitting on the chairs with the dryer hoods flipped back, and Lila has kicked off her shoes. Still, I can tell by the way she keeps glancing at her watch that Ma is distracted.

  When I knock on the glass, Gloria spots us and hurries over to unlock the bolt.

  “There you are. ¡Qué frío!” she says, shivering as Mitzi and I step inside. “We went from fall to winter like that! Come in, come in! And, oh, my goodness, is that you, Mitzi Ortega?”

  There’s a flurry of fuss over Mitzi, kisses and hugs. Finally, when things fall quiet again, Fabio starts his normal growling welcome. He’s wearing a sheepskin sweater to keep him warm. Gloria scoops him up under her arm and pats my cheek.

  “I was just telling your mami that I want her in here one Saturday. I’ll open up at eight a.m. sharp so she can get to work on time,” she tells me. “I’ll give her a nice haircut, on the house. Make sure she comes.” She smiles sweetly. “But now I’m going to do the receipts, mijas. Why don’t you come help me, Lila? And Mitzi, come on back. I want to hear how it’s going in Long Island. That mother of yours hasn’t called or anything! She’s forgetting us, eh?” Her voice trails off in happy chatter as they disappear into the back room.

  Ma looks around uncomfortably.

  “It’s weird to see you here,” I tell her.

  “The place hasn’t changed a bit.” She’s quiet for a few seconds, thinking, I’m sure, of that day when she found out about my father. I can’t help thinking of him either, but now it’s different. He’s not someone I want to miss anymore; he’s just someone who didn’t want Ma and me in his life, for better or worse.

  Ma’s voice shakes me from my thoughts.

  “I’m not here for a tour, am I? Lila won’t tell me anything, so I know it’s serious. What is it?”

  “It’s about me and school,” I say.

  “Oh, Piddy. What’s happening now?” Her face is worn with worry.

  I talk slowly, without looking away from her. Ma doesn’t interrupt as I tell her why I haven’t been going to school. She closes her eyes and listens when I get to the part about Yaqui jumping me. She doesn’t even make a peep when I list all the places I went when I skipped. She just presses her lips together and nods. The only thing I leave out is Joey. There’s no point in setting a match to the gunpowder — and besides, he’s making his own way now.