Burn Baby Burn

by Meg Medina

  “She’s been busy, but I’ll tell her again,” I say.

  I start up the aisle, but something out the window catches my eye.

  There’s a cop car at the curb and a police officer standing at the gate. That’s new.

  Ms. Friedmor follows my gaze and seems to read my mind.

  “Safety precautions,” she tells me. “That’s all.”

  My ears are still ringing as I open the doors and head for the bus stop. I have to walk right by the cop, and wouldn’t you know it? It’s the same one who caught Pablo and me at the park. His walkie-talkie sputters as I hurry by.

  Safety precaution, huh? Interesting. Then why is it that having the cops everywhere makes me feel so scared?

  The double date is Kathleen’s idea, a perfectly logical solution, she says, to the unfortunate dilemma of new love versus a murderer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. There will be four of us at the movie, and the .44-Caliber Killer hasn’t taken aim at groups. At least not that we know of.

  Naturally Eddie jumps at the chance to spend a Friday night with Kathleen, even if it means the late movie so I can get there after work. She asks him at lunchtime, and I swear it looks like he’ll faint. He’s so into her that it’s almost sad. He’s our age, and tall like Pablo, but something about Eddie always feels young. Even Kathleen is lukewarm on him, but she’s trying on casual dating.

  “Your turn,” she tells me. “Ask Pablo.”

  I practice asking on my walk to Sal’s. Be casual, I tell myself. Self-assured. Liberated.

  Unfortunately I’m a train wreck.

  We’re standing outside the john when I ask. I stumble through the particulars, not even making sense. Fresh Meadows, the movies, tonight.

  “So, you’re asking me on a second date?” Pablo asks.

  “What? Well, Kathleen and Eddie are coming, too,” I say, muddling the whole thing. “It’s hanging out. If you want to. You know, tonight after work.”

  “So, it’s not a date?”

  My face feels like it’s on fire. I tuck the stray hair behind my ear nervously. “No. I mean, it is, sort of.” When I look up, he’s grinning, so I let out my breath. “Are you enjoying this?”

  He looks over his shoulder to check on Sal and Mr. Farina, who are outside. Then he plants a slow kiss on my mouth. My knees nearly buckle.

  “Quite a lot, actually,” he whispers.

  I watch, mesmerized, as he heads down the aisle.

  I can’t say I love being here with another couple, not that they notice. Eddie just can’t hide his painfully horny side when it comes to Kathleen. All night, he’s been staring at her legs, her butt, and her mouth until I was sure she might slap him. Really, it’s a little pervy.

  Anyway, Annie Hall was probably a mistake. All that whining and worry from Woody Allen starts to get annoying in no time. I turn to tell Kathleen, but it’s too late. Eddie’s already locked on.

  So I stare at the screen awkwardly. Pablo looks over and makes a face at the two of them. We try not to laugh. Then he reaches for my hand and rests it on his leg. I pretend to watch the movie, but all I can think about are the muscles in his thigh. I wait for each steamy scene. That’s when Pablo leans down and kisses me, soft and slow.

  It’s almost midnight by the time the movie is over. Kathleen has smudged lipstick, and I’m floating. But when we get to the lobby, the magic starts to drain.

  The manager is waiting by the glass doors for the last of the stragglers. He unlocks the door and holds it open for us, but none of us moves. It’s as if there’s an invisible fence that keeps us standing near the concession stand. He frowns and checks his watch.

  “We’re closing up, folks.”

  We head to the doors and look outside. The parking lot is empty except for the last of the moviegoers. I wish Pablo’s car didn’t look so far away under the lamppost. It’s lonely out there, especially with all the nearby shops closed and the shadows cast by the awnings. I pull up my hood to cover my hair.

  “What if he’s out there?” Kathleen says suddenly, which surprises me. Where’s her safety-in-numbers theory?

  Eddie puffs himself up. “I’ll protect you.” He puts his arm around Kathleen’s shoulder, but she hardly looks comforted.

  “Your chest deflects bullets?” I ask him.

  Pablo takes my hand. “Look, the city has more than seven million people. It’s huge, especially if you count all the boroughs,” he says. “Realistically, we’ll be okay.”

  I want to believe him. I want to be able to have fun without looking over my shoulder every second.

  So we step outside. As soon as the door latch clicks behind us, we run, our hearts pounding, Kathleen screaming like we’re on a roller coaster of some kind. But Pablo is right. We are fine, giggling in the car even when Eddie yells, “Look out,” just to scare us and make Kathleen jump into his arms. “April fools,” he says.

  When they drop me off at home, I turn and wave from the lobby. The Camaro looks shiny in the lamplight. Pablo grins in that sexy way of his. Kathleen blows me kisses; Eddie keeps his eyes on her the whole time.

  That’s how I’ll always want to remember them, I think to myself. Beautiful in the face of fear.

  “What’s this?” Mima asks.

  I’m still in a happy daze from my date last night, so I swivel in my chair to look.

  She was making Hector’s bed and tucked her hands between the mattress and box spring. Now she’s holding up a mirror painted with five jet planes side by side, with long indentations like smoke trailing from their engines.

  I keep my face as still as possible, even as my heart sinks.

  It’s a coke mirror. I’ve seen them in the head shop on Main Street that’s conveniently located across the street from the new drug rehab clinic. Kathleen and I buy incense there and gawk at the latest feathered roach clips and bongs. The grooves in the mirror are meant for doing lines of blow, but I am not about to explain that to Mima. If she thinks pot can lead to insanity, I don’t even want to imagine what she’ll say about cocaine.

  Shit. Why can’t Hector just keep dirty magazines like any other guy? And why does seeing this make me so mad?

  “It’s a mirror, Mima. Can’t you see?”

  She studies it for a minute. If she guesses what it’s used for, she doesn’t say so, thank God. But then, Mima probably doesn’t want any more trouble. She’s been trying for days to get the raw egg off the wall but hasn’t asked me a single detail of how it got there.

  She props the mirror up on our dresser like a decoration and keeps dusting. A nervous giggle bubbles up from my stomach. Maybe she thinks my brother is still interested in playing army, a little boy lining up his GI Joes and plastic bombers. I hope so. It’s a sweeter thought than what he’s probably doing. Maybe this explains all the changes in Hector, though. That edginess, his all-nighters.

  I get dressed for work early and slip on the latest staple of my wardrobe. I wear a hooded sweatshirt to hide my hair. It was either that or Kathleen was going to get her hands on me with some Clairol.

  I slide the coke mirror inside my front pouch on my way out. I should be spending my time deciding where Pablo and I might have a next date without getting shot, not figuring out how to dispose of a coke mirror that my mother just shined with Windex.

  “I’m on until closing,” I call on my way out.

  “Cuidate, niña,” she says. She’s moved on to the egg stain again. “And ask Sal if he can give you daytime hours at the bodega. ¡Hay un loco!”

  Oh, good, the .44-Caliber Killer has crossed the language barrier. Even the ladies at Small’s Adhesives talk about him, trying to figure out who el loco might be. Mima is partial to the idea that the killer is one of Fidel’s international henchmen.

  I look up and down the block when I get outside, but Hector isn’t around. I’ll have to catch up with him later and see if he’ll tell me what’s really going on.

  Fat chance, but what can I do?

  I’m his older s
ister, as Mima is always reminding me. And if I don’t try to stop him, who will? Mima? (Ha!) Smoking — even smoking pot — is one thing, but snorting blow is way over the line, and frankly, it’s a little scary. Adriana is one of two people I know who have tried it. She stopped after a couple of times, though. “The hit makes you fly, but it doesn’t come cheap,” she told me once. “I have my priorities.” The other person is a girl named Carla, who snorted a hole right through her septum last year, no lie. She disappeared from school for six months — to where, nobody knows. Maybe rehab? When she came back, she had scabs on her nostrils, and she was so skinny we hardly recognized her. Nobody talks to her now.

  I go around the corner and make my planned pit stop. I bang on Sergio’s door.

  No one answers.

  I climb back up the stairs and sit down for a second, trying to decide what to do. Finally I opt to leave a message that even a dimwit like him will understand. Taking aim like a pitcher, I hurl the mirror against his door. It explodes into a hundred shards, just like Hector’s egg.

  Then, without waiting, I run.

  All afternoon, it’s pretty quiet at Sal’s. I doodle Pablo’s name on the edge of the newspaper I keep at the register to kill time. Sal is sitting on an overturned crate on the sidewalk with Mr. Farina. They take their afternoon coffee outside now that the weather is finally getting nice. Most days, they’re like two old ladies, arguing or reminiscing. But today, they’re not talking about the Mets or how the block of stores has changed over the years. The .44-Caliber Killer is on their minds, too, same as everyone else’s.

  I can hear their whole conversation from here.

  Sal thinks he’s got to be a deranged vet from Vietnam, somebody who could work that powerful gun.

  Mr. Farina argues that the killer is just cold-blooded, and he lives somewhere close. For a sweet grandfather type, he’s got some pretty grim theories.

  “He might be right under our noses,” he says. “I’ve been checking my prescription records just in case.”

  “Clean your glasses good when you’re checking, okay?” Sal says. “You’re getting blind as a bat, friend.”

  I try to block them out, but maybe Mr. Farina isn’t too far off. You’ve got to look fairly normal to dodge the police for months, right? What if I’ve bagged this psycho’s groceries? Cashed out his milk and bread?

  Pablo startles me out of nowhere.

  “Wait for me after we close,” he says, stopping at my register. His eyes drift to my doodles before I can shut the newspaper. “I think about you, too.”

  I’m melting. Ave Maria purisima, he’s going to ask me out again. Now what? I am dying to say yes, but the thought of a .44 in my face comes out of nowhere.

  “Back to work, Romeo,” Sal calls from the sidewalk. “I got my eye on you.”

  “Just sweeping up, boss.” Pablo wiggles his eyebrows at me and pushes his broom along the aisle to the back of the store.

  A little while later, the bells on the door jangle.

  It’s Hector, and he looks pissed. Well, that didn’t take long. I fold my arms and brace myself as he marches over to my register.

  “Where is it?” he says.

  “Lower your voice.” There are no customers in the shop, but his voice can carry. I lock the register and pull him away toward the last aisle, out of view.

  “I want the mirror,” he says. “Why were you going through my stuff, anyway?”

  “Nobody was going through your stuff. Mima found it while she was cleaning. Excellent hiding skills, by the way.”

  “Gimme it,” he says. “It’s Sergio’s.”

  “Figures. Don’t worry, I gave it back,” I say. “He might even be done gluing it back together by now.” I take a step closer and whisper. “That loser is going to mess you up, you know that?”

  Hector grabs my wrist and squeezes until I wince.

  “Why did you do that, Nora?” he asks.

  I stare up at him, trying to see the little kid inside as his nails dig deep into my skin. He’s never actually put a hand on me before.

  “Let. Go,” I say. “We’re in public. People will see.” But he only squeezes harder, and I feel my knees start to buckle.

  Just then, I hear footsteps running toward us. Pablo races in our direction from the top of the aisle.

  “Hey!” he shouts.

  With all my might, I wrench free from Hector’s grip. “Get out of here,” I growl.

  But Pablo reaches us too soon. Before I can stop him, he shoves Hector hard and sends him flying back into the shelves. Cans topple and roll everywhere. “Hands off her!” He looks at me. “Are you okay?”

  I stand there, holding my breath. What can I possibly say? So far, there’s been no reason to tell Pablo anything about Mima or Hector. He only knows that I have a brother, that we share a room, nothing else.

  “Fuck you,” Hector says, getting back on his feet. He lunges for Pablo, but not before Pablo clocks him hard in the jaw.

  “Stop! He’s my brother!” I shout, getting between them.

  Pablo stares at me. “Your brother?”

  “It’s nothing. He’s leaving.”

  Just then, Sal and Mr. Farina run back inside. They’ve heard the commotion. Sal looks at the three of us and then at the merchandise on the floor. His face is stern, and he suddenly seems the size of a mountain.

  “Got a problem here, Mr. Wonderful?” he asks, his eyes boring down on Hector with a hard look.

  Hector’s cheeks are blotchy, and he’s bleeding from the lip. He points at Pablo. “Keep your fucking hands off me, man. And fuck you, too, Nora.”

  Mr. Farina goes bright red.

  “Watch the mouth!” Sal roars.

  But Hector doesn’t listen. He swings open the door and storms out.

  In the long quiet that follows, I pray to be sucked underground. Trágame tierra, I say to myself in shame. Anything would be better than standing here with my lousy life suddenly on display. No one — not even Kathleen — knows all the details of Mima and Hector these days, or that it’s getting worse. It’s too embarrassing to share, for one thing. How can you make people understand about brothers who hit and spit? How do you explain why you listen at your own front door before going in? How do you explain that it’s not only parents who beat kids, but sometimes the other way around, too?

  You can’t. At least not without feeling like the word LOWLIFE is stuck to your forehead.

  I walk back to the register as calmly as I can. I don’t dare rub at my wrist, although it stings in the spots where Hector dug in his nails. I’m fighting to keep tears inside. If I make it look like a big deal, then it will be.

  “I should get back to the shop,” Mr. Farina says quietly. “Matt’s probably done cleaning up by now.”

  Sal signals Pablo to pick up the cans and then gives me a long look over his glasses. “Looks like the kid is having some bad days, Nora.” He waits for me to answer. “I see him up the street a lot, you know.”

  For a second, I want to crumble inside a bear hug, let someone else, someone grown, take the load. But I keep my eyes on the ground instead. Sal hates tears, I tell myself. And who wants to wade into a gross family hell like mine?

  “He’s just being a jerk,” I finally say. “It passes.”

  Pablo picks up the cans from the floor and stacks a few of the dented ones on the counter. He’s probably wondering about what sort of trashy girl he might be dating.

  “He grabbed you pretty hard, Nora,” he mumbles.

  Suddenly I’m angry. Can’t he see he’s making me feel worse?

  “He’s a kid.” I reach into the drawer and break open a roll of dimes I don’t need. “It didn’t even hurt.”

  I give him a cold look, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave me alone, but he stands firm. Finally I realize I’ll have to close the door another way.

  “It’s not really your business, anyway,” I say without meeting his eye.

  Pablo’s face is a stone. He glances at Sal for
a second, but finally walks up the aisle, an icy silence in his wake.

  I don’t wait for him at closing time after all.

  “Is this a joke?” Kathleen asks.

  “No.”

  “But why on earth would you want to end it with Pablo?” Kathleen asks me in desperation. “You’re not making sense. You just started dating him, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.” She folds up another pair of jeans and gives me an exasperated look.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think we’re right for each other, that’s all.”

  “Oh, bull. You’ve gone on two real dates; how would you even know? Besides, gorgeous is right for everybody. What’s wrong with you? Live a little!”

  I’ve been helping Kathleen pack for what she calls her “kidnapping.” The MacInerneys own an old bungalow in Breezy Point, out by the Rockaways, and they’re spending Easter break there, same as always. It’s a one-room box on stilts that used to belong to Mrs. MacInerney’s grandmother. To say it’s a fixer-upper is generous. There’s always something going wrong there. If it’s not a leaky faucet or stuck windows, it’s missing or broken doors. It sits in the middle of a ridiculously narrow street, too, so if you stick your arm out the window you can graze the bungalow next door. Still, it’s a nice place to go, nestled between Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic. At night you can sit barefoot on the deck eating watermelon and watching sunburned guys lug beer coolers to the shore. As “kidnappings” go, it’s not bad.

  I’m not going this time, though. Sal scheduled me all week, and awkward as it’s going to be with Pablo, I can use the cash. Now more than ever, I want to save enough dough to get out.

  Kathleen sits on the bed and sighs. “You sure you can’t come? Please? I’ll die of boredom with my parents.” Kathleen lobbied hard to stay home, but her parents put the kibosh on the whole idea. First, there’s the .44-Caliber Killer, but they also know Eddie is lurking, so no dice.

  “You will not. Work on your base tan,” I tell her. The long winter has left her roughly the color of Elmer’s glue. “Besides, I have to work.”