Haters

by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez

  Kerani, the silent twin, bends down to pull the piece of metal out from where it fell. He hands it to my dad, who hands it to Bartolomeo.

  “The Corolla didn’t need work,” I point out. “It was fine.” To myself, I add: And I could drive it in public. There is no way I’m driving this piece of garbage in public, unless there’s, like, a tsunami and I have to get to higher ground really fast or something.

  “I know the Corolla was fine,” says Dad as his buddies get out of the car and start to unload cans of spray paint and crazy-looking tools from the trunk. “But the Corolla did not have one thing this baby’s got.” He gets into a superhero pose with one fist up in the air and the other over his heart. “A fantastic future as the Squeegeemobile!”

  Dad grins like a maniac, pulls a drawing pad out of the backseat, and holds up a drawing he’s done of a car very much like this one, except in bright colors, with a figurine of his Squeegee Man mounted on the hood. It looks like a Lowrider magazine wet dream, complete with the hot cartoon ho leaning over in her high heels and Daisy Dukes. Blech? I take the drawing and look closely at it. There are slogans and weird little things drawn all over the car, and the fins in the back look even bigger in the drawing than they do in real life.

  “What is this?” I demand. I have a horrifying image of my father dropping me off at the party this weekend in that. I can’t go now. Not unless someone gives me a ride. That’s all there is to it. I don’t want to see Chris Cabrera outside of school that badly. From what I saw at the school today, everyone else has parents with clean, shiny, quiet Volvos, Infinitis, and Lexuses.

  Dad bounces on his toes the way he does when he’s really excited about something. “That is the Squeegeemobile once we finish with her. Is it not the coolest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s not.”

  “I think it’s cool,” says Keoni. Kerani nods and smokes.

  “Who asked you?” I snap. To myself, I think that it is very bad that the goofiest kids in school love the Squeegeemobile. My dad’s friends loiter in the parking lot and tap their toes to the music. I can’t be sure, but I think that Sleepy guy is making eyes at me. Eew. Is there no end to the indignities?

  “Come on, Paski,” says my dad. “Where’s your sense of fun?”

  I turn to go back inside, leaving my dad to brag about his stupid car with the cancerous chess twins.

  I think of Emily and Janet and my grandmother. I think of Taos Mountain, how it always welcomed me away from the chaos of my life. I don’t know where to go now. There’s no escaping my crazy father. I’m homesick. I want to cry.

  “I don’t know,” I answer to myself as I walk into the garage. “I guess I left my sense of fun back home in Taos with everything else I love.”

  I go upstairs, and even though my instincts say I shouldn’t, I call Ethan and ask him if he’s dating that Stacey girl. I use her name and everything. He sighs and says he knew it was just a matter of time before my “stupid friends” told me about it. I hang up on him. Emily and Janet are not stupid. They believe me. They don’t judge me for it. And that’s the thing about Taos, usually. It’s a city that loves different kinds of people. Ethan Schaefer seems like a million years ago anyway.

  Then, maybe to massage my ego a little, I call Andrew and give him my phone number. He tells me he’ll pick me up for Trent’s party on Friday, and I give him my address.

  “Are there houses over there where you live?” he asks. As he speaks, the amulet heats up even more in my pocket, until it feels like it’s going to burn a hole in my pants. It hurts. I reach in, yank it out, and it nearly burns my flesh. I throw it to the floor.

  “It’s an apartment,” I say.

  There’s a moment of silence. “Uh, okay.” He sounds uncomfortable, like he’s embarrassed for me. “I’ll pick you up at your . . . apartment.”

  So obviously apartments are bad as far as the popular kids are concerned. Whatever. I hang up and pick up the amulet. It’s cold now. I put it in my underwear drawer. I don’t want to wear it. It freaks me out. I don’t want to lose it, but I don’t want to own it, either. Kind of like how I’m starting to feel about this California business. I look at myself in the mirror over the dresser, wondering what other surprises Orange County has in store for me.

  12

  For the next three days, Chris Cabrera doesn’t come to school. Mr. Big tells the class that Chris is traveling with his mother in Europe, shopping for art for her gallery. Like it’s nothing. Andrew tells everyone not to worry because “the stud” will be back in plenty of time for the party. He pronounces party “par-tay.” The party, just so you know, is all anyone can talk about. The popular kids are talking about who will be there and how much fun it will be; everyone else talks about how stupid it is.

  Tina goes out of her way to eat with me every day, and I find her interesting, but I have to admit I’m not thrilled about the way everyone looks at us like we’re queer or weird. She has attached herself to me without my permission. She’s an intense girl, committed to her politics and anthropology stuff, but to the point that it’s all she talks about. The popular girls are nice to me, saying hi in the halls, but it’s not sincere. I figure that out pretty fast. After I’ve worn jeans and a T-shirt three days in a row, Jessica pulls me aside and says with a smile, “I really like the way you go for consistency in your wardrobe. Are you actually changing clothes or is it, like, the same clothes over and over?”

  “We hear you live in an apartment,” says Brianna with a stupid smile. The other girls flinch, like they don’t like it when she speaks. She doesn’t notice. I wonder if she notices much. I wonder if she would notice if she, like, stopped breathing. “Do they have laundry rooms there, or do you have to, um, go to the Laundromat or something?”

  Haley gives me a sympathetic look and tells her friends, “Come on, you guys. Be nice. Apartments are nice. There are some really great ones out there.” Jessica rolls her eyes. She flinches like she feels sorry for me. Great. I’ve gone from a school where I was one of the popular kids to a school where I’m the kid the popular kids like to make fun of and feel sorry for. My dad comes to L.A. and gets to be a big shot. I come and get to be a nothing. Life’s fair.

  I decide I’m going to have to ask my dad for some money for clothes. They’re much more important here than they were back in Taos. It’s like one of those nature shows on PBS, where the narrator talks about how a certain kind of bird sizes up all the other birds by the way they display their feathers. Orange County is full of human birds that strut and preen. I figure Dad has been spending money on his new image; the least he can do is help me hone my own. And when I do, I’m not going to exactly copy the popular girls here, but I’m going to try to fit in. I’ll do this because they look good, not because I feel a need for their approval. Okay, that’s a lie. But I’m not going to tell anyone that.

  In English, Mr. Big tells me that the first paper I’ve written for class is pretty good. I tell him I’ve had a lot of practice at my last school, being on the newspaper and all, and he suggests I go to the counseling center to find out more about the paper here. “They can always use new people,” he says. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it yet. I guess I’ve been mostly worried about getting to class on time and trying not to get lost.

  It’s Thursday now, and after school I check in at the counseling center about the school newspaper. They give me the name of the teacher in charge of it and tell me that the next meeting of the Wolverine staff is tomorrow, after school. I make a mental note to go and head toward the bike rack.

  As I’m unchaining my bike, I see Tina lurch out of the school with her drawing pad under her arm. She always seems to be looking for me. I feel like she’s clinging to me now. I think she just volunteered for that peer-mentor stuff so that she could prey on someone new for a best friend. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t really have any other friends at school. She knows everyone, but everyone seems to steer clear of her.

 
“Hey, Taos,” she says. She’s started to call me this all the time, like it’s cute or special or something. I realize Tina is one of those people who thinks everyone should have a nickname. She’d get along with my dad. “Where you headed?”

  “Riding,” I say. I changed out of my jeans into my cycling shorts in the girl’s bathroom, in the hopes of getting some training done today. I also put on the amulet, just in case.

  “You have rider’s legs,” she tells me. She totally acts gay. I know she said she wasn’t, but she totally is. “You’re pretty serious about the whole bike thing, huh?”

  “I used to train in the mountains back home.”

  “You know there’s a bike trail right behind the school here.”

  “I didn’t know that, actually.”

  Tina points to the football field. “Yeah. It’s right there, on the other side of the chain-link fence. It runs along the creek, and if you take it that way"— she points to the right —"it goes to this nature preserve thing and you can go on all these mountain paths and stuff. You’ll like it.”

  “Really?” I’m psyched. I thought I was going to have to adjust to riding on cement all the time. I mean, the cool thing about Orange County is that all the streets are really new, and they all seem to have bike lanes. But up till now I’d thought it was uncool that you had to ride on streets.

  “Yeah, I think you can ride all the way to the ocean, through this wilderness park with bobcats and rattlesnakes everywhere.”

  “Wow!” I exclaim.

  Tina looks at me like she doesn’t trust me, then smiles to show that she’s kidding. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever met who would get excited about bobcats and rattlesnakes, Taos.” She draws on her pad. I look at it and see that she’s actually pretty talented. She’s doing cartoons of corpses walking around with cups that say “latte” and “fashion Nazi” on them. Nice. She’s the daughter my dad always wanted. Oh well.

  “I’m gonna go check it out,” I say. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “After you’re done, you should stop by the Starbucks on Alicia Parkway and Pacific Park.”

  “Starbucks? Why?” I am afraid of Starbucks. For some reason, I feel like only very pretentious high school kids would go there. It’s not the kind of place we would have hung out in Taos. Starbucks? It’s like the devil, as far as my old dad used to be concerned, though lately he’s come in the apartment with Starbucks cups. He used to complain about how they exploited people and were taking over urban America, but now he seems to think you need to have a Starbucks cup in your hand as, like, an accessory. But for me? I don’t know. The shop is probably full of girls with better clothes than me. Girls with Lexus cars. Girls who tell me I look like I wear the same thing every day, which I do, but still. I don’t need the stress right now.

  “I work there after school and on weekends,” Tina tells me, as if sensing my fear of Starbucks. “My boyfriend works at the Rubio’s. You can come hang, I’ll give you free coffee or whatever you want, and you can meet Cesar.”

  “Cesar?”

  “My boyfriend. He has some cute friends.” She says this last part suggestively, like I might want to meet one of his cute friends. Or like I might want to be seen hanging around Starbucks because my friend is an employee.

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks. I’ll try, but I might have to get home, uh, for dinner.” Honestly, I don’t even know if my dad is going to be home for dinner. Lately his idea of dinner is having takeout with his pro-cholo posse while they mess with that stupid car in the garage. I had never realized how much I counted on Emily’s family to be like a family for me, or how much I counted on going over to my grandma’s for food. Until now. Now that my dad seems to live off fast food and paint fumes.

  Tina looks like she knows I’m lying, that I don’t really want to hang out with her and her boyfriend, Cesar. I don’t know why I don’t want to be around her more, exactly, except that she seems almost too nice. I don’t trust people who are too nice. The hurt look on her face makes me feel bad.

  “I’ll really try,” I say.

  “Nothing like a Frappuccino after a hard ride,” she says, half joking. I don’t even know what a Frappuccino is, but I’m too ashamed to say so.

  “It’s a cold coffee-shake kinda thing,” says Tina.

  “So, how do I get to that path?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  She laughs to herself, tells me that if I go behind the barracks, through the little park there, that I’ll hit the bike path. I thank her, put my earbuds in, my helmet on, and start toward the path.

  I should really go home and call my dad on his cell, the way he’s asked me to do every day after school, but right now I have so much energy I need to get out that I don’t want to go back. I want to ride. I want to ride with my music on, as far as I can go. Dad won’t notice anyway. He’s been so busy with his important meetings and his stupid car that he doesn’t have time for me.

  I cross the parking lot, the barracks, the park, and find the path. It runs along the back high above a creek, and as soon as I get on it, it’s like I’ve entered another world. A natural world. I can’t believe it’s right here, in the middle of all the perfect manicured yards and landscaped malls, this wild place. Across the creek I see a skate park full of kids in helmets doing tricks. Next to it is a public soccer field with what looks like a bunch of grown-up men in bright uniforms; they yell at each other in Spanish. I should tell my dad about it. He loves soccer and has always wished he had more athletic friends so he could start playing.

  I crank up my iPod, increase the tension in the gears. Yeah, boy. I love this path. No traffic lights. Nothing to stop me. A couple of skinny men in cycling shorts and shirts pass me with a wave and a smile. This is now officially my favorite place in Orange County. For the first time since I got here, I feel at home. All it took was a good path through natural land and a cool breeze. It’s almost like being back in Taos in the summer, only it’s California in the winter. I think I could get to like it here.

  I pedal under a bridge, and then — boom — right there in front of me are these big round hills, so big they might qualify as small, soft mountains. They are wild and undeveloped, covered with long wild yellow grass and flowers. The bike path ends for a little bit, but signs point me down a quiet side road to this nature preserve area. There are wild plants, and the hills are crawling with everything, the way nature meant it to be. I love it here. I haul along onto the paved trail, past the ranger station, amazed that a big city like this can coexist with a seriously challenging nature trail. I see rabbits and a roadrunner on the path, and hear water flowing alongside the path. A roadrunner? I didn’t even know they had those out here! This looks so much like New Mexico I can hardly believe it. Southern California is full of surprises.

  I pump my legs in time to the music and feel my mouth curl up in a smile. I forget all about the way Jessica made fun of my clothes. I’m happy. I go about five miles into the canyon, and pretty soon there’s no trace of human beings at all, no more tract homes, nothing, just me and some soaring birds.

  Seabirds.

  I feel the amulet around my neck grow warm at the sight of them, but I can’t be sure it’s not just my imagination and the heat of exertion. I see a dirt path off to the side and instantly decide to take it. Up I go, standing and leaning in to the steep hill, following the birds to the spot where they circle. Higher and higher I go, until I’m at the top of the hill. My legs are spent, burning with all the effort. I know a lot of people complain about exercise, but to me there is no better feeling in the world than this burn. It means power and health, and those things are important in connecting with whatever forces in the universe make us live.

  I stop at the top of the little mountain, panting, and look up. The birds circle here. A large tree grows out of the top of the hill, and I park my bike beneath it. I take off my helmet and remove the earbuds. It’s so quiet here. The air is clear and clean, nothing like it looks when you’re on the freeways and se
e nothing but haze. If I listen closely, I can hear the far-off roar of something, either cars or ocean or both. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I feel the amulet vibrate on my neck, and I put my hand to it. I can feel a tugging at me from the spirit world, and even though I usually resist this feeling, I can’t right now.

  I open my eyes and feel a shock of energy shoot into my legs from the earth beneath my feet. I look around at the hills and valleys of the canyon and feel like I’m in a dream state. I know I’m awake, but I still feel things that come from somewhere else. It’s hard to explain. It feels a little bit like a night terror, only without the fear.

  On the wind, I hear a piercing howl. I see some people on bikes down below, and they don’t seem to have heard a thing. I listen again, my body still and waiting. The howl comes again, shrill and familiar. Coyotes. The lone cry is met by others, yipping and yapping the way they do when they’ve found something to kill. I feel the flesh on my arms pucker into goose bumps, and the howling is joined by a thundering drumroll of noise. I look to a hill in the distance and see a large herd of buffalo come running over the top, spilling down the hill. I see a couple walking hand in hand on the path, and they hear nothing, see nothing. I breathe deeply and witness. That is all I can do at these times. None of this is in my control.

  The buffalo pound their way down the hill, across the bike path, right through the people there, and then they turn up my hill, toward me. I don’t feel the need to flee. I’m not sure why. I stand still and face them. One of the buffalo is bigger than the others, with a diamond shape in white fur on its forehead. The herd follows this leader. They rush toward me and slow as they draw near. The herd stops before me, and the lead buffalo and I look into each other’s eyes. This is no ordinary animal. It is intelligent, more intelligent than I am. It says nothing, just stands unmoving, looking at me. I have the eeriest sense. I can’t explain it. In the same way, I know that the animal is gentle. I have the sense that this creature knows me, maybe even better than I know myself. I am comforted by the steady gaze, though there is an element of danger in what the animal is trying to tell me. Behind it, the other buffalo all turn their heads toward the source of the coyote shrieking, which has begun anew. A few of them stomp and shift, nervous, eager to leave. The lead buffalo senses the others’ discomfort and bucks its head the tiniest bit to let them know it is still with them. But it continues to stare into my eyes for another thirty or forty seconds, filling me with peace and strength. Then, as the wails of the coyotes grow closer, the buffalo blinks slowly, with great kindness, and turns back to the herd. As one, they charge down the hill, leaving me in a haze of ghost dust. I have no idea what I’ve just witnessed, or why, only that all of the fear and panic I have been feeling about being here in Orange County have left my body. The fear I had has fled on the buffalo hooves.