Burn Baby Burn

by Meg Medina

  Pablo stops what he’s doing and turns.

  I don’t know what to say to either of them. For the life of me, I just don’t feel anything at all.

  I hitch up my tube top, an early birthday present to myself from Janice Shop on Roosevelt. Even with the sun going down, it feels like I’m wearing a lot of clothes, though. It’s a freaking broiler out here.

  The little kids on the block are still out playing tag, but the lightning bugs are starting to blink, so they’re almost out of time. Once the streetlights click on, we’ll have a ghost town. Around here we always used to hang out on the stoop until midnight to keep cool. But not this summer. We’re all on house arrest thanks to Son of Sam.

  “God, why won’t it cool down?” Kathleen says, leaning back against the windshield of Stiller’s Malibu. We’re currently using it as a chaise lounge. Kathleen’s hair is piled high on her head, little blond curls by her temples.

  Before I can answer, the lobby doors open.

  Manny. He points in our direction.

  “Off the car, girls! You know the rules.”

  Kathleen gives him her lawyer look. “I’m not aware of any such rule, sir,” she says.

  “There’s a rule against loitering and disrespecting property,” Manny says. “And I made it.”

  “Disrespecting property?” I study Stiller’s car. It’s got a plastic sheet for a side window, and one of its doors is a totally different color from the rest. The seat springs are poking through. Stiller herself calls it a heap.

  “I don’t know, Manny,” I say. “I think we might actually make this car look better. Kathleen’s a model, you know.”

  She poses coyly.

  “Beautiful. Now, off,” he says.

  “Leave them alone,” Stiller calls from the stoop. She has her shorts rolled up high on her skinny legs like denim underwear. She’s been working all day moving back into her apartment. “Who are they hurting?”

  “You making the rules here, Stiller?” he asks. “It’s an eyesore. Next thing you know, we’ll have people playing dice out here.”

  “So what? A little cee-lo never hurt anybody.”

  Manny turns bright red and looks back at us, glaring.

  Sighing, Kathleen grabs her radio and slides to the ground. The backs of her track shorts are streaked with hood grime.

  “And lower the radio, too,” he says. “This isn’t a disco.”

  “Yes, warden,” Kathleen mumbles as we head to the stoop.

  Satisfied, Manny turns back to what he came out to do in the first place: tape the latest sketch of Son of Sam to the lobby doors.

  “Oh, good,” Stiller says, fanning herself. “New artwork for the lobby.”

  The new police sketch is everywhere now. It’s the fourth version so far, and none of them look the same. This one is on the Q12’s fare box. At the library. Inside Sal’s meat case next to the weekly specials. At the candy-store register, where some clown has drawn a mustache on the face.

  He’s a pale guy with dark, curly hair and thick eyebrows. He’s nobody, anybody, everybody. And that’s the trouble. You can imagine him everywhere. Was he pressing his face against the glass at Thom McAn Shoes? Or did I give him change at Sal’s? Was he straphanging next to me on the bus? If I squint he even looks a little like Pablo, but then, these days, much as I hate to admit it, I sort of see Pablo everywhere, too.

  Kathleen wipes the sweat from her forehead and checks her watch. We’ve been waiting for the ice-cream truck, but it hasn’t come down the street. Just then, we hear Mr. Mac’s loud whistle, surprisingly powerful for just using two fingers. It’s Kathleen’s signal to get home soon. He does that every night now if he isn’t working.

  “Does he think I’m a dog?” she grumbles. “I need something cold or I’m going to die.” She looks over at Stiller pleadingly. “How about a ride to Carvel?” That’s the ice-cream shop where Eddie works. He always gives us free cones, but it’s too far to reach walking.

  “I’ll lose my parking spot,” Stiller says.

  “There’s a chocolate soft-serve in it for you,” Kathleen counters.

  “I’ll get my keys.”

  I’m riding in the backseat as Stiller’s car creaks and groans its way along. Even with the windows rolled down, I’m dying against the hot vinyl. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a smell of dead squirrel in here, too. I don’t say so, though. I’ve been trying to keep my distance from Stiller since Hector’s puke-fest at her door. To her credit, she hasn’t hassled me about it once.

  The floor is littered with old flyers and petitions, broken pens, and a stack of magazines. One catches my eye. It’s that back issue of Ms. magazine that everyone buzzed about last summer. A woman’s face is on the cover, and she has a black eye.

  BATTERED WIVES: THE SECRET VICTIM NEXT DOOR.

  I close my eyes tight and try to concentrate on the hot breeze. Finally Stiller pulls into the lot and throws the car into park. Some Bayside girls gawk at us until Stiller says, “Problem?” I jump out as fast as I can.

  “With sprinkles,” she tells me.

  “Be right back.”

  There’s a line, but we wait patiently until it’s our turn.

  “Who’s next?” Eddie calls out. His paper hat is still crisp in all that refrigerated glory.

  Kathleen steps forward and puts a hand on her hip. “Hi.”

  Eddie takes one look at her in shorts and Dr. Scholl’s, and he starts to melt faster than one of his cones. He pulls off his silly paper hat. “Hi.”

  I hang back, trying not to be alive right now. They’re flirting and laughing, and the whole thing makes me sick. What’s worse than feeling like a third wheel, especially when your own love life is in ruins?

  Kathleen waves me over after a few minutes. She hands me my cone and the one for Stiller.

  “I was telling Eddie that we want to go dancing for our birthdays this weekend.”

  “I can probably get us passes to Eléphas,” he says.

  I give Kathleen a look. She knows Pablo hangs out there. “No, thanks,” I say.

  “Or the Arena,” she says quickly. “It’s got a bigger dance floor anyway.”

  “Sure,” Eddie adds. “No problem.” He’d probably say he could get us passes to Studio 54 if Kathleen said she wanted them, but whatever.

  “Maybe,” I say. A whole night as a tagalong isn’t my idea of fun.

  Kathleen gives me a look. “Not maybe. We’ve been planning an all-night dance party for our eighteenth birthdays since junior high. It’s happening.”

  I start to argue, but she cuts me off. “Don’t worry about a date, either. We can ask Ricky.”

  I give her a withering stare. “Ricky? Student Council Tight-Ass Ricky? No, thanks.”

  “He’s a great dancer,” she says. “You don’t have to talk. Just move.”

  “I have to get this to Stiller.” I escape just as a rivulet of chocolate slides along my arm.

  I walk back to the car and hand the cone through the window. She’s been watching us, amused.

  “So,” she says, chuckling, “what’s she jivin’ about?” She bites straight into her scoop.

  “Going dancing. We’re turning eighteen this weekend, remember?”

  I take a bite of my ice cream, too, but a brain freeze grabs hold.

  “Eighteen, huh?” Stiller chuckles. “It’s going to be a long-ass summer for your parents.”

  The mention of parents makes me cringe. The last thing I want to talk about is Mima or the night Stiller came knocking.

  No luck, though.

  “Oh, I’ve been meaning to give you this,” she says.

  She bangs hard on her glove compartment until it falls open. Then she hands me Hector’s Zippo lighter from inside. I’d forgotten that he dropped it that night.

  “He doesn’t need that back,” I tell her. “He’s got plenty. Probably too many.”

  She takes another bite. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  What does she mean? I wonder a
s I pretend to concentrate on my ice cream. “I’m sorry he bothered you, by the way,” I say. “Puberty has him by the balls these days, I guess.”

  “That’s not puberty, Nora.” She says it quietly, never taking her eyes from Kathleen and Eddie. “Not what I’m hearing through the heating pipes, anyway.”

  It’s as if my brain freeze has extended all the way to my toes. This is absolutely not the conversation I want to have with Stiller or anybody else. Where the hell is Kathleen? I wave at her, annoyed.

  “Well, I’m moving out soon. Whatever it is, I’m out of here.”

  Stiller turns to me at last. “Yeah, you can go, Miss Eighteen-and-Legal. But you can also take a stand, even when you’re scared. If you think you’re powerless, you are.”

  Kathleen runs back and jumps in the front seat. “Sorry. We were working out the details.” She gives us a weird look. Something is in the air, and she can tell. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Stiller turns the ignition and glances at me as she backs up the car.

  “The damn heat on all of us, child. What else?” she says.

  Naturally Papi forgets my birthday.

  Mima bakes me a yellow cake, and even though it’s frosted with cement-like merengue, I slice a piece for breakfast.

  Sal is still grumpy over Tom Seaver getting traded to the Reds, but he tries to be festive anyway. He sticks a candle in half a ham-and-provolone hero for my lunch and croons “Happy Birthday” with Annemarie.

  But it isn’t until closing time that I find a little box inside the cash register.

  When I open it, I find a tiny disco ball on a silver chain. There’s a folded note.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NORA — P

  It takes us hours to beautify at Kathleen’s. I brought my sleepover stuff in a bag, and now it’s spread all over her bed. My hair is gathered up high, and big hoop earrings graze my neck. Our lips glisten with the same shade, Cherry Bomb.

  At eleven o’clock, we finally head downstairs. Mr. Mac glances up from the TV. He takes one look at Kathleen’s metallic halter top and high heels, and he shoots to his feet.

  “You’re going out like that?” he asks.

  “I am.” She touches up her lipstick in the mirror over the mantle.

  “Mary!”

  I smooth down my wraparound skirt and close the dip in my bodysuit a bit. Pablo’s necklace sparkles at the V.

  Mrs. MacInerney comes out from the kitchen and stops in her tracks. “Oh.” Her eyes travel to the deep neckline in Kathleen’s top. I warned Kathleen that the shirt might be a problem, but she said turning eighteen made it fine. “Well. You look so grown.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Mac exchange uncomfortable looks. “Are you sure you don’t want Dad to give you all a ride?”

  “What a perfect way to welcome adulthood,” Kathleen quips. “Letting your daddy drive you.”

  Just then, the doorbell rings. It’s Eddie and Ricky, looking like disco-perfect bookends in the doorway.

  “Hello, sir.” Eddie sticks out his hand. He’s in white flare pants and a wide-collar shirt. He takes one look at Kathleen and beams, but for once he has the sense not to drool for too long.

  “Hello,” I say to Ricky. His platforms are almost as high as mine. It makes me wish for Pablo even more.

  “I want you girls home by three,” Mr. Mac tells Kathleen.

  “There are no girls here, Dad. Just women.” Kathleen grabs her clutch purse and gives him a face. “And, no-can-do on three a.m. Sorry. Nobody even starts dancing until midnight, and we’re going to have breakfast at the Blue Fountain Diner after.” She starts to head for the door.

  “Three or nothing at all, Kathleen Elizabeth. And no hanging out in the car.” Mr. Mac looks at Eddie. “Not at all.”

  Kathleen’s cheeks go red. She turns to her mother with a determined look. “Mother, this is ridiculous. I’m of age. Talk to him.”

  Mrs. MacInerney frowns at Kathleen. “You are, but three is fair, Kathleen. Especially when you consider everything that’s been going on.”

  Kathleen looks about to explode, but suddenly Ricky turns up the charm. “My dad is a police officer, ma’am,” he says reasonably. “I understand your concerns. We checked this afternoon. The Arena has put extra security guards outside the club.”

  God, all those years on Student Council have had an upside for Ricky after all. He can now bullshit like a pro. Ricky’s dad, I happen to know, is a mason. He always brags about how his dad once ate lunch on the gargoyle ledge of the Chrysler Building.

  Mr. Mac is no fool, though. He holds up three fingers. “Three thirty a.m. Best offer and nonnegotiable.”

  Kathleen glares at him, but Mrs. MacInerney just steps forward and gives us each a kiss.

  “Happy birthday, ladies,” she calls from the door as we head to Eddie’s car. “Have fun!”

  It’s drizzling when we get to the Arena. As it turns out, it’s true that there are extra security guards outside. But as soon as we flash our IDs and step inside, all worries are forgotten.

  The club pulses with strobe lights, and the walls seem to shake with the heavy bass of “Car Wash.” Lounges and couches are arranged at different levels around the dance floor, so people can drink and watch the action. The light show is amazing. Every hustle breaks into silver-plated moves as DJ Vic melts one song into the next without skipping a beat. His head bobs into his headphones as he works the turntables, turning “Boogie Nights” into “Do What You Wanna Do” by T-Connection.

  We don’t even stop at the bar. Instead, the four of us elbow our way to the dance floor right away and start moving to the bongos and singing to the chorus.

  In no time, I’m lost in the beat. The air is thick with Charlie perfume, cigarettes, and sweat as we spin and bump. The light show pulses in time, brightening the smoky haze suspended above us. At this point, I don’t even mind Ricky. Just as Kathleen promised, he is a great dancer, completely uninhibited. All around, people watch as we move, and I notice that one guy in particular is locked on me. No matter where I go, he’s watching from his spot on one of the couches. Part of me likes his gaze, but a little voice inside me wonders if he’s a creep.

  It doesn’t take long to find out.

  “I need the john,” Ricky shouts over the music.

  We walk off the dance floor, and he drops me off at the bar to get us something to drink. I’m sweating, and strands of my hair have fallen loose around my face.

  “You look hot.” Mystery Guy is at my elbow.

  He’s cute, but his eyes are glassy, and his voice is slow and dumb. What a turnoff. “It’s from the dancing.” I wave at the bartender, but he completely ignores me.

  “It’s noisy in here,” Mystery Guy says, leaning close to me. “You want to come outside?”

  I look for Kathleen, but she and Eddie are still on the dance floor.

  “I’m getting a drink,” I say. “And waiting for my friend. So, no.”

  “Is he your old man?”

  I don’t answer and wave at the bartender again.

  I wonder suddenly if Pablo is at Eléphas tonight, if he ever uses pickup lines like this or if girls giggle and hang on him, stoned, like the pack across the bar.

  Mystery Guy leans over and fixes his eyes on my necklace and then, of course, my boobs. “I’ve got some good shit with me,” he says, smiling. “And I’m willing to share with the right chick.” He opens his palm to reveal a fat joint.

  “You need somebody else,” I say just as the bartender arrives. “Two rum and cokes.”

  As soon as I spot Ricky, I bolt in his direction like he’s the love of my life.

  The porch light is on when we pull in, right at three thirty. There’s movement in the front curtain and a shadow.

  “How long you think he’s been standing there?”

  Kathleen rolls her eyes. “All night, probably.”

  Ricky and I sit there awkwardly as Kathleen kisses Eddie good night. Thankfully, it’s quick.

  “I know you wait
ed up, Dad,” Kathleen calls as we step through the side door. “Stop hiding and come have breakfast.”

  The wood floors creak, and Mr. Mac comes out, scratching his head, shamefaced. “How are the two dancing queens?”

  Our lipstick is worn off. Our hair is down, and we’re barefoot. “Absolutely great,” I say.

  Kathleen pulls out a pan while I grab eggs, bacon, and bread from the refrigerator.

  “Fried or scrambled?” she asks her dad, melting down butter.

  “Shhh. Don’t wake your mother,” he says.

  We cook up a feast in no time. But as soon as we sit down to eat, the police scanner lights up. The sputtering chatter on one of the channels gets insistent. Mr. Mac starts to turn it down, but then the dispatcher’s flat voice comes through the static.

  It’s not the firehouse. It’s the police station in Bayside.

  There’s been a shooting at the Eléphas discotheque.

  “Code 10-34S. Victim, female, seventeen. Victim, male, twenty. Shot at close range. Coupe de Ville, maroon, 1972. Suspect, white male, seen fleeing on foot toward Forty-Fifth Drive. All units, all units respond.”

  It has taken me forever to get here, sleepless, on two buses. Forty-five minutes plus a five-block walk. I feel like the disco walking dead.

  But here is the proof I need so that I can exhale.

  Pablo’s Camaro is parked in his driveway.

  He’s not hurt. Maybe he wasn’t even there tonight. Mr. Mac told me as much, but I didn’t dare believe him, even after he drove to Eléphas earlier to find out everything he could. Lupo and Placido, he told me. No one named Pablo Ruiz.

  I have only a few details. A couple outside Eléphas in a parked Coupe de Ville. A stranger shooting through the passenger side and running away. I’m already imagining it was Ralph’s car, the one Pablo says he loans out, the ones the girls like. I think of the Mystery Guy from the Arena and name him Lupo. He’s flirting, leaning in close to a girl at a bar. “Come out and take a look.”

  All that, but still I had to see this with my own eyes.

  His house is a tiny brick Tudor with a cat sitting in the window, washing itself. I keep hoping to see someone move around inside or to get a glimpse of Pablo himself, but everything is quiet.