Ambitious

by Monica McKayhan

  “I am so proud of you, Chica!” said Grace.

  “Me, too,” Kristina said.

  I scanned the crowd. “Is Luz here?” I asked.

  Grace looked at Kristina, and Kristina looked at me; shook her head no. I was disappointed. Somehow, when I thought of all of my friends and neighbors gathering in one place, I expected to see Luz. Her parents were there, and so was her younger sister. It seemed awkward that she didn’t even feel the need to show up.

  “She’ll come around, Mari,” said Grace. “Just give her time.”

  “I think her mom said she had the flu or something,” Kristina added.

  “It’s okay. At least you guys are here, right?” I asked, not really expecting a response. Then I yelled, “I’m going to Hollywood!”

  The three of us screamed.

  It was all so surreal.

  That night as I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, I went over the day’s events in my head. Becoming one of Dance America’s top five had been the single most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I was sure of it. I didn’t know if I would be able to sleep through the night. I had homework to complete, but how could I do homework when so many wonderful things were racing through my head? There were so many things to do before heading to Hollywood in a couple of weeks. I closed my eyes as tight as I could. In a matter of one day, my entire life had changed.

  seventeen

  Marisol

  Strolling through the hallways of Premiere was different than it had been before. This time as we strolled, Jasmine and I were celebrities, and suddenly everyone knew us by name—quite an accomplishment for a freshmen and sophomore who would never have been recognized otherwise.

  I took a seat in my usual spot at the back of the classroom. It was always a joy to see Jesse Lucas walk into the room. With his brown curly locks and light brown eyes, he was one of the best-looking guys at Premiere. He wore a tight shirt that hugged his muscular frame with an argyle sweater vest on top and a pair of slim black jeans tucked inside his sneakers. His smile was like the sunshine that crept through the window in my room on a Saturday morning. And he smelled so good—like the men’s fragrance counter at Bloomingdale’s.

  “Hey,” he said and then smiled; took a seat in front of me.

  I took a look behind me to see who he was talking to. Surely he wasn’t talking to me. I didn’t exist in Jesse Lucas’s world. There was no one behind me, so I took a chance that he was talking to me.

  “Hey,” I replied and smiled.

  He usually plopped down in his seat and never even turned around. I would spend the entire hour looking at the back of his beautiful head. But today, I wasn’t invisible.

  “Congrats on winning Dance America. You were pretty good out there,” he said.

  Was he actually having a conversation with me?

  “Thanks,” I told him.

  He unzipped his backpack and took out his American history book, slammed it onto his desk. I watched as he pulled out a spiral notebook and a mechanical pencil.

  He turned around in his seat again and whispered, “You’re going to the fall social, right?”

  “Umm…yes. Planning to,” I said.

  “Already have a date?” he asked.

  “Umm…not really. Actually…no, I don’t.” Why was I stumbling over my words? He was just a boy.

  “Would you like to go with me?” he asked.

  I was speechless. My mind went blank. I thought he asked if I would like to go with him. Underneath my desk, I pinched my leg, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Was this his idea of a practical joke? I watched his face; wanted to see if he was serious or not. First of all, girls like me didn’t get asked to the fall social by boys like Jesse Lucas—the most handsome boy in school.

  “Umm…I guess so,” I told him; wanted to remain calm. Wanted him to think that it was no big deal that he asked.

  I wondered if I sounded stupid or immature, but what could I say? He’d caught me off guard. What gave him the right to just pop into my American history class and ask me to the dance? Who did he think he was anyway?

  “I’m Jesse, by the way.” He held his hand out for a shake.

  I know who you are, dude! The entire female student body knows who you are!

  I grabbed his hand; pretended not to know his name.

  “Nice to meet you, Jesse. I’m Marisol.”

  “I know who you are.” He smiled that sunshinelike smile. “Where do you live?”

  Was he coming over for a visit? Why did he need to know where I lived?

  “I live in Sunset Park,” I told him.

  “Brooklyn.” He nodded his head; jotted something down on a piece of notebook paper; ripped it in half and handed it to me. He’d scribbled his name and phone number on the page. “When you call me, we can talk about what we’re wearing.” He was serious. It wasn’t a practical joke. Of all the pretty girls at Premiere High, Jesse Lucas was asking me to the fall social.

  “Okay.” I gnawed on my number two pencil. Needed to get rid of my nervous energy.

  Jesse turned around in his seat; opened his textbook to the page we were studying. That was the end of the conversation. I opened my book also; pondered on the thought of the hottest boy in school asking me to the fall social. I wondered how my parents would react to him picking me up at my house. So many thoughts were rushing through my head at a rapid pace. I needed to focus on history, but who could focus at a time like this?

  The dismissal bell snapped me back to reality. I sat there for a moment staring at my spiral notebook and the blank page. I hadn’t taken a single note. Jesse grinned as he gathered his things and exited the room.

  As I walked toward the door, Mr. McKinney stopped me.

  “Marisol, may I see you for a moment?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said and made my way to his desk.

  “Um, I graded your American history exam—” he handed it to me “—and it’s not good.”

  I stared at the large red mark at the top of the exam. A big fat D+ was plastered across the page. In all my years, I’d never received a D on any homework assignment or exam. My heart sank.

  “Wow,” I said under my breath.

  “I don’t really know what happened, but your overall grade sort of plummeted from an A+ to a very low C pretty quickly. I don’t know if you’re having trouble at home, but if you need some assistance, I’d be happy to meet with you after school this Friday afternoon and try to figure out how to bring that grade back up.”

  “I can’t on Friday.” Friday was the day I was scheduled to leave for Hollywood. I wouldn’t be at school on Friday, but I wanted to at least find out how to bring my grade up. “Can we do it today or tomorrow?”

  “I’m sorry, Marisol. The only day I have available is Friday afternoon. I was hoping to give you an opportunity to retake your exam that day. If you score a higher grade on the exam, we can get your grade up to at least a B.”

  I stood there. I was between a rock and a hard place. Grades were definitely important, but so was Dance America. I wanted to make the right decision. I hadn’t failed the exam. A D+ was a passing grade. And my overall grade in the class was a C. If I worked really hard after my return from California, I was sure that I could improve my grade. It was still early in the year. I had time, and I had no choice. My parents would have a fit if I failed any of my classes.

  In the hallway, I grabbed Jasmine by the arm; pulled her through the crowd.

  “You will never believe who asked me to the dance,” I told her.

  “Drew Bishop,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “No.”

  “Hmm…not Drew?” She was surprised. “Then who?”

  “Jesse Lucas,” I said and grinned; stood in front of her.

  “Beautiful Jesse Lucas, with the curly brown hair, tight abs and drop-dead-gorgeous smile?” she asked.

  “Don’t forget the light brown eyes and muscular arms,” I told her.

  “Oh, my God, you’r
e serious!”

  “Totally…serious.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said yes! Maybe I should’ve said no at first…you know, played hard to get.” I pondered it for the first time. What seemed like the best option at first suddenly seemed silly. Was I too anxious? “I should’ve played hard to get.”

  “You did the right thing. He’s so cute,” she said, “and it’s just a dance. You’re not marrying the guy.”

  “True.”

  As we stepped out into the breezy fall air, I zipped my jacket up and adjusted my bag on my shoulder. “What about Drew? I told him I was going stag,” I said. Although Drew wasn’t my boyfriend, I still felt somewhat of an allegiance to him. “What about Drew? He had his chance to ask you to the dance, and he didn’t. It’s his loss, right?”

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  “We can’t sit around waiting for guys to ask us to the dance, Mari. I mean, look at us! We’re celebrities now.” She giggled and started dancing down Madison Avenue toward the subway station. “Guys want to date us, and girls want to be us!”

  She slipped a cigarette from its package—her afternoon ritual; lit it. She was right. I was a celebrity now, and it was time I started behaving like one. Winning the Dance America competition had changed my life—and hers. All of our dreams were about to come true. Although I didn’t feel much like a celebrity when I stepped onto the train and slipped into the seat next to the drunken guy with the body odor. That was enough to snap me back to reality.

  I recognized the smell of my mother’s paella—the spices and tomatoes hit my nose the minute I walked through the door. Walking through the front door of my house felt different today. I wasn’t the same Mari anymore—I was different. I couldn’t wait to glance at my reflection in the mirror just to see if I had changed.

  “Hola, novio,” said Mami as she talked to someone on the phone.

  “Hola, Mami.” I dropped my bag in the middle of the floor.

  “Take your bag to your room, Mari,” she said, “and tell your brother to come here. I need for him to put these boxes near the front door. Things we’re giving away to charity.”

  I glanced over at the boxes in question. Inside one of the boxes was my favorite sweater. It was worn, and there was a hole underneath the armpit where the seam was loose, and there was a permanent stain on the collar, but I loved that sweater. I grabbed it from the box; held it in the air. “You’re giving away my purple sweater?”

  “I haven’t seen you wear that sweater in at least a year, Mari.”

  “But it’s mine. And I love it,” I pleaded.

  “Mari, the things in these boxes are for charity…for someone less fortunate. You’ve enjoyed the sweater for a long time. Now it’s time to give to those who don’t have anything.”

  “I thought we gave stuff away that we didn’t want anymore,” I said, “not stuff that we still wear and love!”

  “Mari, you’re being very selfish. You got three new sweaters for Christmas last year,” Mami said. “You can’t be blessed until you bless others.”

  “Fine, Mami. Why don’t you give away the new sweaters, too? I got a new pair of skinny jeans last week that I bought with my allowance. Maybe I can give those away, too.”

  “Mari, I don’t like your attitude.”

  She was right. I was being a brat. And what did it matter what she gave away anyway? I was a celebrity, and soon I’d be able to buy a thousand sweaters, and a thousand pairs of jeans. I wouldn’t need to give away my hand-me-downs to those who are less fortunate. I could buy them all new stuff.

  “Sorry, Mami. I was being selfish,” I said. I tossed the sweater back into the box.

  She gave me a strange look. She probably wanted to check my forehead for a fever, but she didn’t. Instead she went back to her telephone conversation.

  I headed upstairs to my brother’s room.

  Nico’s door was shut and his music was loud. I tapped on the door—lightly at first. When there was no answer, I knocked louder. Still, no response. I turned the knob on the door and peeked inside. Nico’s clothes were laid out on the bed; a pair of freshly ironed jeans, socks, underwear and a crisp white shirt. His books were scattered all over the floor, along with tons of CDs. Candy wrappers and soda cans were thrown everywhere. His room was a mess.

  I tiptoed inside; just to pry. My brother had become so secretive lately, and I wanted to see what was going on in his life. In the past, we’d been so close. I could talk to him about everything, and he shared everything with me also. Besides Luz, Nico had always been my best friend. I could talk to him about boys and he would give me advice. Nico had one steady girlfriend in his life since fifth grade. Gabriela. They were destined to be together—completely made for each other. That is until Gabriela went away to Connecticut to spend the summer with her dad. When she came back, she was different. New hairdo. New wardrobe. New boyfriend. Nico was devastated. He confided in me that he no longer wanted to live. He’d rather die than live without Gabriela. I was worried, but I figured he’d get over it in time. That was six months ago, and the more time passed, the more Nico became stranger by the day.

  He would hit on my friends and try to seem like a normal teenage boy, but behind those deep brown eyes, I could see his pain. I became more concerned when I saw him hanging out occasionally with Diego and his posse. We all knew that Diego was bad news and was no one that Nico needed to share company with.

  I started sorting through the mess on his bed. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. I guess I just needed a clue as to where my brother’s head was—what secrets he had hidden behind his strange behavior. Underneath the sports section of the newspaper sprawled across the bed, I spotted the silver piece of metal with the black handle. A gun. My heart started pounding when I saw it. I stood there. Paralyzed.

  “What are you doing in here?” Nico asked, with wet hair and a towel wrapped around his waist.

  I picked up the gun, turned toward Nico and waved it in the air. “What are you doing with this, Nico?”

  He snatched it; tossed it on the bed. “None of your business. Why are you even in here?”

  “What’s going on with you, Nico?” I lowered my voice. “Why are you having words with Diego in the middle of the street? And why are you carrying a gun?”

  “It’s my business, Marisol. Stay out of it.”

  “It is my business. If my brother is carrying a gun then it’s my business.” I missed my brother. I missed the Nico who would share everything with me. “Maybe Mami and Poppy would like to know that you have a shotgun in their house.”

  “It’s not a shotgun. It’s a Magnum .357. And you wouldn’t tell them.”

  “I would.”

  “You’d better not.” Nico grabbed my arm, squeezed it tight. “Do you hear me, Mari? You’d better not breathe a word to them about this.”

  The grip on my arm became tighter.

  “You’re hurting me,” I told him.

  With fear and anger in his voice, and through clenched teeth, he said, “Promise you won’t say anything.”

  “Nico, you’re hurting me.”

  He squeezed tighter. “Promise!”

  “I promise,” I said. I wanted him to let go. Tears were threatening to fall from my eyes.

  I saw something in my brother’s eyes that I’d never seen before. He was different; not the same loving Nico who used to protect me.

  “Why are you shutting me out, Nico? You were my best friend once…”

  “You have to go, Mari, so I can get dressed.” He held on to the towel that was wrapped around his waist; walked over to the door and opened it wider.

  I walked out of his room.

  “Mami wants to see you downstairs,” I told him.

  “Yeah,” he said and then slammed his door shut.

  He was up to no good, and I knew it.

  eighteen

  Drew

  “…and Kobe Bryant comes down the court at full speed, the ball
in his hand. He’s recovered from an injury to his right knee. He’s completely healed, and completely out of control. The crowd is going crazy. He’s so hot, he’s on fire…LeBron James is under the goal, with his hands in the air…”

  “I don’t wanna be LeBron James. I wanna be Lamar what’s-his-name,” Mari said and giggled. “You know, Khloe Kardashian’s husband, Lamar. The tall black guy with the bald head.”

  I stopped in midstream; stopped bouncing the imaginary ball—a pair of dress socks. “You can’t be Lamar Odom. He’s on the same team as Kobe. You gotta be somebody else. Someone who plays for the Miami Heat. Somebody like LeBron James or Dwayne Wade.”

  “Can I be Shaq?” she asked.

  “Shaq plays for Boston, Mari,” I said with a laugh. “And besides, you’re way too pretty to be Shaq. How about Carlos Arroyo? He’s a Hispanic dude.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “I don’t know if he’s cute, Mari. He’s a pretty good player.”

  “Okay, I’ll be him.” Mari held her hands high in the air; her best attempt at defense.

  I dribbled around her, faked her out and then dunked the socks into the trash can. I did the Dougie—a dance created by rap artist Doug E. Fresh.

  Mari picked up the socks; took them out of bounds, which was on the other side of my bed. Dressed in a pair of my boxer shorts and my white dress shirt, she pretended to dribble the ball as she slid across our hardwood floors. She looked cute wearing my oversize clothes, and she didn’t seem uncomfortable about it, either.

  After school, I’d convinced her to tutor me at my apartment instead of Starbucks or at Manny’s. I was anxious to show her my trophies—all the trophies that I’d won over the course of my basketball career since junior high school. We studied algebra at my dining room table. She was so smart, and the subject came so easy for her. I envied her; wished I could catch on so quickly, but I’d missed out on so much being a jock.