Burn Baby Burn

by Meg Medina

  His smile reveals a piece of tobacco lodged near his gums. “Great song, right? But maybe you and me could go down to the basement instead, huh?”

  I’m planning a well-executed shot to Sergio’s nuts when Manny appears in the hall. For once, I am happy to see that man.

  “You’re not finished with the john yet?” he barks at Sergio. “I sent you over here half an hour ago.”

  Sergio plucks the thread of tobacco off his tongue. “Going.” He winks at me and disappears inside.

  Manny sighs. I’m pretty sure he can’t stand Sergio either, but he’s stuck with the boss’s kid, I guess. Anyway, I try to slip away, but he stops me before I get too far.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he says.

  “I’ve been looking for you, too,” I lie. “Mima has a check for you. I’ll bring it by later.”

  He gives me a doubtful look. He’s about to say something when the music seems to get even louder. The little veins in Manny’s temple start to get pronounced, and I can see the familiar look of irritation forming. We have a permanent spot on Manny’s shit list, after all. I’ve known it since we were really little. Nobody fools a kid’s barometer when it comes to how adults really feel about them. He’s one of those fussy supers. He barks at you for stupid stuff like stepping on his newly seeded grass or feeding burnt toast to the squirrels from the window. But Hector’s antics get him completely undone, and I can’t really say I’m surprised. Hector once threw one of my metal roller skates off the fire escape. It missed Manny by mere inches, and, boy, was he mad.

  I was too scared to tell Mima what happened. But that night, Manny rang our bell and gave it to her from the hall.

  “Your son could have killed someone!” He held up the offending roller skate, now dented.

  Mima slid her eyes to me in an accusation. I knew what she was thinking. It was my skate, so somehow it was partly my fault. I’d left it out, a temptation, maybe, the reason Hector had gotten the idea.

  Naturally Mima didn’t argue with Manny. To her, Manny, like every man in the world, is the boss.

  “¡Ay qué vergüenza!” She told him how sorry she was, how ashamed. She pleaded her case. Boys were always getting into mischief, weren’t they? She’d try to get him under control, but it was hard with no father around.

  Hector and I were playing Clue on the floor. He pored over his cards and made a wild guess about Colonel Mustard in the library with the lead pipe. I scowled at him, angry that he’d gotten me in trouble. But then he crossed his eyes at me and farted — the long, pealing kind that you could hear all the way out in the hall. I couldn’t help it; I started to laugh.

  Anyway, since then, we’ve been marked.

  Like right now.

  “He’s going to have to turn down that racket,” he says. “It’s disturbing the peace.”

  “No problem.”

  “And another thing, Nora. Remind your mother that the first of the month will be here again in three weeks. I can’t keep making allowances for people. I’ve been a nice guy long enough.”

  Nice guy? Really?

  He walks past me in a huff and disappears into the apartment.

  I hope Sergio and my other neighbors haven’t been listening in, but who am I kidding? There aren’t many things you can keep secret in a building, thanks to heat pipes, peepholes, and thin walls.

  Sure enough, I don’t go three steps when I hear a lock click open in the hall.

  It’s Stiller, Manny’s archnemesis. Sometimes I swear she waits behind her peephole, itching to make an ambush.

  “Hey, Nora.” She’s wearing a tie-dye shirt with a huge peace sign.

  Mima has given me strict instructions not to talk to Stiller even though she is the head of the tenant association.

  “How are you doing, Stiller?”

  I don’t know why Mima is so scared of her, but every time Stiller comes to our door, she makes me keep the chain on. Stiller always has to hand me her tenant petitions through the chain.

  “I know that look,” Mima whispers, as if we’re surrounded by spies, a leftover from her last days in Cuba. “Communist, through and through.” She points to what she considers irrefutable evidence: Stiller is black and nearly six feet tall. She supports feminism and wears a big ’fro. Mima informs me that women like Stiller “infiltrate” society, foment unrest, and before you know it — wham-o!— you’re wearing gray and living as part of the evil Soviet empire.

  Really, Stiller’s just an activism junkie with a capital A, as in Anti-War, Anti-Imperialism, Anti-Misogyny, and so on. There’s not a cause she won’t defend if it means giving it to the establishment. And there’s no cause she likes more than housing. Before she started demanding better windows this week, she was on a kick about “clandestine eviction tactics.” She claims that building owners want to boot out tenants like us and turn these old places into luxury condos. “Only rich white cats will be able to live here one day; you’ll see!”

  I always think of the drafty halls, the roaches in the cellar, and the old glass doorknobs that break off in my hand if I turn them too hard. This place? A luxury condo? You’d have to be a miracle worker.

  “A shame about Mrs. Murga, right?” she says. “But I know what’s going on here. If we’re not careful, Manny will jack up the rent in her unit. Don’t worry, though. I’m doing some research on the limits.”

  “Oh.”

  Hector’s music fills the hallway.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Stiller, following her glance at the ceiling. “He likes this song, I guess.”

  Stiller waves her hand like the music doesn’t matter. Then she steps into the hallway and makes sure Manny is out of earshot. She’s no fan of Hector — no one in the building is — but she likes Manny even less.

  “He can’t harass tenants, you know,” she says, towering over me. “Renters have rights in this city. Officially, it has to be past nine p.m. to make a noise complaint.” She checks her watch. “It is now one p.m., so you are well within your rights, honey.” She leans even closer to me and glances over her shoulder again. “And in case you don’t know, all tenants have until the tenth of the month to pay rent. After that, there’s a whole process involved in collecting it, not just bullying teenagers in the hall. It pays to know your rights, Nora. I can help your mother fight if she needs me. I know some people.”

  Oh, boy. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her pinko reputation has doomed that plan forever. Plus I’m a little embarrassed that she knows we were late on rent again and that she’s talking about it, even though she means well.

  Still, it is kind of comforting to hear someone offer to stand up for us. I wonder what would happen if Manny ever showed up at Stiller’s door to complain about something. I’ll bet he’d lose some teeth; Stiller takes absolutely no shit. Even funnier to imagine: What if Mima could be turned into a badass like Stiller? What if she grew her hair and told Manny to stop harassing her kids or she’d feed him his balls for dinner, the way he deserves?

  It’s the stuff of dreams.

  Just then, Sergio comes back into the hall, whistling and checking me out again. Stiller whips around and impales him with one of her cold stares. She couldn’t care less who his father is. In fact, it might make her loathe him more.

  “Is there a problem with your eyes, son?” she snaps. “Because I know you would not be disrespecting a woman and objectifying her in my presence.”

  Sergio slinks out the lobby doors without a word. I grin and turn on my heel.

  “You might want to have a word with those painters, too, Stiller.” I point to the van outside at the curb.

  She smiles brightly as I dash up the stairs.

  “I might just say hello,” she says.

  “Turn it down!” I shout, but Hector doesn’t even look up. The music is practically rattling the walls, but he’s hunched over the Cyclo-Teacher, deaf to the world around him.

  Strangely, this contraption has become one of my brother’s inner-weirdo passio
ns, along with Hulk Hogan Marvel Comics and Bruce Lee movies, all the remaining shreds of himself as a boy.

  It never fails to surprise me. It’s one of those self-test learning kits that came as a bonus gift with the set of World Book encyclopedias that Mima bought on installments from Edna’s niece.

  Don’t ask me how, but Hector is a whiz at the Cyclo-Teacher and all its questions. He opens the circular lid on the machine and loads the question sheets inside just like an LP on a turntable. Then he closes it and advances through each question that appears in the window when he slides the lever. He almost never gets anything wrong, which makes me think he actually reads the encyclopedia while we’re sleeping. Who does that — and why? He can name the African countries and every abbreviation for elements. He knows about Pompeii and the history of the Incas, the difference between mollusks and crustaceans. You name it; if you can find it in the encyclopedia, he knows it. All that meaningless information should make school a breeze. But no. Hector hates school even more than I do. He says it’s for idiots.

  What’s worse, though, is that Hector likes to wield what he knows like a weapon. He’s always quizzing Mima and me on random facts and pronouncing us morons when we don’t know the name of a tsarina — or if we don’t care.

  “How could you be so dumb?” he asked me last week when — imagine it!— I couldn’t name all the moons of Jupiter. I got as far as Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto, just to shut him up. I thought I was doing pretty good, since I haven’t taken Earth Science since the ninth grade. “There are more than four?” I asked.

  “They’re discovering more by the day, idiot,” he told me, a satisfied grin on his face. “It’s called space exploration, moron.”

  Anyway, he’s still deep in concentration when I walk over and pull the needle off the LP.

  “Manny complained about the music,” I tell him when he glowers at me. “You can hear this shit down the block.”

  No reply.

  “What are you doing home again?” I ask him in the sudden quiet. “Friedmor is looking for you, by the way.”

  He moves the lever and smiles at his answer. “Dying of consumption.” Then he looks up. “Do you even know what that is, Nora?”

  “You don’t have TB, Hector.” Ha. Got him.

  He hacks up phlegm on a rattling cough. Mima’s probably right when she says he needs medicine, but there’s no use trying to get Hector to the doctor. He hates them, especially our pediatrician. He calls Dr. De Los Santos “the fucking Chilean quack.”

  I toss my jacket on the chair and head to the kitchen, starved. But when I open the refrigerator, I see that we still have limited options: one egg, grape jelly, and two individually wrapped slices of cheese that are hard and orange at the corners. Mima never goes grocery shopping if she hasn’t paid the rent. She’d rather us starve, I guess. Papi’s check better come soon.

  Music starts up again. This time it’s Pink Floyd. A heartbeat, followed by voices, clangs, and evil laughter starts up on the track. Perfect for a drug trip, I suppose. I grab a cheese slice, break off the hard part, and head back to the living room.

  “Hands off,” Hector warns, his eyes still glued to the Cyclo-Teacher.

  That’s when I notice the ashtray near the speakers. Six of Hector’s Marlboro butts are in there, but there’s also a different kind. Unfiltered Camels.

  Well, well. He’s had company.

  I turn back to Hector. “What did Sergio want?” I ask.

  No reply. Just the trippy sounds of Pink Floyd’s guitars floating from the speakers. I turn down the volume.

  “What did he want?” I say again.

  Hector looks up and cocks his head. “You a frickin’ reporter or what? Turn the music back up.”

  “Why was he up here, Hector?”

  He tosses away the Cyclo-Teacher and comes close. Hector has gotten bearlike and hairy, and my heart starts to race a little. I’ve been taller than him most of my life, but now I only reach his nose. I try my best to look bored, unworried, but the truth is, all this new size is kind of imposing.

  “I borrowed some albums,” he says. “He came to get them back. Not that it’s any of your business.” Then he walks down the hall to the bathroom.

  Fact: I haven’t noticed any new albums in the small piles we keep lying around. And I would know: I’m always stuck picking them up.

  Sergio in our apartment. That might be worse than the time we had a rat roaming inside the walls last year. All night long, I’d listen to the scratching. In the morning, there were droppings inside my shoes, and the edge of the linoleum was gnawed down. No matter how many times I took a shower, I could feel rodent germs all over me. At night, I could feel beady eyes staring at me from the corner.

  My stomach rumbles loudly. I have to do something about food. I turn up the stereo and sneak past the bathroom door so Hector won’t hear me go to our room. Then I crawl into the back of our closet, where I keep my money boot. A tight roll of bills is jammed inside the toe. It’s smaller than I’d like, but what can I do? Stuff like this comes up all the time. I’m starved and there’s nothing to eat. I stick a few bills into my pocket and start to crawl back over the old shoes and coats.

  My knee hits something hard, though. I dig around in the dim light and pull something free.

  Even in this bad light, I can see it’s an old transistor radio. We don’t own one like this, but it looks kind of familiar. Whose is it?

  Then I think of Mrs. Murga, and my mind starts to race. She kept a radio on her kitchen window, and it looked an awful lot like this one. Please, God, don’t let this be her radio. If it is, I can’t think of a single innocent scenario that could have gotten this here.

  Just then, the closet door clicks closed, and I’m in complete blackness. I push against the door, but I already know that I’ve fallen into a snare. Hector is on the other side.

  I try my best not to sound freaked out, even though it’s already feeling stuffy in here.

  “Let me out, Hector. I have to get to work.”

  “Please?” he says.

  “Please.” I push again, but he’s still against the door.

  “What’s in there, Nora?”

  Does he mean my money boot? Or is he worried I’ve found the radio?

  Either way is bad.

  “Clothes, what else?” I say, playing dumb. “Open the door and see for yourself.” I wait for a few seconds, trying to stay calm, but the door stays closed. Then I hear the flick and click of his lighter on the other side. I get very still.

  “Is it dark in there?” he finally asks.

  “Open up the damn door.” I push with all my might now, beads of sweat on my lip, but he’ leaning up against it tight.

  “You keep secrets in there, Nora?”

  I keep my eye on the line of light coming in under the door.

  “You can’t keep secrets in a four-room apartment, Hector,” I say. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Who’s stupid?” His voice has an edge I don’t like.

  Stupid was too strong. I can practically hear Mima’s whispers. “Stay on his good side,” she always says. “Don’t start trouble. Don’t provoke him.”

  I close my eyes, thinking. After a few minutes of standoff, I shove the radio back where I found it and cover it with clothes. I’ve never seen this, I tell myself, trying not to imagine him prying open Mrs. Murga’s window, creeping around her as she slept. “Let me out,” I say. “I’m on at Sal’s today. I’ll get us some food. Pop-Tarts, if you want.”

  What do you know? The way to a man’s heart — especially if it’s tiny and vicious — is still through his stomach after all. Just like that, the door flies open and I tumble out, blinking into the brightness. Hector takes one look at me, and he starts laughing.

  I grab my jacket and head out the door, fuming.

  Hector follows me down the stairs, though I’m trying to outpace him.

  “What are you running from?” he asks, grinning.

  I turn and
stab him in the chest with my finger. “I’m not running from anything.” I can see the pustules near his hairline, the stubble rising on his chin. “But do us both a favor. Keep your mouth shut at Sal’s. And don’t steal anything.”

  Salerno’s Delicatessen is on 162nd Street, just a few blocks away. I’ve been a cashier there since I got my working papers the summer I was fourteen. It’s not a bad gig, if you can make change in your head and don’t mind small talk with customers. Besides, Sal has a soft spot for me, always giving me extra hours if I ask for them and sending a little food my way — the end of a hard salami, an “over-order” of Vienna sausage. He even cut Hector slack on my account once. He caught him swiping candy bars, but he didn’t chase him out or threaten to break his fingers the way you’d expect.

  Hector and I walk up the street together, but I’m ignoring him, still mad. I wave at the bakery lady as she slides a new tray of cookies in the window and then at Mr. Farina, who owns the corner drugstore. He’s filled people’s prescriptions around here for as long as anyone can remember, and he can pretty much save you a trip to the doctor if you’re sick. Farina’s is the old-timey kind of drugstore, too, the kind that used to have a soda fountain. He’s even got a picture of the place in 1939 when he bought it, at the start of the war. Anyway, since he’s Sal’s favorite Mets sparring partner, Mr. Farina comes by every afternoon while his delivery boy, Matt, cleans up. He likes the coffee and good arguments, he says. He’ll be due any minute.

  Just as I’m about to dart into Sal’s, I notice Sergio’s car outside the Satin Lady Lounge, as usual. I already know there are a few losers nursing beers inside and waiting for Sergio or somebody else to make the rounds with their wares.

  I throw open Sal’s door and step inside.

  “Uh-oh. Double trouble,” Sal says when he sees us.

  “Hello to you, too.”

  Sal’s laugh fills the room. He’s a giant guy with bushy eyebrows and anchor tattoos on his forearms from his days in the navy. He’s got a bum leg and blown-out hearing from the Korean War, but nobody messes with Sal. He’s got a bit of a rep, built with the help of an old golf driver he keeps behind the counter. Even Sergio knows not to park anywhere near the deli’s front door. Not ever.