Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass

by Meg Medina

  “Mr. Flatwell wants you to come to school tomorrow, Ma. He said I have options.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I shrug. “I don’t really know.” Then I feel inside my pocket and pull out the application for McCleary. “I hope this is one of them, though.”

  Ma scans what I’ve written and gives me a questioning look.

  “It’s a science magnet school I want to apply to, Ma,” I explain. “It gives me some college credit, free.” I take a deep breath. “Because I’m thinking I want to work with animals, like a field vet. I want to learn about elephants, actually. . . .”

  “Elephants,” she repeats.

  I try to read Ma’s expression, but I can’t. “Yeah. Maybe.” I dig in my pocket for my elephant charm and dangle it between us. “Remember this? Yaqui crushed it.”

  She looks at the charm and then back at me, mute. When she stands up, instead of telling me my idea is crazy, Ma pulls me to her and hugs me so tight and for so long that I can feel her heart beating in her throat. It’s so pure that it takes my breath away. It’s as if she’s pressing all her strength through my skin and into the marrow of my bones.

  “Ma?” My voice is muffled against her neck.

  “What?”

  “No tirades about chusmas, okay?”

  She hugs me tighter still.

  Overnight, we get the first light snowfall of the season — much earlier than usual. Ma bundles herself up as though we’re going on an arctic expedition. She hates the snow and cold, finding absolutely nothing pretty about branches covered in white. On days like this, she usually gives a moody speech about how even when it was winter in Cuba, she still didn’t have to wear a coat, let alone boots, a hat, and mittens. But today, as we get ready to see Mr. Flatwell, she doesn’t complain. She doesn’t even get on Lila’s case about her decision to wear new high-heeled boots. The three of us trudge down the block, arm in arm so Lila doesn’t slip. The only sound is the crunch of snow beneath us.

  When we get to the office, Mr. Flatwell is already waiting for us. The school looks deserted this early. Not even the secretaries are in.

  “This way, please,” Mr. Flatwell says, leading us through a labyrinth of dark offices until we reach the principal’s conference room. He clicks on the light and motions to three seats on one end of the fake-cherry table. “Have a seat.”

  He takes his spot across from us, lays a file on the table, and folds his hands. Ma doesn’t take off her coat.

  “Thank you for coming in today,” he says. “Miss Sanchez, would you make the introductions?”

  I do as he says. Lila squeezes my hand under the table when I introduce her as my aunt. Mr. Flatwell nods politely, and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s the first man I’ve ever met who doesn’t smile stupidly at Lila. He clears his throat and gets started, his eyes on Ma.

  “I am assuming that your daughter has explained that there have been a few problems at school this year.”

  “A bully picking on her for no reason,” Lila says.

  “Yes, and of course she’s also been truant.”

  Ma’s eye twitches a little, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “I had a good reason,” I point out.

  “You did,” he agrees. “But it’s still a problem you have to solve. With all these missing days, it will be hard to make up your work.”

  I give him a sour look, knowing he’s right.

  “Piddy has never had any problems at school before, right, Clara?” Lila’s voice is sharp. “What kind of place is this that lets a bully ruin things for a good kid like her?”

  “It’s a big school, Mrs. Flores.”

  “Miss,” she corrects. “And so what if it’s big?”

  “Excuse me. Miss Flores.” He leans back to explain. “It helps to think of it this way: On any given day, we have about five percent of the student body that makes trouble. That’s a small percentage, correct? Unfortunately, it’s not a small number of people for the staff to keep track of. In a school of twenty-five hundred students, like ours, about fifty students have parole officers or other problems with the law. Those problems come to school, too. We do the best we can, but sometimes it’s not enough.”

  “When did schools become a place for criminales?” Ma asks, slipping into Spanish for a word. “She’s here to learn.”

  Normally I’d be embarrassed by anything Ma had to say, but it’s a fair question.

  “We have to give every child the benefit of the doubt and offer an education through age sixteen,” he says. “Even to the ones who give us trouble.”

  “Even when they assault others?” Lila says.

  He’s silent for a moment and then he looks at me. “The good news here is that we also have ninety-five percent of the student body made up of basically decent kids. And one of them was smart enough to report the bullying to us.”

  “Rob Allen,” I say.

  He doesn’t take the bait.

  “I can’t confirm or deny the source,” he says. “But with a report, we can apply for a suspension. That is, if you confirm it and press charges.”

  I swallow hard. Yaqui suspended on account of me. I’m dead.

  “A report? With the policía?” Ma looks scared.

  “Yes. A formal charge of assault with the police. We can help arrange that for you.”

  Ma’s face goes another shade whiter.

  “How does that help me?” I interrupt.

  “It creates a record that can be used in court. Yaqui will have to face the charges, and she may be expelled.” He stares at his hands uncomfortably. “The video will help your case tremendously.”

  My mind is racing over the possibilities. What if she’s not expelled? And, as I found out, she can always find me outside of school, which is even worse.

  Lila sits up taller and pipes up, as if reading my mind.

  “You know that girl will try to jump Piddy again as soon as she can — and I’m not going to let that happen, Mr. Flattop.”

  “Lila,” Ma mutters.

  “Flatwell.”

  “What?” Lila asks.

  “My name is Steven Flatwell.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says, arching her brow.

  “I wouldn’t advise taking action yourself, Miss Flores. It would be an unnecessary complication.” He glances at me. “And maybe not the best example.”

  “Lila is an excellent ejemplo for Piddy,” Ma cuts in. She gives Mr. Flatwell a dirty look. “You need to make that bad girl gone for good. Where are her parents?”

  He leans back, looking a little tired. “Parents are not an available resource to us in this case,” he says carefully. “I wish I could say that we could remove the child forever, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. Also, it would be an incomplete solution. To keep Piddy truly safe, we’d have to expel not only Yaqui but her entire social group as well, which is highly unlikely.”

  As soon as he says it, I know he’s right. “You said I had options,” I say. “But this sounds like I’m trapped.”

  “You do have options. There’s something called a safety transfer.”

  “What’s that?” Ma asks.

  “We remove the victim to a safer school. We would apply to the superintendent for your daughter to return to her old high school, even though she lives out of zone.” He opens my chart and looks it over one more time. “The receiving principal would have to agree, but she was a successful student there last year. I don’t think there would be a problem in this case. If approved, Miss Castenado in guidance would be in contact with the new guidance counselor to make sure the transition goes smoothly.”

  “You mean I can leave DJ?” I ask.

  “You can request to leave DJ. I can’t guarantee anything.”

  Lila frowns. She wants me to stay and fight. It’s what she understands — it’s how she gets through the world.

  “The wrong person is paying the price for this mess,” she fumes. “The wrong person is getting kicked out.”

  “No
one is being kicked out,” Mr. Flatwell says. “It’s not perfect, but it’s the best solution I can think of for your niece.”

  The secretaries have started to arrive, and through the window, I can see kids starting to gather in the school yard. Bile rises in my throat.

  Mr. Flatwell glances at his watch and turns to Ma. “I can give you some time to decide what you want to do. You can call me with your decision tomorrow.”

  I grip the edge of the table. It’s not fair that I have to upend my life because Yaqui is bloodthirsty. But so what? Think of how unfairly things turned out for Ma with my father — and how she survived anyway. And how about Joey and his mom? Is it fair to be seventeen and on a bus by yourself to get away from your family? Run if you have to, he told me.

  “We don’t need any more time,” I say, glancing at Ma. “I can make this decision for myself. I want a transfer.”

  I’ve been thinking lately that growing up is like walking through glass doors that only open one way — you can see where you came from but can’t go back. That’s how it is for me, anyway.

  I haven’t seen or heard from Yaqui or her crew since I left DJ last winter. She’s probably found someone new to hate, or maybe she’s dropped out. And here I am, right back at my old school, where everything is how I left it. The lunchroom, where I used to eat with Mitzi. The teachers who still know and like me. My classmates, who don’t know what happened to me with Yaqui or who I became after. I ought to be able to forget DJ and get right back to normal, but somehow I can’t. Everything else is the same, but I’m not.

  These days, I walk through the halls with my friends, but at lunchtime, I find myself looking over my shoulder. I think twice before I go into a school bathroom alone, even though I know it’s safe here. After school, I hang out at Lila’s, not just because I want to but also because sometimes I’m still scared that Yaqui will be waiting for me again. Mrs. McIntyre, the guidance counselor, says it will take time. “Trauma takes a while to work through,” she told me. “Be patient.”

  I did send in my application to McCleary, though — right before I left DJ — and I promised Rob that I’d let him know if I got in. McIntyre and Flatwell wrote character reference letters to help, but who knows? Sometimes it’s strictly about grades — and mine took a bad hit last semester. For now, I’m catching up on my work — and trying new things when I’m up to it. Just this week, I got a flyer for the school magazine. Looking for staff, it said.

  Our first meeting is next week.

  Ma doesn’t tell me she’s coming. The door jangles at Salón Corazón on Saturday, and when I look up, there she is. She didn’t take Gloria up on the early morning offer, so I figured she wasn’t coming at all.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  She shrugs and looks around a little awkwardly.

  “Oh, I took the day off,” she says.

  “A day off ?” I say, alarmed. Maybe she’s dying or something. Before I can ask about it, Gloria rushes over with arms open wide.

  “Clara! You came!”

  “I don’t have an appointment,” Ma says.

  Gloria waves her hand in the air as though it’s a technicality.

  “We can always work in an old friend.” She points at one of the hairdressers. “Mirta here has a spot in a little while.” Then she winks and calls out to the back of the shop.

  “Lila! Hurry up! Your next customer is here.”

  Lila appears, tying on her apron. She comes to a halt when she spots Ma.

  “She says she’s taking the day off,” I whisper.

  “Is the world about to end?” she asks.

  Ma gives her a look. “Are you going to wash my hair or not?” She clears her throat. “It’s a special day, and I want the works.”

  Lila arches her brow. “Oh?”

  The other customers are looking at us curiously now, and Ma is blushing. She unzips her jacket and reaches inside. Then she hands me a large yellow envelope. “For you.”

  The return address is the school crest for McCleary. I drop my broom and tear the envelope open. My eyes jump right to the boldface type.

  “I’m in for the fall!” I shout. “I’m in!”

  “I know. It came yesterday,” Ma says.

  “You read my mail?”

  “Don’t give me that look. You slept at Lila’s, and I couldn’t wait all night to find out. Besides, if they said no, I was going to burn the letter and march down there to change their minds.” She gives me a tiny grin. “Luckily, they were sensible.”

  “I knew you could do it!” Lila cries out. “You’ve always been a genius! Tonight we celebrate!” Then she looks at Ma. “Uh-oh. Gloria! Where are the Kleenex?”

  “I’m fine,” Ma insists with a sniffle. “It’s all the perfumes in here. . . .”

  But Lila just rolls her eyes and pulls her close.

  “Crying in my shop?” Gloria says, handing over the box of tissues. “Impossible! It’s not allowed. This is a happy day! What we need is some music.”

  One of the manicurists fishes for the case of CDs under the front desk and pulls out a handful of possibilities. Everyone starts calling out their suggestions.

  “Such a racket!” Ma mutters, sitting down in one of the chairs.

  “I’ll handle this,” I say. I flip through quickly and pick out an old one that I pop into the player.

  In a few seconds, the music starts. Lila poses like a flamenco dancer and starts to clap out the clave.

  1-2. 1-2-3.

  One by one, everyone joins in, and then the first notes of the piano sound.

  “I want to be able to play this, Ma,” I say over the beat. “Teach me.”

  “I haven’t played in years,” she begins.

  “Who cares? I won’t know the difference,” I tell her.

  Ma sighs but smiles. “I guess I can teach you a few things — but you’ll learn the classics first, understand?”

  Lila grabs a smock and shakes it at Ma like a bullfighter’s cape. Then she does a little spin and grabs Ma up to dance.

  “¡Vamos, Clarita!”

  One by one, the customers climb out of the chairs and join in to dance. “Look at this!” Gloria says, beaming. “We’ve become a dance hall!”

  After a while, I start to dance, too. I shimmy my chest and rock my swishy bottom like no one’s business. Even Fabio looks like he’s doing a cha-cha as he darts cautiously in between everyone’s legs.

  1-2. 1-2-3!

  “¡Baila, Piddy!” Lila shouts as she leads Ma to my arms.

  And I do.

  Ma’s face is shiny with sweat, and her smile spreads ear to ear. We churn that floor, on fire, until we’re laughing, and all of our sad days are like faded bruises, almost forgotten. The music is thumping, luring us with its trumpets and sexy trombones. Ma spins me and my arms go wide to the world.

  “No pierdas la clave,” she whispers to me. Don’t miss the beat. She hugs me close when the music ends.

  And I know I’ve found my rhythm at last — strong and simple, constant and mine.

  With great appreciation to the following people:

  Eric Elfman, Lia Keyes, and Veronica Rossi for their careful reading and thoughtful feedback as I worked on this manuscript

  Ada Fernandez McGuire for answering so many questions about school discipline

  Jen Rofé, my agent at Andrea Brown Literary Agency, for taking care of business

  Kate Fletcher, my wonderful editor, and the whole team at Candlewick Press for the many ways they continue to make me a better writer

  And most of all, my family for loving me and for always believing.

  Also by Meg Medina

  Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-4602-8

  Also available as an e-book and in audio

  www.candlewick.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright
© 2013 by Margaret Medina

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First electronic edition 2013

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2012943645

  ISBN 978-0-7636-5859-5 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-7636-6354-4 (electronic)

  Candlewick Press

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  Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

  visit us at www.candlewick.com