Burn Baby Burn

by Meg Medina

  She sighs. “He’s okay.”

  I knew it. There aren’t many sparks on her side. His biggest perk seems to be his new summer job at Carvel. Still, free cones don’t make up for lousy chemistry.

  “Has that even come up?” I ask.

  “We’re talking about Eddie, here, Nora. He’s a total horn toad. Something’s always ‘coming up.’”

  We giggle. “Well, that’s his problem, not yours,” I say. “If you’re not into him, why bother? He might be an asshole in disguise. Remember Angel.”

  “Because I sort of hate going off to college as a virgin. I feel too young or something. It’s pathetic.”

  I flick tiny shells in the sand. “It’s not pathetic.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve left the Society of Virgins.”

  “So trust the Voice of My Shitty Experience. It sucks to do it with somebody you don’t care about.”

  “Why? Guys do it that way all the time,” she says. “Maybe we shouldn’t care. It would be easier.” She leans up on her elbow and lowers her voice. “So, did you and Pablo do it?”

  Hearing his name still stings. “No. And I’m glad.”

  “You didn’t want to do it with him?” she whispers. “You must be superhuman. He’s such a fox.”

  “I did want to. Don’t be stupid. But now I’m glad we didn’t. It would have been even more complicated to break up with him.”

  She takes a sip of her beer and shrugs. “So what are you going to do now? You have to see him every day at work.”

  “There’s nothing to do. We broke up. Period. Life goes on.”

  But Kathleen is right about things feeling awkward. Pablo tried to call a couple of times after our fight, but I wedged a cold space between us with one-word answers until he finally stopped.

  “So, it’s over?” she asks.

  “It’s over.”

  “And you’re glad?”

  “We’re just not right for each other, Kathleen.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, that again.”

  “Back to Eddie,” I say.

  She stares up at the sky. “Okay, okay, so if you did it, what position would you pick?”

  “God, Kathleen.”

  “Tell me.”

  I glance at her uncomfortably, remembering the times we read The Joy of Sex that she sneaked from under her mother’s bed.

  “Who knows? It all looks kind of tricky.”

  She giggles again. “Yeah, that’s supposed to be the fun.”

  “You know what’s not fun? Babies. Especially babies with Eddie. You need birth control.”

  “Killjoy.”

  We stay quiet for a while, listening to one song after another. After my time with Angel, I panicked for a whole month until my period. I know Kathleen will worry about the same. Nobody wants a kid, but nobody wants their mother to find out they went to the Planned Parenthood clinic, either. For all the ways that Kathleen’s mom is a women’s libber, she’s also a strict Catholic. Birth control is touchy, and abortion is absolutely out. Where does that leave us? Going to our regular doctors for the pill? Oh, sure. Dr. De Los Santos still has teddy bears and balloons on his office wallpaper. The thought of him writing me a prescription for birth control nearly makes my head explode.

  We turn over on our stomachs and lie there looking at each other the way we used to when we were little. Back then we’d tell each other secrets during sleepovers. Who we liked. If we’d cheated on the spelling quiz. Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.

  “Friedmor found me in the hall. She wants to know why you aren’t coming to graduation,” she says.

  “She’s so nosy.”

  There’s a long silence. “So, why aren’t you?”

  “What’s the big deal about walking across the stage in a hot auditorium to get a piece of paper?” I say. “I can’t believe they even make us rehearse that.”

  Kathleen stares at me, waiting.

  “Besides, I tossed the tickets already.”

  “You threw them out? Very cold.”

  “Don’t be mad,” I say.

  “I’m not,” she says, “but I don’t know why my best friend won’t tell me why she’s really skipping graduation.” She pulls up on her elbows. “You’ve been kind of sad for a while, Nora. What’s up?”

  I wonder — if a liar like me can be a true friend? I pinch the sand between my fingers, thinking about how lies and secrets disguise themselves as each other, how they cost you things that matter. I’ve known Kathleen since kindergarten, and she deserves better.

  “It’s just a stupid ceremony with a silly gown so you can get your picture taken with your family. And my family isn’t like yours, Kathleen,” I say at last. All those things she takes for granted: sweet nicknames, rules, chores, harmless arguments, everything beautifully predictable.

  “So?”

  “So they’d suck the joy out of graduation, and I don’t want to deal with it.”

  “How could anyone possibly suck the joy out of this? We’re finally getting out of school after twelve years of hard labor.”

  “We fight all the time.”

  “Whose family doesn’t fight?”

  I hold my breath for a second, trying not to imagine Hector’s elbow compressing my throat. “Not like this. It’s not like fighting with people you love. It’s different. Meaner.”

  This is the closest I can come to the truth.

  She waits for me to add something, but I can’t think of what to say that won’t make me feel dirtier than I do.

  We lie there for a long while, seagulls shrieking overhead. Kids laugh somewhere in the distance, making me think suddenly of us when we were little. Kathleen with her blond braids, and me, a faster runner, the more serious of the two, older than her by a day.

  We’ll be eighteen and legal next month. For years we’ve waited to be grown, but now that it’s time to cross the chasm, I don’t want to let go of the things we shared. When Kathleen leaves for school, there won’t be any more dance moves in her bedroom or Gloria to feed or guys to consider. There won’t be any more MacInerney dinner discussions and forced volunteer gigs that we pretend to hate. I won’t tail Mr. Mac to learn how to make repairs or help set the table like I belong to them. The only family I’ve ever really wanted will be gone.

  I manage a smile, even though thinking of all those good times makes me want to sob. “Hey,” I tell her. “I’m going inside to see about fixing that screen door for your dad.”

  Kathleen pulls down her sunglasses and nestles into the sand with a sigh. “You know where he keeps the tools,” she says. “Have at it.”

  Adiós, high school.

  Graduation day is tomorrow, so it’s time to turn in the last of my textbooks and all my final projects. The whole school looks summer-bald. Nothing is tacked to the bulletin boards. Wobbly desks and chairs are stacked in the hall and tagged for repair.

  The only thing I’ll miss around here will be Mr. Melvin. He actually got emotional when he said good-bye to me, at least by his standards. He put all the senior projects on the worktable and gave us a long speech about how you have to mess up a lot in life and in wood shop to get the product you’re really proud of.

  “Onward, Nora López,” he told me, saluting.

  I turn the corner and step into the library. Book carts surround Ms. Friedmor. Her Student Council minions are helping check everything back into the storage room.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Nora,” she says when she spots me.

  Thanks to Kathleen, I’m ready when she starts in about skipping graduation.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to join your friends and celebrate this accomplishment? You can still change your mind.”

  I hand her back my battered English book. I don’t have the heart to tell her that showing up for school and passing tests isn’t an accomplishment. Living inside Mima and Hector’s drama: now, that’s the real trial.

  “I’m sure,” I tell her. “Besides, my mom is
working. She’d have to miss it anyway.” Not true, but a good touch.

  She purses her lips. “I haven’t heard from your parents regarding summer options for your brother.”

  I ignore the comment. “Big news, though. I got into New York City Community.”

  Ricky pipes up from the pile of science books. “Where you study hammering and welding?” He gives a little snort. “Who doesn’t get into tech school?”

  I give him a dirty look. He’s sporting a Fordham T-shirt to show off, but how smart can he be? He can’t even figure out why the books he’s stacking won’t stay on the cart.

  “The wheel’s swivel plate is shot, genius,” I say as a few more books tumble to the floor. “Maybe you should take some courses at NYCCC.”

  Ms. Friedmor tries to stifle a smile. “It’s a fine construction program,” she says. “Don’t undervalue what it offers. And I for one think it’s fantastic to have women entering nontraditional fields.”

  She flips through the textbook to make sure I haven’t written in it or torn out pages.

  “Promise me that you won’t forget to pick up the course description guide over the summer. You’ll need it to plan for registration in August. I’ve gotten you this far, but the rest is up to you.”

  I smile as she hands me the book receipt. GOOD CONDITION.

  “Take care, Nora,” she tells me. “Remember to reach. You’ll surprise yourself.”

  What does that even mean?

  “Bye, Ms. Friedmor. And thanks.”

  There is a merciful God after all.

  Graduation day, and I have the whole apartment to myself.

  Mima must be at the Laundromat, which means she’ll be gone for at least a couple of hours, even longer if she’s got a cleaning gig after, as I suspect. Her bucket of supplies is missing, so I’m hopeful.

  I take my cereal bowl to the living room and sift through my records for a while. I’m finally about to drop the Trammps on my turntable when the phone rings. I won’t lie. There’s a part of me that hopes it’s Pablo, even if I’d never admit it to Kathleen. I have to keep reminding myself that Hector fulfills the jerk quotient in my life for now.

  More likely, it’s Papi making a bonus call. What’s he going to tell me? That he’s in the Hamptons? That he’s bought Pierre a new plastic pail and shovel for the beach? I suddenly think of Mr. Melvin’s heartfelt speech this morning about practice and mistakes, and I realize something new. Maybe Hector and I are Papi’s practice kids, where he made all his mistakes. The only difference is that he can’t totally throw us away. Still, we won’t ever measure up. It’s Pierre that’s Papi’s accomplishment, not us.

  I let the phone ring until it dies. Then I yank the cord out of the jack of our Western Electric 500. Phone trouble. Sorry, Papi.

  I place the needle on the LP.

  The trumpets blare down the scale to start the song. I turn it up and close my eyes, imagining a rooftop party. I start to move until soon Freddie Prinze appears in my mind. He’s alive and gorgeous. He twirls me to all the corners of our apartment, whispering in my ear, “Looking good, Nora!”

  I shake my body, feel his love in my bones for exactly who I am. I don’t have to tell Freddie lies. I don’t have to know if I’m going to work or going to college. I don’t have to worry he’ll think I’m shit because of my family. He knows how hard it is to keep up a show, how tough it is some days to hang on.

  I grab our broom the way I did when I was five and dance and dance until my heart is pounding. When the music’s done, I flop on the couch, out of breath, dizzy. All I can think of is the time Mima found me dancing with a broom. I was only seven and already in love with Peter Tork of The Monkees. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she cleaned the dust off my teeth with the edge of her dress and told me to find something else to play. El amor, she said, would only make me suffer.

  Of all the crazy advice Mima has given me over the years, it figures that this time she was right. I close my eyes as the needle skips on the dead wax, missing Pablo all over again.

  HELLO FROM THE CRACKS IN THE SIDEWALKS OF NYC AND FROM THE ANTS THAT DWELL IN THESE CRACKS AND FEED IN THE DRIED BLOOD OF THE DEAD THAT HAS SETTLED INTO THE CRACKS.

  Son of Sam has found his inner poet, I guess. Jimmy Breslin at the New York Daily News got this one from him yesterday. That’s why we’ve sold out of every copy of the paper before noon, except for the one that Annemarie swiped for her collection. Normally people would be yapping about Joe Frazier getting canned as the Mets’ manager, but not today. People have been streaming in all morning, still dressed in their Sunday clothes. They toss change at me, not even waiting to step outside the deli door before opening the paper wide to see what the serial killer has to say.

  HELLO FROM THE GUTTERS OF NYC, WHICH IS FILLED WITH DOG MANURE, VOMIT, STALE WINE, URINE, AND BLOOD. HELLO FROM THE SEWERS OF NYC WHICH SWALLOW UP THESE DELICACIES WHEN THEY ARE WASHED AWAY BY THE SWEEPER TRUCKS. DON’T THINK BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T HEARD [FROM ME] FOR A WHILE THAT I WENT TO SLEEP. NO, RATHER, I AM STILL HERE. LIKE A SPIRIT ROAMING THE NIGHT. THIRSTY, HUNGRY, SELDOM STOPPING TO REST; ANXIOUS TO PLEASE SAM . . .

  I stand at the cash register, trying to concentrate on the rambling poem again. Pablo pushes a broom along each aisle. When I look up, he’s staring at me like he wants to say something. I turn the page and force myself to keep reading.

  The next night, I sit up, terrified, slapping at imaginary ants that march across my bloody arms. My nightgown is soaked with my sweat as I catch my breath, waiting for the fan to turn in my direction and offer a few seconds of breeze. Is it the heat or the nightmare that finally wakes me?

  No. Someone is knocking at the door.

  Mima hears it, too. She comes to my bedroom in her thin nightgown, her eyes wide with worry. It’s almost four a.m. When I look across the room, I realize that Hector isn’t in his bed yet. He wouldn’t knock, though. He would have let himself in with his key.

  “Cuidado,” Mima says as we tiptoe to the door. She slides on the chain and then looks through the peephole. Her face darkens.

  “La comunista,” she whispers.

  Stiller, she means.

  There’s a louder knock that makes us jump. Mima tries to still my hand as I start to unlatch the chain.

  “Stop,” I say, and open up.

  Stiller is in slippers and a nightshirt. Her head is wrapped

  in a silk kerchief.

  “You better get down here,” she whispers.

  “¿Qué dice?”

  Stiller looks from Mima to me. “Your brother is in the stairwell. And he’s out of it.”

  I’m still barefoot as we run downstairs. Mima can’t help pulling in her breath when she sees him. Hector is crawling on all fours on the first landing. Even from here, the smell of vomit is overpowering. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. He’s flying as high as I’ve ever seen anyone.

  “¡Ay, Dios mio!” Mima says, dropping to her knees. “¿Hijo, qué te pasa?”

  “He was trying to put his key in my lock,” Stiller whispers. “The noise woke me up.”

  Hector struggles to his feet and leans against the wall. He pulls out his cigarette and lighter, flipping his wrist uselessly until his Zippo flies out of his hand and goes clattering across the hallway floor. His face is soft and dreamy, and you could almost like him, until he raises his middle finger in a dazed salute.

  Mima props herself under one of Hector’s arms. She motions to me for help, even as he tries to shake her away. “Get off me,” he says, slurring. “Get off.”

  Stiller reaches for my arm to stop me. “Get him to the hospital. I can take you.” She turns to Mima. “¿Hospitál?”

  But Mima only looks at Stiller with pure venom in her eyes, as if finding Hector at her door is the most insulting thing she could have done to us.

  “Es una borrachera, na’mas,” Mima insists, although I don’t smell any alcohol on him at all. Then she turns to me. “Nora!” Her voice is sharp. “Tu hermano.”

  T
here’s not going to be any hospital, of course. A hospital means questions. It means that others will think we’re not good people. It means that our neighbors will whisper about us when we go by.

  I can’t read Stiller’s expression as I sling my brother’s arm over my shoulder. Mima and I lead him to the stairs, his dead weight between us. He stinks of cigarettes and puke and sweat, and the smell seems to grow worse as we climb higher into the heat of the building.

  When we finally get him to our floor, I realize that Stiller has climbed the stairs from a distance behind us. She holds our door open with her foot and watches from the threshold as we drag Hector into the kitchen and drop him into a chair.

  “Don’t you lock this door,” she tells me. “I’m waiting out here in case you need me.”

  I’m out of breath, and I can smell my brother’s body odor on my shoulders. Mima pops ice cubes from a tray and wraps them in a dish towel to hold to his head.

  “Why are you just standing there?” she snaps. She unbuttons his shirt and yanks it off him. “¡Ayúdame!”

  Stiller is right. Without a hospital, he might die. I know that, and yet I help her hold up his head as she sticks her fingers down his throat to force a vomit.

  Hector heaves and drools over and over again until I finally don’t see his head lolling or the dreamy gaze of his high. I don’t see the boy who played Clue or even the one who pressed against my throat in an alley. He’s somebody I don’t know.

  Mima and I sit up all night, making sure he’s breathing and cleaning up as he vomits all he has inside. Son of Sam’s poem goes round and round in my mind as I doze in the chair.

  HELLO FROM THE GUTTERS OF NYC, WHICH IS FILLED WITH DOG MANURE, VOMIT, STALE WINE, URINE, AND BLOOD. HELLO FROM THE SEWERS OF NYC WHICH SWALLOW UP THESE DELICACIES WHEN THEY ARE WASHED AWAY BY THE SWEEPER TRUCKS.

  When it’s time for work, I get dressed and tie up my hair, ignoring the faint scent of pine disinfectant in my skin, the feel of Stiller’s eyes on me as I go by her door without a word.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Sal calls to me when I step behind the register. “How you feeling today?”