The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  He lunges and I catch his wrist, swing under his arm and pull, throwing him off balance and sending him headfirst away from me. He’s quick to recover and yanks free of my grip.

  His fists are thick and I can almost feel the blow he’s about to deliver to my head. I duck as he steps forward, but then suddenly he’s on his knees. Somebody’s tackled him.

  It’s Juan! And then Grits jumps in, dragging Chico to his feet, pinning his arms behind him. Juan grabs Chico’s shirt and pushes him against the wall. Jamal, Pavan and Doc surround him, and when Juan lets go, Chico raises his hands in surrender.

  Keith, still gasping from the sucker punch in the gut, gets to his feet and shoves Grits to the side. “It’s my fight! Not yours.”

  The shouts start again, but it’s too late to finish the battle now that Mr. Bins and Mr. Icky push their way through the crowd. Mr. Bins steps between Chico and Keith.

  “So is this settled?” He asks with his hands on his hips, like a referee.

  I expect Bins to haul Keith off for more time at Juvie. But my brother surprises me.

  “I was wrong!” Keith pants. “I’m . . . I’m sorry for what I did, and I’d like another chance.”

  As the crowd erupts in boos and catcalls, Grits puts two fingers between his teeth. His shrill whistle instantly stops all the commotion. It’s almost like he’s hit a mute button.

  “Okay, you guys. I asked Keith to join the team this year, so shut the hell up about it.”

  “Like hell,” Chico yells. “I’m not letting him on the team!”

  Juan snaps around to face Chico with both fists clenched, and Chico takes a step back.

  I’m surprised when Mr. Bins doesn’t speak up. Instead, he seems to be waiting for Keith and Chico to finish their feud. The final bell’s already rung, but half the student body is still here, crowded into this hallway.

  K.T. stands next to Big Teeth, their arms flung across each other. Juan, his lips tight, is next to Doc. When our eyes meet, he looks at me questioningly, then he slowly crosses the space between us and asks, “Are you all right?”

  I nod, because I’m shaking. And whatever bravery I had during the fight is all drained away. I want to tell him about Keith’s shouted apology. “I—”

  But then Mr. Smith pushes his way through the crowd and takes me by the arm, asking, “Are you hurt, Carlie?”

  “Uh, no,” I tell him.

  Across from us Anthony and his two friends stand with their arms folded. Anthony’s staring at me, but this time it’s with curiosity, instead of his usual dark angry eyes. He glances at Juan, then back at me, before turning his attention to the main event.

  Grits slowly walks inside the circle of grim-faced students surrounding Keith and Chico. “I don’t know about the rest of you track guys, but I’m setting new records this year, and I’m planning on leaving those Channing scum-buckets in the dust.”

  The hallway explodes with applause.

  “Keith said he made a mistake and he’s sorry. You all too perfect to accept his apology?” Grits asks. “We need Keith. He’s good. He’ll help us whip Channing’s butt.” Grits holds up Keith’s arm, as if he’s a winner of a boxing match, and three of the track team guys push through the crowd of students to stand next to him. I expect Anthony to side with Chico, but he surprises me and takes a slow step to join Grits. Then his two surly friends fall in behind him, leaving Chico pushed into the background.

  Keith’s done it. He’s crossed the border from Channing to Las Pulgas. When he looks at me, he smiles. If it weren’t for the dark bruise along his left jaw his smile would be exactly the one I remember from a long time ago.

  When I turn to say something to Juan. He’s vanished.

  Chapter 51

  Later that afternoon, I’m stretched across my bed with my Jack-in-the-Box on my chest, twirling the handle while escape fantasies play in my head. Suddenly I hear a loud, rhythmic knocking on the front door. I set Jack down on the bed and hurry to see who’s at the door. When I peer through the peephole, I instantly understand why those knocks sounded so strange.

  It’s K.T., leaning against the iron railing.

  I unlatch the door and crack it open.

  “Hey, it’s the girl what whupped that bad-ass Chico. How do you like that beat?” she asks, repeating it and holding up her fist.

  “How did you —? What are you doing here?”

  “I got my ways.” K.T. pokes her nose around the door. “You’re supposed to in-vite people in, when they come visiting. Don’t you know that?”

  I back up and K.T. stumps her way inside, as if she’s inspecting the apartment before moving in. “Not bad. It’s smaller than where I thought the great writer would live, but don’t they live in teensy places called . . . what are they?

  Starts with a G.”

  “Garrets.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” She spins around on her rubber heel.

  “So, where’s your room?”

  I point down the hall and K.T. doesn’t wait for me to lead the way. She’s already at the door to my bedroom.

  “It’s dark in here. How come the black curtain?” K.T. drops onto the bed. “Ouch!” She’s up in a shot.

  “Oh, gawd!” I retrieve Jack. Please don’t let him be broken even more than he was.

  “What you doin’ with that in your bed?”

  “Playing with it?”

  K.T. starts to sit on the bed again, but stops halfway down. “You got anymore surprises in here?”

  I risk my exasperated look, but K.T. ignores me and eases onto the covers. “So. About that ex-cep-tion-al story you wrote for English.”

  I’m double blinking, hearing her. “Did you say exceptional?” I ask.

  “What’s the problem? You think I don’t know any big words?”

  “No. I mean, yes!”

  She crosses her arms and slaps me with her Las Pulgas stare.

  “You’re not exactly easy to know, K.T. I keep expecting you to bite my head off.”

  She waggles her foot and does that shifty-head move. “I just don’t like snobs, is all.

  First Juan with his Princess title, and now K.T. “But I’m not a snob!”

  She’s on her feet and in my face. “And I’m not stupid!”

  “Okay. You’re right. You’re not, and I’m not.”

  Her eyes tense up into a squint, as if she’s examining me closely for one glimmer of snobiness. “So what was that note about?”

  “What note?” I ask, baffled.

  “The one you wrote on my paper. You know, that stuff about acting tough not doin’ the job, and that anger-guilt business.” She crosses her arms and shifts her head again, waiting.

  “I guess I just meant that no matter how tough you act—”

  “Or stuck up?”

  I clear my throat. “Right. Or that either. Yes—what’s inside . . . still won’t go away.” Her wall is different from mine, but her reason for building hers is the same as mine. But whatever the reason we have them, our walls just don’t work. Realizing this, I suddenly miss Juan, and wish I could rerun that night at the party. I’d say goodbye. I’d stop hiding behind my Princess wall.

  But K.T. interrupts my train of thought. “You got something cold to drink?” she asks and walks around me, then goes into the kitchen. There, without hesitating, she opens the refrigerator. It’s like she’s already taken up residence.

  “I’ll get us some grape juice,” I tell her.

  K.T. sits at the table where Mom’s books are scattered.

  “Those are my Mom’s. Go ahead and push them out of the way.”

  “Your mom. Where’s she at?”

  “Work. She’s a cashier at Las Pulgas Market.” I hand K.T. a glass of juice and sit across from her.

  “Get out. I bet I seen her lots a times.”

  “Probably. She’s’ there five days a week.”

  “What’s your mom like?” K.T. tosses down her juice.

  “Depends. When she’s tired she gets
really cranky. How about your— I’m sorry. I—”

  “Oh, stop already. So I don’t have a mom. No secret about that. I got a grandma. You got one of those?”

  “No. My grandmothers died before I was old enough to know them. Only my dad’s father is alive. He lives in Florida. I never see him.”

  “So there you are. I got something you don’t and visa versa.” K.T. gets up. “I gotta go.”

  When she’s outside, she tells me, “My cast comes off this week.”

  “That’s great. Bet you’ll be glad to be rid of that.”

  K.T. turns to leave, but then she stops and looks at me with her head tilted to the side. “You know, I got to thinking about that dress, and what you said about your date and all.”

  “Sorry about all that emotional stuff. I should be used to disappointments by now.”

  “I got a whole story I’m gonna write about dis-ap-point-ments. You can give me your comments on that one, too.”

  Great. Another rap poem. And yet, K.T. went to the trouble to find out where I live, she came to see me, and she hasn’t even been nasty. Our relationship has moved from hostile, to cautious circling, to my sharing something personal with her. So I guess I can handle another of her rap poems.

  “I just wanted to tell you the guy that dumped you is purely stupid.”

  “He’s not exactly stupid, but he is a giant walking ego. I probably would have been bored by the second dance anyway.” I’d like to believe that. But next Saturday I’ll be right here in this dumpy apartment alone while my friends have a blast at the Spring Fling.

  “Actually,” I tell her. “The guy I wanted to have ask me—Oh, well. That’s not important anymore.”

  “So what’re you doing next Saturday since you’re not going to that fancy dance?”

  “I’m staying in bed all day and hide. What else?”

  She rolls her eyes, then says, “That sounds great, but you wanna go to the mall, catch a movie with us instead?”

  “Us?”

  “Me and my girlfriends.” K.T. looks at me as if I’m a disappointing pupil.

  I didn’t expect an invitation to join K.T and her crew. But then I never expected to see K.T. turn up at my door., either, or that I’d answer with, “What time?”

  “Meet us about noon at CineMall Corner.”

  Then K.T. swings away, pounding her rubber heel on the cement as if she’d like to wear it down before she parts company with it.

  Chapter 52

  The day after the fight, when I venture into my classes, I expect stares and more of those insect sounds at my back, and probably some really sweet comments about my butthead brother or the fight that this time I was a part of.

  Chico’s on suspension for three days, and nobody knows what’ll happen to the track team. If Bins carries out his threat to shut down all school activities, Las Pulgas won’t even be able to compete in the race against Channing next month.

  Anthony slouches into English and for once, doesn’t leer or threaten me with his eyes. K.T. plunks herself into her seat, doing some kind of serious rap in her head, but I might as well be a desk instead of sitting in one, because she doesn’t give me her usual mouthy greeting. I wonder if I’m still invited to the movie on Saturday, or if she’s changed her mind for some unknown reason, and if I should even ask.

  Juan talks to Jamal and Pavan, then goes to his seat at the back of the room with nothing more than a glance in my direction. It’s such a brief connection, it almost seems as if it didn’t happen. Only the extra thud in my heart tells me that it did happen, and how important that tiny moment was to me.

  This is so weird. Nobody’s paying any attention to me and I can’t be imagining it. Maybe I’ve become invisible? I’ve prayed for that, but now that I seem to have managed it, it doesn’t feel very good. It’s almost worse than being the center of attention. I totally thought my life would be easier after the track team accepted Keith’s apology, but instead it’s worse. Now it’s like I’m the Edmund nobody seems to want around.

  I reach down to finger my bracelet, forgetting for a second that it’s gone. I thought maybe I’d left it in the dressing room after the play, but when I looked, it wasn’t there. Nobody brought it to the lost and found when I checked in the office, either. I think about what K.T told me that day in the mall. “Once you got the miseries, my grandma says you got to go through a long dark journey before you come out the other side.” I guess I can add one more misery to that trip.

  The morning slides into noon, then into chemistry. For a change, Doc doesn’t growl when he says, “Take notes.” I’m excited he notices me. ATt least I haven’t become invisible to him. While he’s setting up the experiment, the teacher passes back our chemistry tests from last week. I give Doc the paper with the A at the top and wait, hoping I’ve at least passed.

  “This is yours,” Doc says and hands the paper back to me and picks up two beakers from the counter.

  “Huh? I’ve aced a test? Omigod” Then, before I think about what I’m doing, I throw my arms around his neck. “Doc you’re the best.” When I step back his face is red, and he’s standing with one beaker in each hand, his eyes glazed. I’ve been learning a lot by watching and taking down whatever Doc tells me and I didn’t even realize it.

  “Okay,” I say. “What are we doing today?” I pick up my pencil and wait for him to recover.

  After class, I stash my books in my locker and start out the door to meet Mom. As I take the steps down, K.T.’s voice comes from behind me, calling, “Hey, Des, wait up!”

  When I turn, she’s barreling down the stairs after me. She is talking to me. Why am I so relieved about that? I can’t answer that, but I do know that I’m suddenly not so lonely as I was this morning, when I thought she wasn’t speaking to me.

  “Take a look at this,” she says and sticks her leg out. “I got it off during lunch.”

  Her cast is gone, and her leg looks like it’s been in some kind of dark, underground storage unit for a really long time.

  “It’s skinny!” I tell her. “I think I’ll wrap a cast around myself for a couple of months and see if that works. Dieting isn’t working for me.”

  “You got a little self-image problem, girl.” K.T. says. I’m used to her ridicule, but her jabs still irk me enough that she enjoys my reactions.

  “So, you coming on Saturday, or what?” she asks me.

  I’m still invited! “Yeah, I am coming.” I don’t try to cover the eagerness in my answer. “Uh, K.T., were you mad at me this morning in class or something?”

  “Say what?”

  This is going to sound very dumb, but . . . “You and, uh, everybody else totally ignored me.”

  “Channing people get the looks and stares.” She gives me her shifty-head move, then says, “Las Pulgas people don’t.”

  She swaggers off to join her crew, and as usual, there’s hugging and laughing, and K.T. holds out her skinny leg for all six girls to touch, just like it’s some rare artifact.

  I think she’s told me I’m invisible now because I finally fit in here. Not being stared at is going to take some getting used to, though.

  “Hey, Carlie,” Keith calls as he jogs toward me. He’s wearing a Las Pulgas track suit and a baseball cap.

  He whips off his cap with a “Ta Da” flourish and I gasp. “When did you get the haircut?”

  “Last night. I borrowed Jeb’s electric clippers and did it myself. Not bad, huh?” He runs his hand over his head. “Tell Mom I got a ride with Grits after practice so she doesn’t have to come back to pick me up. See you tonight.”

  I nearly forgot how he used to look before everything changed, and as he lopes off toward the track with his easy runner’s stride, I realize how much I’ve missed the old Keith.

  By Thursday night, Keith announces his best sprint time ever, and he’s talking about the other guys on the track team as if he’s run with them all year. He even says Anthony’s a good runner. From my brother, that’s a sign of major
bonding. Even though Chico almost quit, Grits said he’d changed his mind. And, when he comes back from suspension, the team’s going as a group to ask Bins to let them compete.

  It looks like Keith’s long dark journey is over and I’m happy for him. I’m glad for me, too. At least I won’t have to do battle with a grumpy kid brother every day anymore, and our only fights are about who gets the bathroom first.

  On Friday morning when I stumble out of my room, still half asleep but hoping to get in there before Keith locks himself inside for his wake-up shower, I find that I’m too late. I lean my forehead against the already locked door, listening to the sound of what I know is the last drop of hot water pouring over Keith’s buzzed head.

  Mom passes me in the hall and says, “He’ll be a while.”

  “What else is new?” I tell her.

  After I finally do get to shower, I dress and rush to grab breakfast. It’s already seven-thirty and Keith and Mom are at the table. Juice, toast and hot cereal have blended into an inviting aroma.

  Mom’s dressed in her dark blue pants and cream sweater and already has her make-up on. She’s pulled her hair back into a ponytail, the way she wore it in college. I seldom see her out of her Las Pulgas Market uniform, and it’s been a long time since she’s looked . . . I try to find the word. I guess it’s alive.

  I’m so used to seeing her slumped over the kitchen table, exhausted and with her nose in a book that I take a moment to really look at her for the first time in what feels like forever.

  “Where are your books?” I ask her.

  “Gone,” she says. “I took the last test and I passed. I’m done with the course and now all that’s left is the state test. Come, honey. Sit down and have some breakfast.” Mom puts a steamy bowl of oatmeal in front of me.

  As I eat oatmeal and sip juice, Mom talks about tonight’s dinner at Jeb’s. She’s bringing a salad and dessert, and Keith’s running after school, then going to Jeb’s to work on a couple of projects for him.

  I know these two people from a long time ago, and I’m really glad to have them back. I’d like to be back the way I was, too. I think about Sean, who hasn’t called, and wonder how he’s doing at Channing. I don’t expect to ever hear from Lena again, but that’s okay with me. For an instant I think about Juan, too—another person who won’t be making contact. I sigh and scrape up the last of my oatmeal.