Cuba 15 (14 page)

23

The next morning, packing sugar cubes and this huge ego, I rode the team bus to Rolling Hills High and checked the O.C. board for my name. Sweet! Two early rounds, then a few hours to sit in on performances. And Janell had said I could come watch her.

On the way to my first round, Clarence slipped me a message on a ripped triangle of notebook paper. In square-lettered printing it said,

SEE YOU TONIGHT, C.

A strong chemical reaction took place inside me; I might have discovered a new element. I put the note in my jacket pocket for luck.

I was a little nervous about my lines since I’d changed so many, but my power suit got me through the door, and once again the sugar cube revved my engine and let me think ahead as I talked. Or at least it seemed that way.

The judge called me third, after two people I didn’t know. The second girl spoke in such a mouse squeak that everyone had to lean forward to hear, and the applause afterward was aptly hushed. So the stage was set for my new entrance.

“Violet Paz?”

I waited a beat, two, three—until heads began to turn. Then I jumped out of my seat, shouting, “Stop! Police!” I ran for the front of the room, whooping my best rendition of a police siren at full volume.

I broke off in midcry and made eye contact with the crowd. “The story you are about to hear is true. None of the names have been changed, because no one is innocent. . . .”

I segued to the flashback: me, the narrator, playing straight man to me, my cousin Marianao
con cigarro
.

“Wha’ ju mean, ‘no
eh
smoking’?” my Marianao said with indignation. That is, me, doing a bad imitation of a Cuban with a bad accent. “I yam no
ehs
moking, cousin.”

My narrator jammed hands on hips. “And just what would you call this?” I exaggerated huffs and puffs, wheezing a little.

The response? “Is the
cigarro
which is
eh
smoking. I only happen to be breathing on the other end.”

Some laughs here. I took the audience by the hand and led them through my house, past my relatives, into the backyard. Then I became my grandfather.

“
¡Ay,
ay, ay!
I am hot tonight,
como
Tito Puente. I am
el
rey de los disc jockeys,
and king of the Weber!”

I pantomimed the conga line picking him up, a bit of body comedy that resembled a cross between a Russian dance and Pin the Tail on the Donkey. It worked. I heard actual giggles out there.

By the time I raised the noise level again with Abuelo’s shouts, Chucho’s howling, and another siren, the room was breaking up. I let the police lead me away to prison and brought the story in a neat circle, ending in my monotone, “Maybe they’ll put me in solitary confinement. It would be a relief.” I made eye contact again for punch, and dropped my head.

To thunderous applause.

Round Two went as well, and then I headed for Janell’s second round. I didn’t try to get her attention, just slipped in with the others and sat quietly across the room from her. She had told me earlier that she’d chosen the first poem especially to read at my
quince
party. She and Leda and I would begin rehearsals soon.

To my surprise, the round was pretty evenly mixed with girls and guys. I listened to four Verse programs— seemingly dozens of poems, all unfamiliar except for one Emily Dickinson that I vaguely recalled—and then the judge asked for Janell. Looking confident in a pale-yellow print dress that reached her ankles and displayed her usual clunky black boots, she glided up front. The woman was light on her feet. And thanks to the martial arts, I bet she could kill you with those shoes.

“Growing up”—she addressed the audience—“is a state of body and a state of mind. The two don’t always mature together, and growth never really stops—it just slows down, until one day you find you’re a”—hairsbreadth of a beat— “phenomenal woman. ‘Phenomenal Woman,’ a poem by Maya Angelou.” My
quince
poem.

Phenomenal? Me? A fuzzy glow spread inward. I didn’t know Janell cared so.

She recited in a voice near her own, but with a swing to it. “ ‘Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. / I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion / Model’s size . . .’ ”

Hey, wait a minute. My glow tapered off.

“ ‘But when I start to tell them, / They think I’m telling lies. / I say, / It’s in the reach of my arms, / The span of my hips, / The stride of my step, / The curl of my lips.’ ”

The glow fuzzed out. My hips and lips were nobody’s business.

“ ‘I’m a woman / Phenomenally. / Phenomenal woman, / That’s me.’ ”

I could just see Mark in his
quinceañero
tux, pointing at me and laughing in front of all our relatives, my friends, my piano teacher, and the Caprizios, whom Mom had insisted on inviting.

Janell let loose another string of body parts, repeating, “ ‘I’m a woman / Phenomenally. / Phenomenal woman, / That’s me.’ ”

Oh, sure. With my stumpy legs and triple-
a
bra size, real phenomenal. What was that supposed to mean? The warm glow had turned to cold needles that I couldn’t ignore.

Janell continued ruthlessly. “ ‘I say, / It’s in the arch of my back, / The sun of my smile, / The ride of my breasts, / The grace of my style.’ ”

Hold it. Did she say
breasts
? Isn’t that illegal in speech?

No way. I had to get out of there.

“ ‘I’m a woman / Phenomenally. . . .’ ”

I bolted so fast, I didn’t hear her finish the rhyme.

Once I was in the hallway, the phenomenal fifteenyear-old woman’s tears came. I maturely pretended to have something in my eye, until I left the speechies behind for the far side of the building. Blindly, I followed hallways and staircases as far as they would go, winding up finally at the women’s locker room in the basement. I tried the door and went in.

The rows of benches and lockers stood silent. My foot-steps echoed. I found the toilet stalls, locked myself in one, and slouched against the wall.

Janell Kelly, my best friend since we’d moved to Lincolnville, my best friend since forever, my
dama,
man— a traitor. And to think I’d worried about sparing her feelings, nixing the idea of escorts for the court so she wouldn’t have to rent one or something. I could ask Clarence, and Leda could still ask Willie, but who could Janell invite? Her French horn?

Well, I didn’t need her artsy impression of my life. She could shove that poem, and the party for all I cared.

After a while, I went and washed my face, waiting for the pink in my eyes to fade and feeling sorry for myself. Even though I didn’t want Janell anywhere near my
quince
now, I hated to think of replacing her. I knew it wouldn’t be easy.

As composed as possible, I headed back to the auditorium that was serving as team base. I noticed that Mr. Axelrod had put in a late appearance, and I waved down the row of theater seats, but he was talking to Ms. Joyner and didn’t see me, or pretended not to. Leda noticed me, though. In a navy linen jumper and T-shirt, her hair drawn back in a long ponytail, she looked almost puritanical.

“Yo, Paz, what happened to you? Kelly said you walked out of her round. She’s really pissed.”

“
She’s
pissed?” I sniffed. “Leda, she was reading this positively pornographic poem that she picked—
especially
for my
quince,
” I said, rolling my eyes.

Leda wasn’t disturbed. “How much porno could a poem picker pick, if a poem picker could pick porn?”

“I’m not
kidding,
Lundquist.” I threw up my hands. “I don’t need this crap! I’ve gotta go check on my ranks.” I spun on my heel and left her there.

Before I could reach the scheduling board, my O.C. teammate came galloping up and threw herself at me in a hug.

“I made finals! I made finals!”

“That’s great, Vera,” I said when she let me breathe again. A small, dim, twenty-watt bulb of hope switched on inside my brain. “What about . . . me?”

Vera looked at me blankly, then shook her head and mumbled a few names from the roster. “Next time, huh, Violet?”

After watching Vera’s Miss Sippy mow them down in finals, I sat grimly through the awards ceremony next to Leda, with Janell on her other side. Our team took first in five events, including Vera’s first win, and placed in several others. This time, Zeno won in both Interp and his duet with Trish. The guy was an acting genius.

Our numbers were good. Even though we didn’t have a full team this year, being void in three events, Tri-District earned the team trophy, and Ms. Joyner sent our senior Extemper, F. David Worthington, to the podium to receive the award. F. David, golden from head to jeweled fingers to Italian-loafered toes, was a long, tall, vanilla milk shake of a seventeen-year-old guy, sweet to look at but too rich for my blood. He’d missed the first few tournaments because his family was in Belize.

F. David held the Stanley Cup–sized trophy over his head and war-whooped while somebody snapped a picture. “I just want to thank the judges for giving Tri-Dist this trophy . . . because, basically, we deserve it!”

The team went ballistic with shouts, making the coaches get all serious with us, but you could tell they were pleased. As the tournament broke up, I saw Mr. Soloman congratulate Vera, who was hugging her trophy like an Oscar.

Humph. When Mr. S. gave me my judges’ critiques ranking me two and two, I didn’t say a word, even though I must have just missed making finals. Some of us could be humble.

However, in a few short hours, it would be Saturday night. Halloween night. Headless-date night. I was going to go home and transform myself. I had finally put together a costume, something wild, something no one else would be wearing. And “humble” was not how I’d describe it.

24

The Clark basement, decorated to look like a dungeon, oozed with costumed humanity. Indecipherable stereo bass boomed, black and strobe lights cut the gloom, and steam from dry ice hissed from the corners. Zeno, attired in doublet, hose, and plumed cap, with medieval shackles on his wrists, must have been auditioning for the lead of
Hamlet in
Chains.
His entourage clustered tightly about him: Trish and her boyfriend, Slade Gale, star quarterback for the already-losing Tri-Dist Tridents, and some other upper-class speechies, including F. David Worthington, and their dates. Zeno’s status, as fate would have it, was massively single; he’d broken up with last year’s class president when she went away to U. of Illinois in September. Zeno’s friends all wore theatrical costume, and the rest of the milling crowd didn’t look too shabby either.

Dad had dropped me off alone, since Leda was riding with Janell. I scanned the room from the steps but couldn’t pick either of them out in the half-dark, half-strobed-out dankness. I made my entrance solo, in an outfit inspired by Mom’s mannequin inventory at the thrift shop—down vest, grass skirt, sombrero, and tights, plus the Frankensteinian capper: green face makeup and a pair of used ski boots. Only now it seemed more gaudy than hilarious. You couldn’t miss me. But no one seemed to notice.

Waving hello in Zeno’s direction, I lumbered over to the refreshment table and helped myself to a cup of blood-red punch and some of that awful candy corn, just to have something to do. The line of grotesque creatures forming behind me forced me to move aside. I ended up standing by the garbage can, watching people throw out used cups and plates.

Where was Vera? I scanned the room for masked goblins about her height but didn’t think she’d be a clown, a trash can with arms and legs, or Yoda. Maybe she wasn’t here yet. I hadn’t worn a mask myself since the third grade, when I ran into a mailbox because the eyeholes of my Cat Woman mask kept sliding up. I thought I’d hit a car, or a car had hit me, and I started to cry in front of all the trick-or-treaters on my block. That kind of incident will make a person swear off masks for good.

Aha! Here came someone I knew. Enter, a tall somebody wearing a cow mask and dressed from head to toe in Chicago Bulls wear, from jersey to shorts, leggings, socks, and bright-white shoes with red and black trim. Dark arms stuck out from the tank top, another clue. And who else on the team was that tall, other than F. David (who was probably a chess aficionado, not a basketball fan)? I propelled my booted legs in the bull’s direction, then stopped short.

An identical Bullsman stepped out from behind the first one, like some cheap carnival trick, and then another, and another, each as tall, dark, and anonymous as the first. They split up and seeped into the crowd. The Williams brothers, Extempers all. Had to be. But which was which?

Before I could puzzle them out, Leda and Janell arrived. The music stopped just as they descended the basement stairs under the black light, and heads turned. Leda was some sort of Victor/Victoria—a woman impersonating a man impersonating a woman. She’d tucked her hair into a beaded skullcap, stuffed her bra with who-knows-what, and tried to fill out one of her mother’s black evening dresses, with a pair of men’s trousers sticking out through the skirt slits. For extra effect, she carried the cigar she’d won from Marianao, stuck in a cigarette holder.

As for Janell, she had not put together an ungainly blend of winter and summer clothing and ski boots from the local thrift shop, like someone I knew who wished she’d at least thought about trying to look chic. No, Janell was a black-lit apparition in a body-colored leotard, with slivers of white chiffon scarves that glowed purple sewn on like feathers. They swayed with her movements and made her seem to float above the shadowed floor. A white see-through half mask lent her a sexy air of mystery. Janell looked hot. And I felt a cut of jealousy seeing the unmasked guys eye her costume.

Studiously I turned my sombreroed head away, made for one of the Bullsmen, and struck up an emergency conversation.

“Great party, huh?” I said, looking up into a smiling cow’s face, probably as close as he could get to a bull mask.

The cow regarded my ensemble. “What are you supposed to be—the Jolly Green Midget?” His voice was much more nasal than Clarence’s, but that could’ve just been from the mask.

“I’m Frankenstein on vacation,” I answered, indignant.

“Oh.”

“I like your costume,” I complimented him, “but someone else had the same idea, I see. Heh-heh.”

A bovine pause.

“Look,” said the cow, “do I know you? Are you a senior?”

“I don’t know, I mean, no. I’m a sophomore. And I don’t know if I know you. I mean, who are you?”

An impatient bovine pause. “I’m the Chicago Bull, what does it look like? Hey, I’ve got someone . . . I’ve gotta go.”

Certain that the blood-red glow from beneath my green makeup was outglaring the strobe light, I turned and sidled away, as well as one can sidle in ski boots.

“Hey, Violet, how ya doing?” Gina from gym class greeted me. She was dressed as a skeleton. Under the black light, the white bones painted on her dark tunic and the permanent morbid smile crayoned onto her face flashed a chalky purple.

I gulped some oxygen. “Wow, Gina, you look really cool.”

“Thanks. Where’d you get that costume?”

“Oh, heh-heh, I made it myself. Could you tell?”

“Uh, yeah. What’s it s’posed to be?”

“Frankenstein on vacation,” I said, thinking this question was going to get old fast.

She smiled. “That’s pretty good. You’re in O.C., right? That must be fun.”

“Yeah, it’s great. Like being in a comedy club. What about you, Dramatic Interp?”

“That’s right. Me and Zeno Clark. I might as well be acting in a broom closet for all the attention I’m getting.”

“Ha, I know what you mean.”

She looked at me oddly, as though I couldn’t possibly know what she meant, but I
was
wearing a grass skirt and ski vest. Maybe that was it.

“Well,” said Gina, “where’s the food around here? Let’s get some punch.”

I made a nontactful point of not speaking to Janell, who was standing around with her Verse teammate, as I went past. I followed Gina to the table and got another cup of punch, but when I turned, Gina was gone.

The stereo boomed, and ghouls swirled around me. I picked out Leda in her he-she costume, chatting it up with two Chicago Bulls who sat on a sheet-draped sofa along one wall. Maybe she had figured out which one was Clarence. I started over, then jerked to a stop. These boots weighted me to the floor when I wanted them to, that was for sure. I stood there, leaden.

Leda had climbed onto the lap of one of the Bullsmen and slung an arm around his shoulders. They all laughed as Leda stuck her cigar in his mouth, where it lodged in the mask. She tried pulling on it, but the Bull finally had to take his mask off to loosen the stogie and get it out of there. The strobe light cut their movements to shards, and the blasts of bass enhanced their waves of laughter.

When the Bull finally tugged his mask off, I stared grimly.

It was Clarence.