The Princess of Las Pulgas (11 page)

“Got it covered, Mr.
Smith.”

“So let us begin. Jamal,
Roderigo has the opening lines.”

I follow the dialog,
avoiding anymore eye contact. When Chico gets to ‘damn’d [by
having] a fair wife’ I feel his stare, but I refuse to look
up.
How am I going to get out of this
part? How am I going to get out of this school?

I’m buried in my own plots
of escape when Mr. Smith taps my arm. “Desdemona? That was your
cue.”

“Sorry.” I flip the pages
searching for my place.

“Give Brabantio’s line
again, Pavan.” Mr. Smith signals Pavan Gupta who plays my
father.

Pavan reads my cue. “‘Where
most [do] you owe obedience?’”

“‘
My noble father, . . .’”
My voice cracks. I can’t read this, not facing K.T. and Chico, not
facing anyone. I don’t want to hear those words out loud. Desdemona
is telling her dad goodbye in this scene. I’ve already said goodbye
to my dad. I can’t do it again, not here.

Pressing my fingers against
my eyes I wish I could escape. It’s the same wish I made over and
over in that hospital room last October when all I could think
about was getting away from my father’s dying. That wish to escape
still thunders in my head and makes guilt rain down inside
me.
I’m a terrible daughter.

“Is there a problem, Miss
Edmund?”

I shake my head, keeping my
eyes on my script and willing the tears in them not to trickle down
my cheeks. “I need some water.”

“This is a good time to
take a break anyway,” Mr. Smith says.

“Yes!” Jamal is the first
one up. Dolores follows him out the door to the hall and I hurry
after them.

I wait in line at the water
fountain, then drink long and deep.

“You got the jitters?” It’s
Dolores.

“No. Just
thirsty.”

Dolores steps up and takes
one more sip of water. “It’s K.T. Don’t look at her and you’ll be
okay.” She never raises her voice. It’s as if she has one low
volume setting for everything she says. She’s already down the hall
and entering the classroom as I realize how relieved I feel that at
least one person besides Mr. Smith hasn’t leered, glared or growled
at me.

At the door, Jamal holds it
open so I can enter behind him. “Thank you,” I stammer. I’m
beginning to appreciate the smallest act of kindness.

When we start again
Brabantio stabs Desdemona with words as deadly as any dagger. “I’d
rather to adopt a child . . .” Then he says he doesn’t want her in
his home ever again. I stumble through the scene, focusing on Pavan
Gupta, trying not to hear my real dad who I imagine might say these
things now that he can see into my heart, now that he knows those
secrets I’m ashamed to admit.

I take Dolores’ advice and
don’t look at K.T. I don’t look at either of her bookends, Chico or
Juan. Anthony had to leave early, so I have one fewer pair of eyes
to avoid. It helps to make fists and hide them under the
desk.

Every time Juan speaks I
force myself to concentrate on the page. “Honest Iago, My Desdemona
must I leave to [you].”

How can he sound so, so Othello-ish? I don’t
have any lines here, and I wonder what I’m supposed to do while he
talks to me.

“Come, Desdemona. I have
but an hour

Of love, . . . To spend
with [you]. . .”

When Juan says this last
line before our exit the temperature in the room shoots to boiling.
My face is on fire. Then I glance at Chico and gasp. His sneaky
evil look is perfect Iago and it’s leveled at me. I hate this play.
I hate that creep Chico. Juan Pacheco I despise.

I’m exhausted and grateful
when the rehearsal is over.

K.T. stops me at the door.
“So next time you think you can drag yourself through that part,
you know, say all the Des-da-mo-na words you’re supposed to?” She
does a shifty-head move in time to each syllable.

“Sure. Next rehearsal, no
problem.”

She snorts and, taking that
as, “dismissed,” I start toward the car.

“Wait up, Princess.” When I
look back Juan is jogging to catch up. I take out my keys and hurry
to my driver’s door.

“Late for something?” He’s
right behind me.

“I’ve got homework.” I’ve
already opened the door and scooted behind the wheel.

“Sure. Just thought I'd
tell you about Keith. See you tomorrow, Princess.”

“I’m not a — What about
Keith?”

“It'd be good if he'd stop
dissin’ the track team. He's talking to someone at Channing and
some bad stuff is getting back here. The runners are steamed. You
better tell him.” He goes to stand with Chico and K.T.

As I back out and roll past
the three of them Chico and K.T. give me identical Las Pulgas
scowls. Juan tosses off a quick wave. He’s driving me crazy. I
can’t think when he’s taunting me with that—that smile of his. I
hate him, for being so sure of himself. No, for calling me an
uptight princess. He doesn’t know anything about me. He’s a
judgmental jerk.

Mom’s at the kitchen table
studying when I come back from rehearsal. “I’ve got to finish
studying one more section then I’ll make dinner. Want to make a
salad?” She doesn’t wait for my answer before diving back into her
books.

While I wash and shred
lettuce, I prop the script over the sink. We’ll be going through
some of Act II Sunday, so I need to know what I have to do. The
first part is a lot of Iago implying all kinds of rotten stuff.
Great. Better yet I have a—“Oh no.”

“What’s wrong, honey?” Mom
asks in that tense, protective tone I hear whenever she senses the
tiniest danger about Keith or me.

“Uh, nothing.”
Othello kisses Desdemona?
I'd forgotten there was kissing involved in this part, but
it’s right there in the stage directions. I will not kiss
that—jerk.
That
has to be changed.

At dinner Mom talks about
the real estate course and then she circles around into Quicken,
which leads to Jeb Christopher and what a really
great guy
he was to come
here and return our cat.

I wonder what she means by
a
great guy
, but
I don’t ask. I stuff more salad into my mouth and wash it down with
milk.

“So give us a report on
your day,” she says.

“I saw Lena at the Shack.”
I tell about lunch with Lena, leaving out the part about that Juan
person. It annoys me to even think about him, let alone talk about
him.

“How did the rehearsal go?”
she asks.

“Good.” I choke and gulp
more milk.

She turns to Keith. “Did
you see Mitch today?” Mom keeps trying to kick-start a family
conversation.

Keith grunts.

“Do you feel okay,
honey?”

“I’m good.”

He’s always in some kind of
funk, but he hasn’t been this down since right after the memorial
service. I know tonight’s gloom is all about our visit to Channing
and Brent’s stupid hip-hoppity flea impersonation. Probably the
green house too. That ugly color. What’s become my Las Pulgas growl
rumbles at the back of my throat.

“I have some things to do
before I fall into bed. The kitchen's all yours.” Mom yawns her way
up from her chair, gathers her real estate books and disappears
down the hall. Her back is more rounded than I remember. It's
probably the books and that disgusting job.

Keith shares kitchen duty
with me, and, since the dishwasher went belly-up last week, tonight
it’s my turn to wash, his to dry. Quicken curls up next to her cat
bowls. Her ribs show along her sides and she eats and drinks every
few minutes as if she’s making up for a long hunger
strike.

“Aren’t you glad Quicken’s
back?” I hand Keith a clean plate.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I
be?”

“You’re so
grumpy.”

“And you’re Miss Sunshine
all of a sudden?”

“Sheesh. Sorry I’m
bothering to talk to you.” I shake cleanser in the sink and scrub
hard. Keith tosses the dishtowel on the counter and
leaves.

I dry my hands and kneel to
pet Quicken. “Please tell me you don’t like Jeb Christopher and
that you’ll never go back there again, okay?” I walk with her to my
room and she purrs when I hold her close. I love her warm, familiar
sound. “I’ve missed you so much.”

I close my bedroom door and
put Quicken down. She hops onto the foot of my bed and snuggles
into her cushion.

Tonight the neighbors
aren’t thrashing each other in the next apartment. I think I’ve
figured out that on Saturday nights they either go out or watch a
TV program they agree on. I get a break at least one night a
week.

There’s not much homework
and I’m tired of studying Desdemona’s lines. I peel back the pages
of my journal to the last entry I wrote and crossed out so long
ago, that night at the Franklin house. I add another line through
the sentence.

“Sometimes bad things
happen . . . even in Channing.”

“Don’t give up writing from your heart,
Carlie love.”

My heart has nothing to say.

Chapter 21

This is the beginning of
the third week of my sentence at Las Pulgas High. Lena’s emails and
phone conversations with news about Channing keep me both sane and
insanely jealous. She’s on the Spring Fling dance committee; the
table centerpieces are going to be violets and the cloths blue. If
I were at Channing I’d be on that committee. I’d be choosing the
centerpiece colors—and not blue either.

I’m running these thoughts
through my head while Mr. Smith returns our essays from last
week.

Last night when we talked
Lena said so many girls had signed up for Sean’s tutoring he had to
add two more hours a week and one on Saturday. Her words, “God, is
he hot!”

I know. I
know
.
That’s when
I pounded my pillow with my fist and Quicken leapt off her
cushion.

“And Carlie, Nicolas is
calling you. He told Eric.”

I’m glad someone is. I
haven’t heard from Sean in over a week. Can he be so busy with
French lessons that he can’t at least pick up the phone and talk to
me?

Mr. Smith’s voice brings me
back to Room 9. “As usual I’m reading two of the best papers. With
your permission, Miss Edmund, I’d like to read yours.”

“Uh. Sure.”

It’s hard to sit still
listening to my own words being read aloud. I try to keep a blank
look, but I can’t stop fiddling with my pencil, then rubbing the
edge of my desk with both thumbs. When I glance across the room at
the clock, Juan’s eyes are on me, and I tangle my fingers in my
hair. Why did I write such a friggin’ long essay? K.T. fixes me
with her usual look of contempt and I don’t have to turn around to
know I’m the main attraction for Anthony and Chico. I’d like to
become invisible.

When he’s finished, Mr.
Smith hands me my paper. “Well done, Miss Edmund. An excellent
piece of nonfiction.”

It might have won first
prize for the nonfiction category of the Scribe’s contest this year
at Channing.
Who will win it now? Not
me.

I crumple my A paper and
stuff it into my backpack. Mr. Smith holds up a second essay. “The
next is by Mr. Chico Ramirez.”

I expect some kind of gang
war essay with gnarly descriptions of muscled combat, but Chico’s
essay ties in long distance running with setting goals and reaching
them. The biggest surprise is that it’s well written.

At the bell, I stuff my
notebook into my backpack and head toward the exit. While Mr.
Icky’s backpack searches make the mornings hell, I hate the five
minutes between classes almost as much. Elbows out and push. That’s
the only way to make the trip. By chemistry I’m as tired as if I’d
run laps with Keith, but it’s my final class. I’m close to being
sprung for the day.

I’m working the combination
on my locker when K.T. and her “girls” swing their way down the
hall, spreading attitude ahead of them like confetti. They sweep
around me, slam open the swinging door to the girls’ restroom and
file inside. I had considered a quick bathroom break before my next
class, but I change my mind.

Tossing my geometry book at
the back, I lean in to retrieve chemistry and while I have my head
stuck inside K.T.’s voice booms loudly. She’s coming toward me, so
I stay put.

“I’m creaming her next time
I catch her anywheres alone.”

“You got a plan?” That
sounds like her main sidekick, the tall girl with big teeth. I
worry about bites when she’s near me.

“Do I got a plan?” Today
K.T. sounds like she’s chewing on gristle. I hope I have nothing to
do with her mood. “Whaddya think?” She’s one of the most physical
people I’ve ever met, so even though I’m not looking at her I know
she
womps
Big
Teeth in the arm.

“Hey! Des, you sniffin’
something’ in that locker of yours.”