by Meg Medina
She gives me a sly grin. “Details . . . ?”
“His name is Pablo. Adorable.”
“Are you going to make a move?”
“I just met him yesterday.”
“So? We’re liberated, remember?”
“We’re also good targets for a psycho who hates girls and their boyfriends. At least I am, remember?” I rub my hand along my bandanna.
She purses her lips. “Why don’t we dye your hair? You’d be a va-voom redhead.”
I give her a pained look. “Or I can just lie low until the cops catch the shooter. How long can it take? The whole city is looking for him.”
“I don’t know, Nora. They never caught Jack the Ripper, you know,” she says.
“Oh, thank you very much.”
A train pulls into the station beneath us, and a large group of women climbs the steps in our direction.
“More on this matter later,” Kathleen tells me. Then we get to work.
Before I know it, an hour has flown by and we’re out of handouts. Across the street, a surprisingly huge crowd has gathered, some with handmade ERA NOW signs. There are hippies and business-looking types, women who look kind of like guys, others who could be models, and still more who look ordinary, even like Mima. My favorite is a group of older ladies in sneakers and visors, sporting T-shirts over their jackets that read THE GRAY PANTHERS.
It’s a thousand people at least. Normally, I hate crowds. Even walking in the hall at school makes me feel uncomfortable. But this feels exciting somehow, like a party.
Kathleen checks her watch and signals to me. “It’s starting,” she says. We link arms and dart back across the street.
We’re jostled around as we try to find a spot. At this rate, we’ll be at the very back.
Suddenly a hand reaches out for me, and I’m yanked inside the throng.
“Whoa!”
Stiller has dragged us into her row. She’s holding a banner with a few other women.
“Make room,” she orders, and I swear, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea. Kathleen and I take our spots.
A chant rises from somewhere behind me.
A woman’s place is everyplace! A woman’s place is everyplace!
It will be an hour’s walk, but the energy in the crowd is contagious. Kathleen and I chant at the top of our voices and pump our fists in the air. There’s a power and an energy that feels like we’re giving the man’s world the finger. I like it.
And then, as one, the mass starts to move.
“Well, look at you!” Annemarie steps away from the cash register and gives me the once-over when I get to work. “What’s the occasion?”
I blush. Okay, so I’m wearing my Sasson jeans and my favorite Huckapoo shirt, the brown and orange one with the good collar. Kathleen coached me this week. She says polyester “accentuates the positive.” I took a risk of attracting the killer and wore my hair down. I know it’s stupid, but Pablo is on today. I checked the schedule.
“I just felt like looking nice,” I say. “It’s the first day of spring.”
She purses her lips and gives me a knowing look. “I see,” she says, glancing across at Sal. “I remember looking nice for spring once, too. Right, old man?”
Sal starts whistling, and his cheeks go bright red.
I step behind the register. Old people are weird.
Pablo works with a feather duster tucked into the back pocket of his Calvin Kleins. When he walks, it looks like a delicious rooster tail. I have to force myself to look away when he lifts the bags of cat litter onto the shelves, too. All I can think about is how nice it would feel to be wrapped inside those arms, dancing at Eléphas, hot and sweaty.
Not that Pablo notices my outfit or anything else. He doesn’t have time, for one thing. Sal is working him to death. He made Pablo reshelve the pantry in the dungeon, mop all the floors, clear out the loading dock, and stack oranges, which is harder than it looks. And all that was in the morning. It’s two o’clock before Pablo comes to the front of the store.
“Is it break time, sir?”
“Break?” Sal roars. “Whaddaya think this is?” He turns to me and winks. “Right, Nora?”
I think I’m going to faint. Pablo is sweaty around the collar of his blue T-shirt, and it’s glorious. “Give him a break. He should eat,” I say.
Sal smiles wide and pops open a couple of Cokes. Then he hands each of us a soda and half a ham-and-cheese hero over the counter. “Here you go, kids. You’ve earned it.”
Pablo grabs a stool and pulls it up to my register counter.
“How’s it going?” he asks me before taking a long sip.
I stare at his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Every word I know goes flying from my mind. “Same old,” I say. Pathetic.
“Those your wheels out there, Paulie?” Sal asks. He motions to a blue Camaro parked at the curb.
“Yeah.”
Sal steps from behind the counter to get a better look. “A ’seventy-five?”
“’Seventy-three.”
Sal whistles. “She’s a beauty, but it’s a bumpy ride for my taste. You want real luxury, try a Caddy. A Coupe de Ville!”
“I’ll need a raise, then, sir.”
Sal gives him a withering look. “You’re dreaming.”
“Actually, my friend Ralph has one,” Pablo adds, smiling. “Girls like it. They always want to ride in it, anyway.”
“A lovemobile!” Sal says, wiggling his eyebrows.
Pablo grins and takes a swig. “Pretty much.”
Mercy. Don’t let me swoon.
But soon they forget all about me.
I pretend to read the paper as they blab on and on about muscle cars until my ears bleed. I decide to use the time for reconnaissance. Careful eavesdropping reveals the following juicy tidbit: Pablo is a sophomore at St. John’s. A college man.
Before I can glean much else, Pablo’s break time is up.
“See you later.” He leaves his empty soda can on my counter and goes to the back of the store to check the mousetraps.
Who am I kidding? I think as I watch his feather duster wiggle away. He’s too old, or else he’s got a girlfriend. He’s definitely not interested.
It may be spring, but it’s still dark at closing time.
My feet hurt from standing in nice shoes all day, so I decide to ride the bus one stop and get off at my corner.
Nobody else is at the stop when I get there, and I’m wary of standing out here alone. On a scale of one to ten, how tempting to a serial killer is a girl with long dark hair all alone at a bus stop? Crap. An eleven. I rummage in my purse for a ponytail holder or even a stray rubber band to pull up my hair. Every pair of headlights that goes by makes my heart race a little as I search inside every pocket and still come up empty. Finally, I tuck my hair into the back of my shirt as best I can. Maybe I should just run home and be done with it.
I’m about to make a break for it when a car turns the corner and pulls close to me. I flinch and take a step back before I realize it’s Pablo’s Camaro.
“I thought that was you,” he says, leaning over to talk to me through the window. “Need a ride home? I don’t mind.”
Look calm, I tell myself, but my hands are still shaking.
Mima’s voice is stuck in my head. Muchachas decentes never get into cars with boys, unless they’re engaged. La gente will talk, she always says, although what “people” she means, I will never know. Who would be sitting in a window watching my romantic moves except a perv?
Sorry, Mima.
I open the door and slide in beside him. “Thanks.”
He checks his mirrors and pulls out. “Well, that was a beating.” Pablo laughs. His fingers are still pruny from handling the mop. “Did he work the last guy like this?”
I shake my head. “He’s trying to break you. Sal has weird navy ideas.”
For once, I wish I lived really far from work. In fact, it might be nice to have a small car wreck or something, just to keep u
s here. Otherwise, the four-block ride is going to be over in exactly three minutes.
I notice textbooks tossed at my feet. The Tools for Good Business, Intermediate Accounting.
“You can move those if they’re in the way,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Accounting, huh? You like it?”
He laughs. “Not really. But I can’t think of anything else. What’s your major?”
I don’t know what to say for a second. Why didn’t I anticipate this? I’m so grateful to be in a dark car because it absolutely kills me to tell him. “I’m not in college. I go to Francis Lewis High, but I’m a senior. Only fifty school days left, minus weekends. Not that I’m counting.”
He looks a little surprised, but nods anyway. “I got sick of high school at the end, too.”
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“The Hirsch School. My dad is the Spanish teacher there. Señorrr Ruiz.” He says the name with a fake American accent and smiles.
I know the place. It’s over in Little Neck. The girls wear blazers with embroidered lions on their breast pockets and plaid skirts that they hike up short as soon as they get on the bus.
“Fancy place,” I say.
Pablo shrugs. “I was a teacher’s kid, so I got a deal on tuition,” he says. “Where will you go in the fall?”
“Not sure.” I’m glad he can’t see me blushing. I point at the corner. “It’s here on the right.”
Pablo pulls over. “Wow. Look at that dog!”
I turn to see my favorite mutt sniffing around for a place to dump. I’m so used to seeing his three legs that I forget it’s unusual.
“That’s Tripod,” I say.
“He’s yours?”
I shake my head. “He’s just a stray, but he’s been around forever. We all feed him. He’s everybody’s dog, more or less.”
Suddenly the door to my building opens, and Tripod makes a bunny-hop dash for the walkway, probably trying to sneak in for the night.
Oh, no.
Hector.
Pausing on the stoop, he cups his hands over his cigarette to light up.
My hand is frozen on the door. Do I get out?
“You okay?” Pablo asks.
“Oh, fine.” I’ve dropped my hands in my lap and turned back to face him. Maybe Hector won’t notice me in here. The last thing I need is to have him mention to Mima that I was in a car with a member of the penis-carrying gender. In fact, I have a strict policy never to let Mima find out anything about my love life. Who has the energy to deal with all it would mean? I’d have to answer questions about my possible smuttiness. Who is this boy? Where were we going? Do I remember the girl down the street, the one who got pregnant a few years ago? Do I know you can eventually go blind from syphilis?
No, señor, I cannot have it.
“Why don’t we drive around the block?” I suggest.
Pablo gives me a funny look. “I’m meeting friends in a while . . .”
Of course he is. Friends who are in college and hang out at Eléphas and other cool places. Not friends who are high-school cashiers.
I swallow hard and grab the handle again. Tripod is at Hector’s feet now, barking in excitement. Maybe he’s expecting Cheetos or some other crap we feed him occasionally. But in all his frenzy, Tripod tangles himself in my brother’s feet instead.
In a flash, Hector kicks him hard in the ribs and sends him flying through the air. I hold my breath as the terrier’s back curls awkwardly. Tripod yelps and lands with a thud before dashing into the bushes for cover.
“Did you see that? What an asshole,” Pablo mutters.
Just then, Hector looks up and spots me in the car.
“Thanks for the ride.” I jump out and hurry for the lobby, ignoring Hector completely as we pass each other. I don’t look back, praying that Hector doesn’t speak to me, that Pablo doesn’t make the connection at all.
And it works. Pablo watches for a second and then pulls away into the dark.
All night, I’m thinking about Pablo with his friends. But Hector crowds my thinking, too. Did Tripod bite him without my noticing? Otherwise, there’s no reason for Hector to have slammed that old dog in the ribs. Why else would someone do that?
I tuck Mima’s transistor radio under my pillow so I can listen without waking her. I hum along to “Love Rollercoaster” by the Ohio Players, my stomach pitching at the thought of Pablo at Eléphas, dancing with some college girl, having fun.
It’s really late when I hear Hector’s keys in the door. The springs on his bed squeak as he drops. I mean to ask him something about Tripod, but I don’t have the energy, or maybe I just don’t want to know.
“Don’t tell Mima,” I mumble, but he doesn’t reply.
And then I’m fast asleep.
“A stone-cold Latin fox,” Kathleen concludes. She drops the needle on her new Parliament album. “Give Up the Funk” starts to play. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this: He might even be better than Freddie Prinze, God rest his soul.”
“Sacrilege, but you may be right.”
We’re in her room practicing the bump. Anybody can touch hips in time to the music, but to spin and backbend like a Soul Train line dancer, you’ve gotta have funk.
She turns up the volume and starts moving to the beat.
I’ve told Kathleen about Pablo, but she’s been too busy with work and getting to know Eddie to come see him. Today she finally stopped by Sal’s after school. I was off, so I waited down the block at Farina’s while she bought a gallon of milk and checked out Pablo for herself.
“The question is” — she spins and bumps her hip to my shoulder as I move in time — “is he interested in you?”
The train rumbles by outside, and the vibrations make the needle skip, ruining our groove.
I throw myself on the bed in a sweaty heap as Kathleen turns off the music.
“Like I said: He gave me a ride home last night, but I think he was just being nice. He said he had to go meet friends, blah-blah.”
Kathleen lies down beside me and stares at the ceiling. “What you need to do, then, is snag his imagination,” she says. “Get him to notice what is right under his nose.”
“Okaaaay . . .” She’s dangerous when she’s plotting.
“Right now, Pablo thinks of you as Cashier Nora. High-School Nora. Little-Kid Nora. He needs to think of you as I-Really-Want-to-Date-Her Nora. La-Chica-Mucho-Sexy Nora.”
I blink. “Muy. Muy sexy.” Three years of high-school Spanish have meant nothing to this girl.
She ignores me. “He has a Camaro,” she says.
“Yes.”
“So, he likes cars.”
“Looks that way.”
She turns on her belly and gives me a wicked grin. “Then I have the perfect idea.”
When we were little, Kathleen and I liked to go to Adventurers Inn over by the Whitestone Parkway. It was nice then, not the shell of rusted arcade games and homeless guys that it is now. Her dad would drive us over and sit on the bench eating ice cream while we stood in line for the Flight to Mars. Our favorite ride was always the bumper cars, though. We loved nothing more than to ram everyone in our path.
I’m thinking about all those head-on collisions as we unlock the MacInerneys’ Chevy Impala. I slide behind the wheel nervously and take a deep breath. Kathleen is the one who took drivers’ ed and has her license, not me. I don’t have any hope of owning a car, so why bother? Now I wish I actually knew how to drive.
“Are you sure about this?”
“It’s perfectly easy.” Kathleen leans over me to point out the letters on the shift. “You know the alphabet, right? D is for drive and R for reverse. Obvious.” She points at my feet. “The gas is the long, skinny pedal on the right; the brake is the fat one on the left.” She shrugs. “The rest is blah-blah and practice.”
I study the creamy seats — spotless — and wonder guiltily what Mr. Mac would say if he knew we were stealing his prized possession. Nothing good, tha
t’s for sure.
“Ready?” she asks.
I turn the key in the ignition and feel the power vibrating beneath me. I turn it back off and lean my head against the wheel.
“He would kill us,” I say.
“Only if he finds out.” Kathleen turns the ignition back on. “And he won’t. He’s on for the next two days, remember?”
Mr. Mac has been working extra shifts, and not really by choice. Landlords are torching their buildings for insurance money. Kids are messing around. That, or people are finally so sick of everything that they’re burning their shitty lives to the ground. It always makes me worried about Hector and his Zippos, those trances of his when he runs his fingertips through the flame.
Anyway, with Mr. Mac at work and Mrs. MacInerney attending a women’s conference meeting, the Impala is ours for the taking.
“I have a bad feeling,” I tell her.
“Where’s your nerve, Nora?” Kathleen says. “Just stick to the plan. We’ll be fine.”
I go over the plan in my mind. We’ll drive over to Sal’s to “pick up my paycheck,” which I left behind on purpose. I’ll pull into the loading-zone spot. Pablo, a car fan, will be dazzled by the Impala and, by extension, me. We’ll offer to give him a ride. And then, who knows? An invitation to get us in at Eléphas? Kathleen did my hair nice just in case.
“Just relax,” she says. “It’s only a few blocks. What can happen?”
I grip the wheel as I pull out of Kathleen’s street. It’s a wide, curvy road, so I don’t have to worry too much about hitting the parked cars. When I start to drift, Kathleen leans over to guide the steering wheel. Still, every time we start to build some speed, I want to hit the brakes. We’re bucking like a horse.
“Quit it! You’re giving me whiplash,” she says, gripping the dashboard.
“Sorry.”
Finally 162nd Street comes into view. “After this turn, drive real slow so he can get a good look at you.” She moves my hair over my left shoulder. “Think Cher.”
I start the turn but cut too sharply.
“Whoa!” Kathleen lunges for the wheel to straighten us out before we climb the curb. We only narrowly miss Matt from the drugstore as he hauls Mr. Farina’s trash. He jumps out of the way just in time and shoots me a dirty look.
