by Bibi Belford
The smell of gorditas from the kitchen and the loud music from Danita’s bedroom makes it hard to focus on my reading homework. I try, but the words start swimming and I suddenly remember I hid my accident pants under a towel in the bathroom. I dance to Danita’s music all the way to the bathroom and all the way back. I throw the whole bundle in my dirty clothes bag.
Oh My Gatos! What stinks? Is it my dirty clothes? I quickly dance back to the bathroom and find some flowery smelling powder, then dump it in my dirty clothes bag to cover up the smell. FYI, I’ve never had an accident at school before, only when I’m sleeping, because I am a very sound sleeper. Mami says maybe those accidents are more frequent lately because of all the changes. The fire. The move. The new school. But she didn’t say Papi. So I said it. And she started crying.
And I hate crying. That was the last time I talked to her about Papi.
I grab my sketchbook and my new pencil and open the sliding door to our little balcony. Across the open space I can see a building identical to ours. Every balcony has the same gray metal fence around it. Every balcony has the same metal porch light. Boring. What if they painted every fence a different color? I start counting balconies. Sixty. So sixty plus sixty equals one hundred twenty. Perfect. I start to sketch the balconies.
My almost-friend Jazzy has a crayon box with 120 different colors. One hundred twenty! But what’s the best way to use those colors for the apartments? Keep the color shades together or scramble them? And how cool would it be to use a color name instead of a number for an apartment?
I practice answering someone who asks my address. “Well, yes. I live at Emerald Green North Ave. Unit Sky Blue or maybe Unit Macaroni and Cheese.” That’s the crayon I borrowed from Jazzy, BTW, and I really did mean to give it back, but then we moved. Sorry, Jazzy.
But what if you got stuck with a bad color name for your address? Burnt Umber. Or Asparagus.
“Well, I guess you should think twice about moving into a place with a bad color name, shouldn’t you?” I say out loud to myself.
“What’re you doing?” says a voice.
I whip around but I don’t see anybody.
“Over here,” says the voice.
And then I see the top of a hood on the balcony next to mine.
“Nothing. What’re you doing?” I say.
“Watching you,” says the voice.
“Why?”
“’Cause you’re talking to yourself.”
“So what did I say, then?” I ask.
“Think twice about moving into a place with a bad color name,” says the kid.
“You’ve got big ears, then, don’t you?” If there’s one thing I hate, it’s nosy people. Like Noodlenose Nancy. One more reason to miss my trailer. Nobody ever listened in on my private conversations.
“No, it’s my cochlear implants. Kind of like hearing aids,” says the kid.
“What?” I say.
“Cochlear implants, like hearing aids,” says the kid, again.
“What?” I say again.
“That’s funny. You’re funny. Want to come over?”
I didn’t mean to be funny. I meant to be annoying.
“Are you deaf?” I ask.
“Yes. I am. I can’t hear you but I can answer your questions,” says the kid.
“Ha. Now who’s funny? What’s your name?” It’s hard to see in the Deep Space Sparkle evening light. That’s another crayon color, BTW—from the Ultimate Crayon Collection.
“River,” says the kid.
Just then, Danita opens the sliding door a crack. “DeeDee, what are you doing out here? Dinner’s ready.”
“I gotta go,” I call to River in the dark and wave.
River puts up a hand to wave and instead separates four fingers into a V, and says, “Live long and prosper.”
Live long and prosper? That’s from Star Trek. My Papi’s favorite show. “Why’d you say that?” I yell. But River’s gone. Star Trek weirdo, I think.
•
I wake up on Tuesday morning and rush to take my second shower in eight hours. Yes, that’s why, but everyone has accidents, don’t they? I probably just drank too much water because I ate so many gorditas for dinner.
It’s going to be a sparkly rainbow T-shirt day. I know it. First days—always rough. Second days—usually better. And today I might meet someone to walk with on the way to school.
But I don’t see anyone. Just a few moms walking their kindergarten kids. But I do find room #13_ without any problems and I see DeeDee Diaz on a label above the coat hooks.
I hold my breath while Mrs. Cruella takes attendance. When she comes to my name, she stops and stares at me. We hold eyes for a second. Finally she says, “DeeDee Diaz?”
I breathe out. “Present,” I say.
Before the tardy bell even rings, we’re already kneedeep in the poetry unit. Then the groups share out. Noodlenose Nancy, of course, reads our group’s cat poem. Everyone laughs when she turns the chart paper around. She’s covered over my ugly cat with a piece of white paper and drawn five new cats with our names under each one. Hers has straight-arrow hair and wide oval eyes. Sherie’s has short braids with barrettes. Nicole’s wears glasses. Samantha’s has blue eyes—Cornflower Blue. And the one with my name under it just happens to be a little fatter than the other four cats. I don’t know if the class notices, but I notice.
I decide Jazzy is not at all like Nancy. Her magnet pulled us together. Nancy’s vacuum pulls off parts of us. Mrs. Cruella hangs the poems on the wall. So I can see the fat cat all day.
While we’re doing our independent reading, she puts my homework down on my desk. “I don’t accept homework that’s doodled on. Please erase this.”
I hold up my pencil. No eraser. She points to a basket on the counter. “Use an eraser top until you can replenish your pencil supply.”
I help myself to an eraser top for each of my chewed-up pencils. Perfect. I just replenished my supply.
Nancy whispers to Sherie, “Maybe we should donate some pencils to her.”
I raise my hand. “Can I drink water?” I ask Mrs. Cruella.
“May I please get a drink of water?” she says to me.
“Yes, you may,” I say right back. And I waltz out of the room. Nobody needs to feel sorry for me. A little, shimmery, pink purse sits on the shelf above the coat rack when I turn down the hall. It jingles when I slide it into my backpack.
I take my sweet time drinking water—really, really cold water and my even sweeter time walking back. They’ve started math when I return. Mrs. Cruella gives me a you-are-on-my-last-nerve-young-lady look. I stay awake by pinching myself and doodling tiny cats around the edges of my math book. I don’t even like cats.
I’m first in line for recess and climb to the very top of the jungle gym. I sit there until I see the supervisors open the door to the lunchroom. Then I scramble down like a monkey and charge to the front of the line.
Yum. Pizza. I love pizza. Chocolate milk. I love chocolate milk.
I fill my tray and sit on the very edge of Room #13_’s table so only one person has to sit next to me.
“Move down,” says the lunch supervisor, with a face like a mad bull. “Fill in the rest of the table.”
So I scoot down and the table fills up around me. Everybody’s talking and eating all at once. Sherie is saying, “Really? You’re inviting all the girls?”
Nancy says, “That’s what my mom said. Mani-pedis and we design our own bath bomb.”
I think it’s Hannah, the tiny one, who says, “Best birthday ever.”
And Nancy says, “I know, right?”
I stuff the rest of my pizza in my mouth and dump my tray to go wait outside the bathroom. I stare at the Spring Fling poster again.
If only I had a bling thing to show off. Show everybody who I am. Find some friends who like what I like. What do I like? Drawing? Not a Spring Fling kind of thing. Dancing? But Nancy always dances. What about skateboarding?
Before our
trailer burned down, Danny’s friend Freddie used to teach me some stuff on his board. How to position my feet and how to push and go pretty far without falling. He told me I was a natural. I’ve only practiced a little bit on my new skateboard because we stayed in a shelter until the Red Cross found our apartment. But there’s plenty of time until March 19th to brush up and learn tricks. And I bet not many fourth graders try out to skate.
After lunch Mrs. Cruella walks us to the gym and we stop for a bathroom break. In gym, the teacher (with a chin like Mr. Incredible), tells us we’re starting physical fitness testing. First we run laps but I have to stop before his stopwatch. Then we lie down on the floor for sit ups. Mr. Incredible shakes his head when he sees I can barely do one.
Before the next test I go get a drink and he says, “Permission needed,” and points to a list of rules next to the gym door.
I EXPECT:
YOUR BEST PERFORMANCE
YOUR POSITIVE ATTITUDE
YOUR REQUEST FOR PERMISSION TO LEAVE YOUR STATION.
I bet this is what it was like for Danny in the National Guard. I almost give him a salute.
On the way back to class, I ask Mrs. Cruella for permission to use the bathroom. “May I please use the restroom?” I say.
“DeeDee, we already had a bathroom break.”
Noodlenose Nancy whispers something to Sherie and they giggle. I get back in the line. Forget it. But from now on Sherie will be Despicable Me Sherie.
When Mrs. Cruella calls the first group of students to read at the back table she says, “DeeDee, you can head to peer tutoring. Do you need help finding room 118?”
I shake my head no. Does she have to announce to everybody how stupid I am? I visit the bathroom first and get a big drink of really, really cold water. Then I wander down the lunchroom hallway to find room #118. Do I knock? Do I wait? What will I do in peer tutoring, anyway?
A kid comes out of the room. He reads the paper in my hand, then sticks his head back in the room. “Get Yari,” he tells another kid.
A few minutes later, a very smiley girl with big white teeth bounces out the door.
“Hi! Mr. Barker told me I’m tutoring again. My other kid moved.” She leads me to a room near the computer lab, where a few pairs of kids sit close together. I give her the paper from Mrs. Cruella and look at her outfit out of the corner of my eye. Cute jeans and a flowery top that flutters around her. Over that she’s wearing a jackety thing, with gathers in the back. I feel super ugly in my sparkly rainbow T-shirt spotted with chocolate milk.
“Nobody told me you started yesterday,” says Yari. “I’m the team leader on the Student Leadership Team. I’m supposed to show the new kids around.”
“It’s okay. I’ve moved around a lot,” I say.
“Me too. But I’ve been here since third grade. Don’t worry. You’ll catch up. Mrs. Krewell always thinks bilingual kids are behind because they speak Spanish. So sad, qué lástima.” Yari giggles and rolls her eyes. “Not too many bilingual kids go to Frosty.”
I smile at her nickname for Robert Frost. “You speak Spanish?” I ask, sounding silly.
“Claro que sí. Of course. I’m Mexican, are you? And I love your T-shirt, by the way. I’m all about bling,” she says. “Let’s look at your skills check list.” She studies it for a minute. “Mrs. Krewell put down that you’re using the old method of multiplying. That’s the way my dad tried to teach me. He got so mad about the new way to do math.”
“My dad, too,” I say. I don’t say he’s in Mexico.
“Well, they have parent workshops here to explain the new way to do math. Even my dad learned the new way. We moved here because of my dad,” Yari says. “So he didn’t have to drive so far to work.”
“Me, too,” I lie. I don’t say we haven’t seen Papi for nine weeks and three days. I know. I counted.
Yari has a bracelet made of colored string braids knotted together around her wrist. Red, blue, green, orange, and yellow. I wonder if she made it herself. I wonder if she’ll make me one.
•
After I get home from school and have my snack, I go out on my balcony again. It’s chilly-nice and still sunny. I see a boy making a chalk drawing of a dragon. It stretches from the parking lot all the way to the balcony next to mine. It reminds me of the design on my skateboard. I watch while the kid draws fire shooting from the dragon’s mouth. Then he looks up and waves.
“Hi again,” he says. “You never told me your name.”
It’s River, the kid from the balcony yesterday. The Star Trek weirdo. Today his hood is off and I see his long, shiny-black, curly-noodle hair. When he tilts his head up I can see plastic things behind his ears.
“DeeDee.”
“Come help me,” he says.
“I can’t. My mom isn’t home.” It’s an excuse. I’m sure Mami wouldn’t care, but I’m still not too sure about this kid.
“Well, that’s highly illogical,” River calls up to me. “That’s from Star Trek. Dr. Spock.”
“I know. My dad loves Star Trek.”
“My dad used to love it, too. He was a Trekkie.”
“See you later,” I call down, wondering why his dad isn’t a Trekkie anymore.
“Live long and prosper,” River says and does the Vulcan salute. “That’s actually a Jewish blessing. Did you know that?”
I go in and close the balcony door, trying to separate my third and fourth finger to do my own Vulcan salute. It’s not that easy. “Live long and prosper,” I whisper to nobody, hoping Papi hears me far away in Mexico.
CHAPTER FOUR
D IS FOR DRAMA
I hear pounding on the bathroom door.
“DeeDee, get out,” Queen Bee yells. “You’re not the only one who lives here. Mami, make her get out. We have to leave before she does.”
I was just about to get out, but now I find a few more drops to towel off and sneak some of her Big and Sexy hair gel and a dab of Cristiano Ronaldo perfume. Then I waltz out.
“Mami, DeeDee stinks like a boy!” Danita yells.
Mami pads down the hall in her slippers. She sniffs. “Gordita, la colonia de Daniel.”
Oh My Gatos. Daniel’s cologne? Why do these things happen to me? I try to get back in the bathroom to wash it off, but Danita laughs and locks the door.
My head starts to hurt as I’m stuffing the wet sheets in the laundry and picking out my clothes. The smell from the laundry and the cologne slam into me and I rush to the kitchen and barf in the garbage. I feel terrible. I sit down on the couch and lean my head on the armrest.
The next thing I know Mami is feeling my forehead. “Pobrecita. You have a fever.”
“Uh.” Staying home from school is no fun if you feel lousy. Such a waste of a great day.
“Take these.” She gives me two purple pills. “Go to sleep. I will tell Daniel to be careful of you while I clean this morning.”
I don’t correct her. I know what she means. She cleans houses besides working at Papa Giapino’s Pizza. And Danny won’t be happy he has to take care of me, little baby DeeDee who can’t take even take care of herself.
The TV is blaring the next time I wake up, and I don’t see Danny anywhere. I’m starving. I eat a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch with a banana and some squirty whip cream I find in the door of the fridge. I love that stuff. Papi used to squirt it into my mouth, like I was a baby bird.
“What are you doing up?” Danny says, coming in the front door.
“Where were you?”
“Just outside.”
I smell cigarettes and know why he was outside.
“Does Mami know you smoke?”
“Don’t tell. It’s just one.”
“Well, it stinks.”
“That’s not me.” He sniffs me. “Is that my cologne? Yikes, this whole room stinks.” He opens the closet and coughs. “Gross. It’s this laundry.”
I hug my arms around myself tight. I’m so ashamed. I’m stinking up the whole apartment.
Danny p
ulls out the laundry basket and I see my new-to-me skateboard from the Secret Swap. Someone painted glittery purple flames, blowing from a pink dragon’s mouth, and a bright yellow lightning bolt shooting from a turquoise cloud. And it’s got brand new grip tape, even though the trucks are flattened a bit from previous grinding. I know the design will wear off once I start really cruising. But it’s amazing anyway.
Freddie, Danny’s old friend, told me I needed a skateboard with a smaller deck than his. And my new-to-me board is perfect. Danita told me to lose weight so I’ll have better balance. And to exercise so my core gets stronger. Whatever, Flaquita-Danita. Like I’m an apple or something.
I’ll have to start practicing if I decide to sign up for Spring Fling, but where? The apartment hallway, with its buckled carpet? The parking lot, with its cars and speed bumps? The sidewalk between the apartment buildings has a sign: NO BIKES, ROLLERBLADES, OR SKATEBOARDS. Maybe Danny knows where a skatepark is.
“Do you ever see Freddie anymore?” I ask Danny. I know Freddie and Danny dropped out of high school together and Danny lived in Freddie’s trailer for a while. Because Papi got so over-my-dead-body-mad about Danny dropping out.
“Nope,” says Danny, making the p sound very loudly. I don’t think he’s friends with Freddie anymore. “Come on. I’ve got my uniform to wash. Do you feel good enough to go?” He pulls the stinky laundry bag to the door and puts it in our wheelie cart. Then he puts his duffle bag over his shoulder and carries the laundry basket from the bathroom. “Can you pull the cart?”
My fingers are frozen and my toes are numb when we dump everything on the floor in front of the washers at Rub-a-Dub-Tub. I guess Danny knows what he’s doing when it comes to laundry. He gives me dollars for the change machine and I put the quarters in the slots while he loads the washers.
“Where did you learn to do laundry?”
“NGYCP. National Guard Youth Challenge Program.”
“Really? They teach you how to do laundry?” I repeat the letters in my head. NGYCP.
