B006K5TA1E EBOK (2 page)

“Please. The only male counselor was gay. It was the worst summer job ever.”

Izzy rolls her eyes. “You spent the summer far from your controlling parents, whereas I had to work
for
my controlling parents.”

Although Izzy complains about her parents’ salon, I notice she hangs out there even when she’s not scheduled to work. She certainly enjoys the perks: free color, cuts, and manicures. No one has seen her natural, mousy brown hair for years.

“At least you came home from work looking—and smelling—better than when you went in,” I say. “I stank of stale coffee and french fries.”

And my perfume isn’t likely to change anytime soon, because I work at Dan’s Diner year-round. Rachel and Izzy aren’t allowed to work during the school term because they have to focus on their studies. With Dunfield leading the district only in the area of dropout rates, a lot of parents worry. Rachel’s mom does more than that. She reviews Rachel’s homework daily, sweeps her bedroom for drugs weekly, meets with her teachers monthly, and performs irregular—and unannounced—locker checks. It’s pretty embarrassing for Rachel, but at least her mother cares.

My mother cares about me, but she’s not interested in my schoolwork, or education in general. She dropped out of Dunfield herself after tenth grade when she got pregnant with Grace. Now she’s a nursing assistant at Cook County Hospital, working mostly nights for the higher wage.

Even with all the extra shifts Mom picks up, we don’t live in luxury. There’s always food in the fridge, and I never have to scrimp on school supplies or class trips, but Mom’s paycheck doesn’t stretch much farther than that. I need my job if I want to have a cell phone and decent jeans. Plus, if Mom’s feeling the pinch at the end of the month, I have to help out with the bills.

Mr. Sparling steps into the classroom and drops two boxes on his desk with a thud. “Oh, good,” he says. “Volunteers.”

We complain for effect as we distribute the textbooks, but Mr. Sparling taught us last year as well, and we actually like him. He’s the only teacher I’ve ever had who bothers to try to make his lessons interesting. I didn’t even mind the homework, and that translated into my first B plus ever. I was planning to aim even higher this year, but with a natural sedative like Greek mythology on the program, it could be tough.

The classroom fills up, and Mr. Sparling starts talking about how Zeus and his siblings defeated the almighty Kronos and divided the universe. Poseidon got the seas, Hades the underworld, and Zeus the heavens and the earth.

After a while my mind and my pen start to wander. What would happen at Colonel Dunfield if Izzy, Rachel, and I dared to revolt against the almighty Mariah?

The battle raged for days. Hair clips flew, mascara ran, and Lycra pants burst at the seams. The Dancers spent so much time posing for each other and the Jocks that they underestimated their opponents and missed the fatal ambush.

When the dust finally cleared, the Dancers had surrendered to the Mighty Trio. Medusa agreed to turn the Dancers to stone, freezing them for all
eternity in the hamstring stretch. The Mighty Trio sentenced Mac and the Jocks to a perpetual game of basketball, in which the hoops are smaller than the balls.

Their enemies thus neutralized, the Mighty Trio divided their territory according to their interests:

• Rachel became the Goddess of Fitness and Nutrition, ruling over Dunfield’s athletic facilities and cafeteria.
  
• Izzy became Goddess of Beauty and Drama, ruling over the girls’ locker room, restrooms, and auditorium.
  
• Lu became Goddess of Uniqueness, granting each student a special trait of his or her own.
  

The Mighty Trio ruled for years with gentle grace, allowing the males of the kingdom to compete for their favor. They selected only the fairest and most decent as their consorts.

It was a peaceful time, in which gold ran like water from the fountains and—

“Ms. Perez?”

I look up from my notebook to find Mr. Sparling standing over me. My classmates lift their heads from their mythology textbooks to watch.

“I stopped talking five minutes ago,” he continues. “Unless you want me to read your diary aloud, you’d better close it and start reading.”

I scramble to put my notebook away and open the textbook, as Rachel and Izzy stifle nervous giggles.

Mr. Sparling walks back to his desk. “I’ll have a word with you after class, Ms. Perez.”

Rachel pounces as the classroom door closes behind me. “Tell me he didn’t give you detention for writing in class?”

“No detention,” I say. “He wants me to write a column for the
Dunfield Bulletin
.”

“The what?” Izzy asks.

“The school paper,” I say.

“Since when does Dunfield have a school paper?” Rachel asks.

“It was news to me too, but apparently it comes out every Friday. Mr. Sparling has taken over as editor, and he wants to run an anonymous column about the literacy fund-raisers.”

The girls assume their regular positions on either side of me so that they can talk over my head if they feel like it. They both have five inches on me, and Izzy is taller still with heels and backcombing.

“Why anonymous?” she asks.

“Because we can be more honest if no one knows who we are. Buzzkill thinks the column will help encourage the ‘battle of the sexes.’”

“We?” Rachel says.

“A guy is going to have a column, too. I’ll write one week, he’ll write the next.”

Izzy stops walking to look at me. “You said yes?”

I understand why she sounds so surprised. Avoiding extracurricular activities is a point of pride for us. “Sparling really turned the screws.”

It’s not true, but for some reason it’s easier to lie than admit he said my essays from last year showed a unique voice. I have no idea what that means, but it’s the first time anyone’s used the word “unique” in relation to
this
Luisa Perez. The whole Goddess of Uniqueness thing doesn’t seem quite so farfetched anymore.

“I guess he couldn’t find anyone else,” I conclude.

“You’re perfect for the job,” Rachel declares. “Your e-mails kept me laughing all summer. The ‘Notes on a Greasy Napkin’ series was hilarious.”

I’d forgotten that I made up stories about Dan’s customers and sent them to Rachel. Maybe Mr. Sparling isn’t totally off base.

“You’ll do great,” Izzy agrees. “But I don’t see how you’ll get to many events, with your schedule.”

“I’m going to need help being in three places at once.” I give them an ingratiating smile.

“I am not taking your shifts at Dan’s,” Izzy says. “I’d break my nails.”

“Iz, she wants us to be her moles at the fund-raisers.”

“But we have a policy against any display of school spirit,” Izzy argues.

“I’m sorry to let down the cause of apathy, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Free fries throughout the contest?” Rachel asks.

“Done,” I say. Dan usually comps their tab anyway.

Izzy starts walking again. “Maybe this is how other girls meet guys. You know, by getting involved.”

Rachel looks at me and says, “Nah.”

“Not the right kind of guys, anyway,” I say.

I burst out of the elevator and jog down the hall to our apartment. The last time I was this excited to talk to my mother about school was in sixth grade, when Mariah showed up with a half ring of cold sores around her mouth, and Danny Cruz had the matching half around his.

My key is in the lock when I hear Grace’s voice. “I don’t see why Paz can’t help out more. It’s his kid, too. He thinks he’s off the hook because he earns more money than I do.”

Inside, Grace is trailing after my mother while my niece, Keira, sleeps on the couch, dark curls plastered to her rosy cheeks.

“Hi,” I say, dropping my backpack on the floor.

Grace raises a finger to her lips. “You’ll wake the baby.”

“If she can sleep through your whining, she can sleep through anything.”

I love my niece, but I’m not a natural around kids. Izzy, on the other hand, dissolves into baby talk the moment she sees Keira, and Grace has started asking her to babysit if Mom and I are working. She even pays Izzy. Money is never on offer when
I’m
the one changing diapers.

“So, let me guess,” I continue at a whisper. “I’m spending the night on the sofa because you and Paz had another fight.”

My mother throws me a warning look as she slips the top of her blue scrubs over a white T-shirt. “Lu, don’t start.”

She looks even more exhausted than usual, having followed her week of nights with two extra day shifts last weekend. Mom’s trying to put a little money aside for some of the endless things Keira seems to need, like a bigger stroller. The long hours are taking a toll, because Mom looks a lot older than her thirty-four years.

Happily, I can give her a little good news today. “Mom, something cool happened at school.”

“Already?” she asks, heading into the kitchen to take her lunch out of the refrigerator. “That’s great, honey. The meat loaf will be ready in ten minutes, okay?”

“Dunfield’s participating in a fund-raising competition to raise money for literacy.”

Grace’s face clouds over. She struggled with reading but covered it up so well for so long that no one realized what was happening until she reached Dunfield. By then she refused the remedial help the school offered, insisting that she didn’t need it. Not long afterward, she dropped out.

Mom is already jamming her feet in the shoes she keeps permanently laced, so I spit out my news: “Mr. Sparling asked me to write a column about the competition for the school paper.”

“Sparling’s an idiot,” Grace says, tossing her caramel-colored hair.

I know she’s only saying that because Mr. Sparling is the one who realized she had trouble reading and sounded the alarm; but it hurts anyway.

“Grace,” Mom says.

“Well, why would he want
her
to write a column?”

“Grace.”
Mom would say a lot more if she weren’t in such a hurry. Instead she slings an arm around my shoulders for a nanosecond. “Congratulations, honey.”

I fill her in on the details while she rifles through her purse. “The best part is that the column is going to be anonymous.”

“Then you’re perfect for the part,” Grace says, smirking. “But what’s the point of doing it if no one knows it’s you?”

“I’ll know. And Mr. Sparling and Principal Alvarez will know. If I decide to go to college it’ll look good on my application.” Before now I hadn’t given much thought to going to college, let alone how I’d afford it, but suddenly it feels like a possibility. “Right, Mom?”

“Definitely,” Mom says. “Has anyone seen my bus pass?”

And thus ends the celebration of Lu’s big break.

I walk into Mom’s bedroom and extricate the bus pass from the detritus on her dresser.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she says, snatching her keys from the table. “Grace, there are fresh sheets on the bed, but you’ll have to help Lu move her things. See you at breakfast, girls.” She drops a butterfly kiss on Keira’s cheek and slips out the door.

I turn to Grace. “Why are we moving my things?”

“So you don’t disturb Keira if you need something.”

A bad feeling percolates in my stomach. “I’ll manage for one night.”

“It isn’t for one night,” Grace says, confirming my fears. “I left Paz. For good this time.”

Grace and I may have shared a small room for thirteen years, but we have nothing in common except genes, and even that’s debatable. She’s tall and big-boned and has the personality to match. In fact, Grace used to solve every dispute with her fists, including some of mine if she felt the family honor was at stake. I sometimes wonder if the reason Mariah Mendes hasn’t bullied me as much as some other girls is that she’s still traumatized from the day we stepped out of our third grade classroom to find a circle of kids yelling, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” In the middle was Grace, and she was pounding the crap out of Mariah’s older brother, Hector, because he’d called her stupid in front of her boyfriend. When she was finished pounding Hector, Grace also punched her boyfriend for not defending her himself.

I was always scared of Grace’s temper, and I still am. She has a talent for shriveling people with a single glance. Some of that power comes from multiple eyebrow studs, although she’s allowed the lip and tongue piercings to seal over. In fact, since Keira was born she’s toned her look down a lot. She can’t undo the full sleeve of tattoos on her left arm, but I notice she hasn’t gotten any fresh ones. She also cut back on profanity after Keira started mimicking her. But Grace still takes crap from no one, with the possible exception of Paz.

I, on the other hand, take crap from a lot of people, especially Grace. She hates my taste in music, clothing, and television, and never hesitates to tell me so. My theory is that she blames me for driving our father out, since he left when I was still really young. The only photo we have of him shows him holding Grace the day she was born. He was about eighteen years old, and to me he looks terrified, bewildered, and maybe a little awed. I guess having a baby can do that to you.

No wonder Grace’s edge has softened. To others the change might be imperceptible, but the very fact that she now likes my friend Izzy—someone she formerly considered lame—is a giveaway. She continues to assume people are idiots until she’s proven wrong, but she’ll backtrack if someone is nice to Keira.

“The room looks good,” Grace calls from the bedroom.

Mom recently redecorated it as a birthday present to me. She’s a whiz with a staple gun and paint, and I’ve always been comfortable having my friends over, even though their homes are far nicer.

Coming to the doorway I see that Grace is already unpacking the first of three suitcases. My bed is strewn with Keira’s toys.

“Did you bring everything you own?” I ask.

“I wish I could take all the furniture too. Paz should have to sleep on the floor.”

Grace shows up here after every fight, and moves out just as abruptly. It’s a revolving door, but Mom never complains. Although she was upset when Grace got pregnant, Mom became really supportive after Keira was born. I guess that’s because Mom never had much support herself when she was in the same predicament. Her parents disowned her, so we ended up living in my dad’s parents’ basement. Then Dad took off on us and moved to New Mexico to start another family that doesn’t terrify him.

“You’ll be back with Paz by the weekend,” I say. If there’s a God.

Grace shakes her head. “Not this time.”

She throws clothes into drawers any which way, and when she thinks I’ve stopped watching her, she wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

Okay, this is serious. As far as I know, Grace didn’t even cry when she realized she was pregnant. I feel sorry for her, but I know that any display of sympathy will send her into a blind rage. Better to tiptoe around this grenade. “What did he do?”

It can’t be another woman, or Grace would be in jail by now for shooting one—or both—of them. She has always been fiercely jealous of Paz, who is really cute and too flirtatious for his own good. I never got the sense that he’d cheat on her, though, because he says Grace is the best thing that ever happened to him. The more outrageous she gets, the more amusing he finds her. He had “Grace” tattooed on the inside of his right wrist and “Forever” inside the left.

She piles my stuff on the floor as an excuse not to look at me. “Nothing,” she mutters to herself.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it,” I say, sensing she does.

“He just doesn’t want to be a family, that’s all.”

I sit down on my bed to face her. “Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to.”

Famous last words in any relationship. I know that even though I haven’t had one. “What makes you think so?”

“He hardly spends time with us anymore. When his shift is over, he hangs out with the guys for hours. And when he does look after Keira, he just sticks her in front of the TV and ignores her. He doesn’t even read to her. These are the critical years when her brain is developing really fast. The book says—” She stops abruptly.

“What book?”

“Just a book about child development. Never mind.” She stands and opens another suitcase. “He doesn’t care, that’s all.”

“Paz loves Keira,” I say. I believe it, too. He carries her picture around and shows it off to everyone. But he’s a bit selfish and lazy, traits Grace could have easily seen before she moved in with him. Mom and I did.

“I know he does.” Her resigned tone worries me more than anything else. It isn’t like Grace to give up a fight. “And I’ll make sure he gets to see her. But I had to take a stand, Lu. I will not be anyone’s doormat. I have to set an example for Keira.”

“Maybe he doesn’t get it. He is a guy, you know.”

She zips the empty suitcases closed and looks at me. “He has to get it. There are no do-overs with kids.”

I stare back at her, amazed at how mature she seems all of a sudden. This is probably the most grown-up conversation we’ve ever had. She must be seeing me as her equal at last. Maybe this breakup has given us a fresh start.

“Paz will come around,” I say. “He’ll miss you.”

Sighing, she pulls me to my feet. “You’d better grab some dinner and get down to Dan’s.”

“I don’t work Tuesdays. It’s your shift.”

The eyebrow studs rise. “I can’t work tonight. I just left my husband.”

“Did I miss a wedding?”

“My point is, Keira needs her mother.”

Given the circumstances I should probably let it ride, but I know if I don’t set some boundaries quickly, my sister will mow me down like a runaway stroller. “Grace, I have a life. You can’t just move back in here and take over.”

“Fine,” she says, pulling a rumpled, red-and-white gingham dress from a pile on the bed. “I’ll work. But I don’t have a sitter, so you’ll have to watch Keira. She’ll be upset when she wakes up and I’m not here.”

Working suddenly sounds more appealing. “I’ll cover your shift, but I’m not doing it all the time.”

“Heaven forbid perfect little Lu gets off her ass to help out the family.”

All the reasons I resent Grace start flooding back to me. “Don’t even start. I help out all the time. It’s not my fault you decided to have a kid.”

“It isn’t mine, either!”

Grace’s mistakes are always someone else’s fault.

The shouting wakes Keira, and she quickly works up a howl. I snatch my backpack and make my escape.

So much for fresh starts.

No matter how bad a day I’ve had, it gets better the moment I step off the bus in front of Dan’s Diner and breathe in the scent of chocolate. Donner’s Chocolate Factory just up the street cloaks the entire neighborhood in a sweet, rich cloud. A few years ago some locals complained about the smell, and the plant added new filters. Fortunately they don’t work very well.

I cross the road, watching Shirley, a full-time waitress, through the diner’s big front window. She’s refilling ketchup bottles at the counter, her bleached blond hair teased, as always, into a beehive. From here she looks quite young, but the illusion shatters at close range. She is sixty-three, and garish makeup pools in the wrinkles on her face. Her lips are lined with fuchsia pencil and filled in with frosty pale pink lipstick.

“What a nice surprise,” she says when I walk in. “Grace usually does Tuesdays.”

Shirley and Grace aren’t fond of each other. Both are brassy and opinionated, and naturally, none of their opinions overlap. When the baby was born, Shirley said the name “Keira” was too trendy for her liking. Grace retaliated by saying Shirley’s makeup was too tacky for
her
liking, and they’ve never really patched things up.

I explain that Grace will cover a shift for me later in the week, which had better be true. With my new column to think about, I can’t afford to work many extra hours.

The diner has a capacity of fifty people, and on weekends we often reach it. Tonight it will be busy for a couple of hours over dinner, but manageable with two servers. The three oversize booths along the front window are already full, as are a few of the stools at the counter.

I head to the restroom to change into my uniform. Mom used to make me wear it on the bus, but I dug my heels in last year after hearing one too many yee-haws.

Dan Kennedy only spent the first ten years of his life in Texas, but the way he works a theme, you’d think he was fresh off the horse. He walks with a permanent, bowlegged swagger, talks with a Texan drawl, and wears a uniform of Wrangler jeans, denim shirts, and cowboy boots. There are chili pepper twinkle lights hanging from faux wood beams and lariats nailed to the walls.

After hanging my stuff on a fake horn hook in the tiny staff office and grabbing a cup of coffee, I join Dan on the stoop outside the back door, where he’s enjoying a cigar and reviewing his grocery list.

“That’ll stunt your growth,” he says, eyeing my mug.

“The damage is already done,” I say. “But I’ll give it up if you quit smoking.”

He grins at me, and our ritual is complete. He will continue to enjoy his nicotine, and I my caffeine.

“Coming, Lu?” Shirley calls from the kitchen. “We’ve got six minutes.”

The first dinner break at Donner’s starts at five p.m. and at precisely 5:06, workers arrive at the door.