The Princess of Las Pulgas (17 page)

“I talked to Lena, and I
was thinking maybe if you didn’t already have a date for the spring
dance we could double with her and Eric.”

“Double. That’s sweet. I’d
like to go.”

“Great! I’ll call you
before and get directions to your new—”

“You don’t have to do that.
I’m, um, going to stay at Lena’s, so you and Eric can pick us both
up there.” I hate the chirpy sound in my voice.

“Right. Okay. I’ll still
call you. I guess I need to ask what color dress you’re wearing.
You know, for the corsage.”

“Sure. Thanks, Nicolas.
It’ll be fun.” I click the phone off and drop onto my bed. I’ve got
a date for the spring dance. And not with just anyone—with NicOlas
Benz, next to Sean, the hottest guy at Channing. I can put up with
a bit of ego if I get to go to the dance.

Do I finally have something
I can write about in my journal? Maybe.
I
open my desk drawer, but the space I usually keep it in is empty.
That’s when I remember putting it on the closet shelf.

Next door in #147, a door
opens and closes and heavy footsteps enter the bedroom. The woman
yells one of her favorite cuss words. He yells back. From a few
doors down music blasts familiar hip hop song.

I cradle my head between
both hands. I’ll think about my journal some other time.

Keith’s familiar footsteps
come down the hallway, then I hear the scrape of the dead bolt and
our front door opens. “Shut that damned thing off!” He shouts and
his voice echoes around the apartment complex and the music goes
quiet.

I see Juan’s shrug. I hear
him say, “People get upset. They yell, No big deal.”

Then I hear my voice. “We
don’t do that.”

“We do now.”

“Carlie.” Mom calls from
the kitchen.

“Yes?”

“Check your room and see if
Quicken’s there. I thought I saw her run through the living
room.”

I kneel to look under the
bed. The space is empty. She's not behind the desk and the closet
door's been closed since I dressed this morning. I can't believe
she's run off again. And it's way too late to look for her
tonight.

Chapter 29

“You have half an hour of
free writing today.” Mr. Smith leans against his desk. “This is
your midweek treat. No grammar exercises, no tests. Just the
opportunity to
express
yourselves on paper. Make it a short story, or nonfiction.
Maybe some would like try poetry. He looks over at Jamal. I will be
available to help with any questions.”

The rustle of notebooks and
pencils coming out of backpacks subsides as students settle over
blank papers. Across the aisle K.T. writes, erases, then writes
some more while I twirl my pencil, waiting to come up with an
idea.

I lean my head into my
hand, doodling, absent-mindedly. All I manage to get down in words
is the familiar date: October 22.

“Carlie love, you have to start
sometime.”

“You’ve told me that before, Dad.”

“Did you listen?”

I sigh and mumble.
“No.”

Jamal leans toward me from
behind and says, “What?”

I shake my head.
“Nothing.”

K.T. shushes me.

“Grr!” I bend over the
paper, so my nose is only inches away from it, my pencil pressed at
the start of a blank line.
Make it
fiction. Change how his father dies. Avoid writing two words: guilt
and anger.

The story falls out of my
head onto the paper. I’ve filled almost two pages without stopping
when Mr. Smith says, “That’s time.”

At the sudden sound of his
voice I press my pencil too hard and snap off the point.

“I’m hoping some of you
will share your writing aloud. The rest of you can do my job and be
editors. There are no grades, only comments. Who will
begin?”

“I wrote a poem about
homework,” I hear from behind me as Jamal clicks open his notebook
and shuffles papers as if he’s preparing for a congressional
filibuster. “Ahem.

‘English
Homework.

I read my English homework
steadily,

Reviewed it with my
eyes,

To see that I made no
mistake,

In any clause or
part—’”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Mr.
Smith tugs the paper from Jamal’s hand. He reads and then looks up.
“Very nice, Jamal. However, Miss Emily Dickinson is not totally
unknown to me. Now if you want to play with her poetry and work it
into something humorous, I have no problem with that. That’s called
parody. You’ll simply have to say that’s what you’re doing.” He
returns Jamal’s paper.

K.T. shoots her hand in the
air. Sometimes I think she wandered into high school by mistake and
should really be in a fifth grade classroom.

“All right. K.T. what do
you have for us?” Mr. Smith asks.

“Got a short story idea.”
K.T. clears her throat and her eyes cut to me before she holds up
her paper and reads. “This is gonna be about a girl named Gloria
and she can draw pictures that’s so real, people who see them think
they are real.”

I cup both hands over my
eyes to keep from staring at her. When I peek between my fingers,
Mr. Smith is giving K.T. his full attention. I drop my hands and
fold them on top of my desk.
How can he
listen to this and not laugh?

“I’m gonna make her draw a
big dog and that dog is gonna get up off the page and run away.
Then I’m thinking about her drawing a lion and the police will come
to the house and shoot it. Gloria’s mom knows her daughter has to
stop drawing animals because it’s too dangerous. That’s what I got
so far.”

She drops her paper on the
desk and crosses her arms as if to say, “Tell me what’s wrong with
that.”

I’m beginning to wonder how
much K.T. plays with our heads. Hard rapper who can read Desdemona
when she thinks about what she’s doing. Kick ass fighter when she’s
wronged. Penitent and saintly girl when she’s close to being
expelled. Her story idea definitely puts her in grade
school.

Why is she staring at me?
Why is Dolores staring at me, smiling like she’s waiting to see me
trip over an invisible wire.

Jamal whispers, “Better
tell her something. She’s got that look on and this time it’s aimed
at Y. O. U.”

Mr. Smith removes his
glasses and rubs his eyes. “Comments? Remember there’s always
something good to find in someone’s writing. Then there’s always a
way to improve it. Who will start?”

I pull out binder paper
from my notebook and pretend to take notes. No way am I saying word
one about K.T.’s story. I look back at Jamal, who noisily flips
pages in the book of poetry I now realize he always carries under
his arm. A few rows away Pavan Gupta is bent over his own paper,
erasing. Dolores leans back in her seat, looking at K.T. with a
bored expression.

K.T. breaks the silence. “I
see you writing lots of stuff on that paper you got. What does it
say?” K.T.‘s staring at me.

“Some, uh,
ideas?”

“Let’s hear
‘em.”

“Umm. Uh. Well, . . . I
like the theme of your story.” I take a quick look at the doodles
on my paper. A dog with a wide grin. A lion on its back, its eyes
crosses, and a smoking gun lying next to it. “It’s . . .
magical.”

“And?”

K.T. isn’t letting me off,
so I might as well tell her what I think of that piece of junk.
“Yes, magical. So when you write it you’ll need to develop the
magic more. Maybe another animal that befriends the artist?”
Making the story longer isn’t going to improve
it.
“One more thing—you need to show us
the girl more. How she looks, how old she is, why she likes to
draw. That would help your story come alive.”
Or not.
“The mom isn’t really . . .
what I mean is we need to know a little more about her, but the
girl should make her own decision about drawing.”

When I look across at K.T.
she’s still got me in the crosshairs of her dark eyes. “I always
make my own decisions.”

So she’s Gloria. I got it.
“Well, then,” I fiddle with my pencil, “. . .you know exactly what
Gloria would do.”

K.T. uncrosses her arms and
writes on her paper.

“Well done, Miss Edmund.”
Mr. Smith points to Pavan. “Next.”

Pavan has written a new
version of Cassio’s part. In his revised story Cassio speaks up and
ruins old Iago’s plot to make Othello jealous.

“How come we can’t use that
guy in the play?” I flinch at the sound of Chico’s
voice.

“Then your part would be
quite short,” Mr. Smith says.

“Sweet,” Chico
says.

“What about your free
writing? Do you care to read it?” Mr. Smith asks him.

Like K.T.’s story, Chico’s
is short; but unlike hers it’s good. In a page he tells about a kid
who runs the 10k and pushes himself to win. His reputation is more
important to him than anything. When he loses, he’s bitter and
takes out his anger on a close friend with unexpected
results.

Chico is definitely a
low-life who writes. Maybe he’ll stab me with a pen when he decides
to do me in.

“That’s one good story,
man.” Jamal says.

Pavan Gupta twists in his
seat and says, “Hey, Chico. I like the part about revenge. It makes
the guy kind of sad even if we don’t like him.”

“Excellent work, class. I’d
like to see your writing, make some comments and give you a chance
to rewrite for extra credit. Still no grade, and a rewrite is not
required. Homework is on the board. Cast, don’t be late for
rehearsal tonight.”

K.T. stops me at the door.
“How come we didn’t get to chew on something you wrote?” She shows
her teeth, but it’s not because she’s smiling at me.

“I didn’t write
much.”

“There you go again,
thinking I’m stupid. I heard all that scratchin’ your pencil did
and I seen those pages full of writing.”

“It’s a rough
draft.”

She snorts and shakes her
head. “Right. And the other ones the class heard were of a polished
nature.”

I inhale and I’m sure my
eyes go round.
Of a polished
nature?

She shifts her head and
looks as if she’s very satisfied with how she’s shocked
me.

“So long, great writer.”
She’s off her crutches and hobbles on a rubber-heeled walking cast
that’s already covered with more graffiti than the gym after Keith
redecorated it.

Chapter 30

Keith’s court hearing is
set for 9 a.m. on Thursday. I shower early so I can have hot water
to wash my hair, and so I won’t have to hurry because the
delinquent wants to look good for the judge. Mom has to drop me at
school, then speed back across town to the civic center, so it’s
going to be a rushed morning.

“Carlie, can you bring me
some coffee, please?” I can tell from Mom’s voice she’s
stressing.

I dress, then take coffee
to her in her room.

“Oh, thanks, Honey.” She
takes a quick sip. On the bed she’s laid out the dark suit she used
to wear for fund-raising auctions. “What do you think?” She holds
the jacket up. “Subdued was a good look for extracting money from
reluctant bidders. Maybe it will work to extract a light sentence
from the judge.”

I can tell she'd like me to
say the suit will work the miracle she wants, but I guess my
expression tells her what I'm really thinking.

She sighs. “Sorry I
asked.”

So I've done it again. Even
when I don't say things that will upset Mom I upset her anyway, but
the suit won’t make things easier for Keith. I’m sure he’ll get the
standard punishment for graffiti, along with his two-week
suspension from school. Mom’s already talked to the principal and
promised to pay for the damages. But like everything else for us
these days, the big question is how much?

She puts on her skirt and
the long-sleeved blouse with the tailored collar. Turning sideways
she studies her image in the dresser mirror. “Next to the kitchen
the one thing I miss is my full-length mirror.”

Finally something I can
agree with. “Totally,” I tell her.

“It’s going to be okay,”
she says.

I pray she’s right. There’s
nothing left to crash onto our heads, except maybe the
sky.

As if she reads my
thoughts, she says, “Your brother’s a good kid who’s done a stupid,
rotten thing—the first bad thing he’s ever done. That has to
count.” She picks up a framed picture from her dresser. In it
Keith’s about five, holding Dad’s hand. Mom is at Dad’s side, and
I’m seated in front. “An easy-payment plan would help with the
damages..” She thumps it down.

I know Mom’s expressions
well—there’s one about grief, one for worrying over money and
us—and now this one that’s more like anger. It doesn’t come often,
but when it does, it flickers across her face as quickly as a
summer storm and with the same kind of threat. I’ve only seen it a
few times before today—the day the movers arrived, the first time
we entered this apartment, and just after Keith’s
arrest.