Help Wanted (12 page)

"Is this it?" Mrs. Conway asked.

Norma ran her hand over the case. "No." Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her face. She told Mrs. Conway about the Saturday march for Presidents' Day and how she had nothing to play.

"Then take it," Mrs. Conway said.

"But it's not mine."

"It's yours now." She wiped the tears from Norma's cheek.

Norma's hand reached up, and her fingers wrapped around the handle. When she pulled the case off the shelf, dust rose into the dark air. Mrs. Conway and Norma took turns sneezing as they walked down the hallway.

Norma left a message on Rachael's answering machine, informing her that she had a flute and not to bother bringing an extra one to the parade. She was so glad that she didn't have to put her lips on something touched by Rachael's lips. The thought made her shudder.

Norma cleaned the flute in her bedroom. It was old for sure, and pitted with rust marks and dented in places. But the keys worked nicely. She pressed the
mouthpiece to her lips and blew a long A. She worked the keys as she played her exercise of "Do Re Mi." She then started playing a sorrowful Japanese melody called "Dawn in a Stone Garden," a melody that touched her deeply. The day had been a long one. She would have kept playing, but she heard a key in the front door—for a second, she pictured the principal, Mrs. Conway. But it was her mother, she knew. It was Friday night, which meant pizza and maybe a video.

"Hi, Mom!" Norma called when her mother pushed open the front door.

When Norma ran into the living room, ending with a slide on the wooden floor, she discovered her mother balancing pizza in her right hand.

"Hey, girl," her mother said. She tossed her car keys onto the coffee table. "What are you doing?"

"Practicing for the parade." The old flute was in her bedroom. She didn't want to risk upsetting her mother by confessing that she had lost her flute.

Her mother asked if she was hungry.

Norma touched her stomach. That simple touch produced a growl from the depths of her stomach.

"Let me make a quick salad," her mother said, and rushed off to the kitchen.

No, it wasn't a video night but a night of girl talk. After the salad was made and the pizza reheated in the microwave, the two, sat on the living room floor. The house was quiet, and for a while the two, exhausted
from the day, were quiet. After her second slice, Norma asked, "Mom, will I ever have a boyfriend?" Norma amazed herself by her boldness. She and her mother had never talked about boys—or men for her mother, who sometimes sighed about her single status. Norma's question came up when her mother was bringing a forkful of salad to her mouth.

"Sure you will," her mother said after she cleared her throat. She set her fork down.

"But I'm, like, you know, chubby."

"No, you're not, honey. And anyway, everyone finds someone." Her mother looked off dreamily, as if she were looking for someone for herself.

"Were you and Dad boyfriend and girlfriend for a long time?" More bravery as Norma picked up a third slice. "Was it, like, love at first sight?"

"For a long time," her mother answered. "Two years. And yes, it was love when I first saw him." She explained that she first saw him when he was dancing with another girl. She didn't care. She knew that she was going to get him. But she would never believe that she would lose him years later to the same girl he had held in his arms—Betty Ugly Face, her mother called her.

"Did you have other boyfriends?"

Her mother smiled. "Lots." She let the word
lots
grow big in significance. Then she laughed with her hand over her mouth. Her mother confessed that was a fib.

Norma waited for her mother to finish laughing and then asked, "You sure? You sure I'll have a boyfriend?"

"Of course! You'll have lots." She then eyed the pizza. "But what you won't have is more pizza—the last slice is mine."

Norma went to bed early and stared up into a ceiling that was black, black, black. She thought for a while that it was like the night sky, but realized that the sky had stars and, beyond the stars, a heaven brilliantly lit with God's love. She rolled onto her side and went to sleep, with the feeling that love was possible. Hadn't her mother said so?

The next morning she dressed in her school sweatshirt, practiced on the old flute while standing over the floor furnace, and turned down a ride to city hall from her mother. She jumped over rain puddles and felt a happiness that made her light-headed. The sun broke through the February sky and lit the streets with a glare that nearly hurt her eyes.

She uncased her flute and played it on her way to the parade. People watched her and smiled. She lifted her head and trilled her flute at the birds. Her happiness wasn't even dispelled when she saw Rachael, who was licking her fingertips and rubbing something from her hand—an answer she no longer needed?

Mr. Burrows was talking with the band coach from Hamilton Middle School. They suddenly jerked with
a laughter that made their bellies bounce over their belts. They patted each other's shoulders and turned to the mingling band members. They called them into squads.

"Come on, let's hurry," Mr. Burrows barked.

The two schools assembled into one band, with each Hamilton student standing next to a Roosevelt student. They took their position behind a platoon of soldiers in chrome helmets. In front of the platoon stood a somber color guard with the flags of California and the United States whipping in the wind.

"We're going to play what you know—'Stars and Stripes Forever' and 'This Land Is Your Land.'"

They practiced both tunes as Mr. Burrows winced dramatically. He covered his ears to make his point. "Let's do better, boys and girls. I know you're not used to each other, but you can do better." The Hamilton band members looked at the Roosevelt band members, and the Roosevelt band members returned their confused looks. They shrugged and smiled. It apparently sounded okay to them.

They practiced for ten minutes. They would have practiced longer, but the parade was about to begin. The parade marshal, a man dressed as President Lincoln, called on them to get ready.

Norma gazed behind her at a baton unit in red glittery outfits. The very young girls—the five- and six-year-olds—were up front, and the older, more glamorous
girls in their midteens were in the back. Norma noticed that some were chewing gum.

She then noticed the boy next to her. She had first seen him when Mr. Burrows was yelling at them, and he was running a rag down the throat of his flute.

He smiled at her, shivering.

She thought he was cute and just like her—a little chubby.

"It's cold, huh?" he remarked. He hugged himself for emphasis. He chattered his teeth and said, "Brrrr."

Norma flushed. She thought he was so cute. Was this love at first sight? Like when her mom first saw her dad?

"Yeah, it's pretty cold," she agreed. She then called in return, "Brrrr." She had never used that sound, but then, she had never been standing next to a boy that might like her.

"What's your school like?" he asked. His teeth were white and straight, and his eyes clear and sincere.

"Big," Norma answered, throwing out her arms. She touched her hot cheek.
Yes, it's happening—it's love at first sight.
She began to wonder how far Hamilton Middle School was from her school. Was it a mile away? Across town?

"Norma!" Mr. Burrows called. "Let's pay attention, young lady."

She parted her bangs and, standing on tiptoe so
that she could see over the trombones, apologized, "Sorry, Mr. Burrows."

Her attention was drawn to Mr. Burrows and the drum major, a boy from Hamilton. He brought a shiny whistle to his mouth as he marched in place and in cadence with the platoon of soldiers in front of them. He blew once, then filled the air with a series of rhythmic blows that had the band marching. He twirled around, baton in hand, and inspected the band. Suddenly they were part of a parade in honor of presidents who at that moment didn't matter to Norma. She felt dizzy with happiness. What could it be but love?

Norma turned and smiled at the boy, who returned her smile before he brought his flute to his mouth.

"It's happening," she told herself. "I'm falling in love."

Because her flute didn't have a clip to hold sheet music, she followed his sheet music. She noticed that he played well, and marched well. And if he didn't play or march in cadence, who cared?

Norma trilled her flute on a high note, and, she noticed, the boy next to her returned her trill.
We're like birds,
she thought,
one lovebird talking to another.
She trilled her flute at him again, and again he responded with a trill. Her heart thumped. For years she had heard that romance had something to do with the heart, but she never believed it. Now she could see that it was true!

Norma felt pretty. She eyed the crowds lining the streets. The little kids were waving and some adults were clapping. When a boy began to wave frantically, as if he were drowning, she narrowed her eyes at the figure. Was it Samuel Ortega? It was! She made a face and, shrugging, explained to her new friend, "Just some pest from school."

The traffic up ahead slowed. The drum major turned and had them march in place. A wind lifted the leaves from the gutters and made them swirl and dance overhead. The sun disappeared behind clouds gray as elephants.

"Brrrr," the boy said to Norma.

"Brrrr," she said in return, though her cheeks were pink, a sign that she was anything but cold.

Because I was broke and in the middle of a dull summer, I sat on the front porch playing heads-you-win, tails-you-lose with a bottle cap. I had drunk my last cream soda and followed it up with a banana that I unzipped with a fingernail. I tossed the peel into the flower bed. I sprinkled a few drops of soda on the porch and—
presto!
—ants appeared with their antennae waving like knives. I peered down at the chain of ants and wished I could reduce myself to their size and follow them to their hole. I wondered how they lived, those little ants, and felt great pity for them when I thought about how dearly they paid when a shoe smashed their guts.

But the ants were eventually boring. I flicked a bottle cap that went sailing onto the lawn, then tried
to see if I could spit and hit the bottle cap. No luck. Spitting just made me thirsty. I got up, went inside the house for a drink of water, and returned in time to find this
mocoso
kid on a bicycle riding by. He yelled, "Hey,
Chango!
"

I jerked up my head in greeting.

The kid circled back and asked as he sped by, "How come you don't live in a zoo?"

At last an opportunity to shake off my boredom. I yelled that his parents, the hyenas, wouldn't let me. I stood up and yelled, "No, wait a minute! It's because your fat elephant mom won't make room for me."

The kid laughed as he gave me the finger and rode away doing a wheelie. His skinny shadow followed behind.

That little
mocoso
on the bike had it right. You see, I was once a boy, like any other, but I slowly turned into a chimpanzee when I was thirteen.

One morning I woke up craving bananas. When I jumped out of bed, I noticed that my arms hung a little closer to the ground.
Dang,
I thought, as I walked, arms dragging, to the bathroom. In the mirror I saw that my ears stuck out a little bit and my lower lip hung down. My nose was flat; my face, furry. Time to start shaving. I had the special gift of baring my teeth all the way to the gums. I had known ever since I was a little kid that I wasn't going to grow up to be a
GQ
model but a monkey.

My mother had always called me a monkey when I was really little because I used to bounce on the bed and couch, and climb the peach tree in the yard.

"Chango, stop that!" she would yell. "This is a house, not a zoo!"

Then again, Mom appreciated that I was cute as a chimp. She sold Avon products and would take me with her door-to-door through the rich part of town. When those doors opened, the homeowners, suspicious of peddlers, would scowl at my mother. Who wants anybody coming to your house selling stuff that don't work? Perfume only sweetens how you smell, not your personality. Then the owners' eyes would settle on me, a little monkey boy at my mother's side. Their faces would break into smiles, and in we went to the living room, where my mom would set bottles on the coffee table. That's how we got by in our family—Mom out selling Avon and sometimes sets of electric carving knives.

Meanwhile, Dad worked on cars in our driveway. He was a terrible mechanic who read Toyota manuals to repair Hondas, and Honda manuals to repair Volvos. The cars worked—or almost worked—when they pulled into our driveway. But by the time he finished with them, they would barely cough alive. The mufflers shot out blue smoke that brought tears to your eyes. Dad would scratch his head and leave oil in his already oily hair and mutter, "
¿Quién sabe?
"

But Dad ran away with a woman whose car he actually fixed—he replaced the starter and off they went in a Miata convertible that purred like a kitten. That was two years ago. Now I'm fifteen and more chimp than ever. I would be really lonely, except I have one friend who turned into a chimp when he was thirteen, too. His name is Joey Rios, a former wrestler in middle school. But he had to stop wrestling because every time he pinned an opponent, he would jump on the other guy's back and beat his own chest. He would let out a loud chimp scream that bounced off the gym's rafters. Coach said he was making too much noise pollution.

Joey and I hung out together in high school, sad that there were no monkey bars to keep us busy during break. There were no chimp girls, either. No one liked us. They would shove us out of the way, warning, "Don't slip on your bananas" or "How come your arms are so long?"

So Joey and me hung out behind a backstop, our eyes sometimes peering through the knotholes at the students having regular lives, you know, like girlfriends, clubs, after-school car washes, skateboarding, and playing in the band. We would hang out by the backstop looking at old
National Geographies.