The Princess of Las Pulgas (8 page)

“Where do you live?” the
man asks.

I point in the direction
from where I think we’ve come.

“Las Pulgas Apartments,” he
says. If words could be on fire, his would have burned down the
entire apple orchard. “A waste of good orchard land.”

I glance at the evenly
spaced tree trunks to avoid looking at him.

He walks around us and down
the path toward the house. “Close the gate on your way out.” He
turns after a few steps. “Next time, read the signs—and pay
attention to them.”

“Wait!” Keith shakes free
of my grasp and runs after the man. “Look, we’re sorry about
trespassing, but if you find our cat would you let us
know?”

I hold my breath.
What is Keith thinking?
This guy’s packing a major weapon and he’d probably love an
excuse to use it.

The man looks to Keith to
me and back, then he climbs the steps to the house and enters,
letting the door slam behind him.

“Jeez, Keith, are you
trying to get us killed? There are other ways to escape Las Pulgas,
okay? I’d like to do while I’m still alive.”

As I place the rope over
the post to secure the gate, I look at the house. He’s at the
window, watching us.

Chapter 16

Monday, Keith and I file
through the security checkpoint at the main entrance to Las Pulgas
High. One guard uses a wand; another does random backpack searches.
Security cameras perch high along each side of the hall, their Big
Brother eyes scanning and recording everything that
happens.

While the guard rummages
through my backpack, I concentrate on the cracked plaster behind
his head. If anyone needs searching it’s this guy. I hate standing
across from him, smelling his stale tobacco odor, seeing his greasy
hair. I try to remember the entrance to Channing High, but I can’t.
All I know is that where I am today is more like entering hell than
high school.

“You’re cleared.” As the
guard shoves the bag at me his dirty nails are inches from my hand.
I can’t stop the grimace as I pick up the strap to avoid touching
the canvass where Mr. Icky’s hands have been.

After Keith passes the
security check we make our way through the congested hall and
follow the directions Mom wrote to the counselor’s office. I
thought she might not hand the note to us this morning at
breakfast. She looked at us like she had the first morning of our
kindergartens. Still she didn't have much choice other than to drop
us in front of the school so she could meet with the realtor for
some last minute paperwork.

Half way down the main
corridor at the first door on the right is the office, but the
counselor isn’t here today. Out sick. The secretary gives us each a
map and a class schedule, and Keith peels off into a connecting
corridor while I head straight down the main one to scout for my
locker. I work the combination and throw my jacket inside. The
halls are so stuffy, I won’t need it.

I approach my first
classroom, grip the door handle and pray I can slip in unnoticed.
When I step inside my prayer is not answered.

A cluster of kids near the
entrance turn to stare at me but none moves to let me through, so
I’m wedged between them and the door. One guy whose baseball cap is
twisted with the brim to the back of his head watches me edge my
way into the room. I've seen him before, but can’t remember where.
I hold my hands out in front of my chest and brush against backs
until I make it to the teacher’s desk.

No teacher. So far it looks
like the secretary in the office runs the school. When I look
around I’m surrounded by a sea of eyes.

“Bitchin’!” That comes from
a boy at the back of the room who scans me as carefully as the icky
guard at security

“Hey, Chico, I seen her
first.” It's the guy in the baseball cap. “Hola, bebe.”

“Down in front,
Anthony.”

Suggestive, throaty
laughter breaks out around the room.

The classroom door opens
behind me and a hand rests on my arm briefly. “Miss Edmund? I’m Mr.
Smith, your English teacher.”

The class
applauds.

What kind of teacher gets
applause when he comes into a room? The eyes behind metal-rimmed
glasses droop at each corner and are a slightly darker brown than
his skin; his lips turn up in a broad smile. He pries the paper
from my fingers and walks behind his desk.

“Miss Carlie Edmund will be
joining us.” He looks out over the room. “There’s a front seat in
the row by the windows, Miss Edmund.”

Grateful to get out of the
spotlight, I slip into the desk and face the front of the room. Mr.
Smith hands me a book and I hold it like a lifeline. I’ve plunged
into Las Pulgas High, Room 9, and I have to stay afloat for the
next forty-five minutes.

Someone taps my shoulder
and says, “You got the hot seat.”

I swivel to face a
thin-faced boy who leans forward, his chin propped on one
hand.

“Hot?”

“You get called on a
lot.”

Mr. Smith looks our
direction. “Jamal, the final bell rang a while ago. It’s my turn to
talk. First, I have an announcement. Our Othello has left school,
I’m sorry to say.”

From the back comes a loud
whisper from the boy who I now know as Chico. “Kane’s out the rest
of the year this time. Got hisself—”

“Thank you Mr. Ramirez,”
Mr. Smith looks at Chico over the top of his glasses. “So we will
take some class time today to select a new leading man.”

A low chorus of groans
ripples around the room.

“Think of that extra
credit, gentlemen and the junior class reputation. Let’s turn to
Act III, Scene iii. That’s page forty-three, Miss Edmund.” Mr.
Smith opens a playbook flat across both his hands. “Anthony, Cassio
doesn’t have much to say in this scene, and Katy, Desdemona makes a
short appearance as does Emilia. Dolores do you have your
script?”

The girl in the desk across
from me holds up her playbook.

“Good. Pavan, you can
continue to relax this morning. Brabantio isn’t in this
scene.”

Across the room a guy jerks
his head up from his desk, yawning. “Yessir.”

“Chico, give us your best
Iago this morning.” Mr. Smith looks around the room. “Now for
Othello.”

Nobody raises a hand. Some
slip low in their seats and prop books on their desks.

“Come, gentlemen. No
volunteers?” He pauses. “Think of this as your opportunity to
impress the director and win the part of one of Shakespeare's most
famous tragic characters.” Taking his time to study each downturned
head, he finally looks to the back of the room. “Ah, Mr. Pacheco. I
think I saw your hand.”

“No way, Mr. Smith. I can’t
learn all those lines by April.” The boy who answers runs his
fingers through his thick black hair.

“You are too modest.” Mr.
Smith leans against the edge of his desk.

Mr. Pacheco smiles. It’s a
heart-stopping sideways grin that is a sharp white contrast to his
features.

“Desdemona, please begin.”
Mr. Smith nods at Katy.

“‘
Be assur’d good Cassio, I
will do All my ab-il-i-ties in [your ]—’” She stabs her finger on
the page. “What's this mark mean?”

“Good question, Katy. That
shows the editor changed a word. We are using an abridged version
of the play, a bit more modern language.”

Slouched at her desk Katy
reads Desdemona like a bad rap song, shifting her head side-to-side
as if she’s keeping time to some beat in her head. I rest my chin
on one hand, staring at her. I know my face screams disbelief. Mr.
Smith catches my eye. He’s frowning.
At
me?
This is going to be a very long
forty-five minutes.

“Katy?” Mr. Smith hasn’t
said, “Stop fooling around,” but his voice has implied it. When he
looks at her she scoots up in her seat, sweeping the hood of her
maroon sweatshirt off so it hangs at her back.

While the actors do their
best to ruin Shakespeare I sneak a quick glance around me. I’m in a
room with fifteen other girls and about twenty guys none dressed
like I am. My deep red V-neck sweater, my designer jeans and suede
boots seem to glow nuclear among the sweats and Tees. Lots of
skulls. There are too many lightning bolts and “interesting”
mottos.

“Anthony.” Mr. Smith nods
at baseball cap boy. “Let’s hear that last line before your exit.”
Anthony's dark eyes find mine before I can look away.

“‘
Madam, not now. I am very
ill at ease, Unfit for [my] own purposes.’”

I focus on the play, trying
to ignore Anthony’s glances over the top of his script.

“‘
Well do your dis . . .
dis . . . ’” Katy The Rapper looks up from her book. “What’s that
word?”

“Discretion.” Mr. Smith
writes it on the board. “What does it mean? Anybody?”

“Good judgment.” I answer
before remembering I already stick out like a neon sign. Katy
slowly swivels her head, and we lock eyes. I look away before she
does.
Where’s my discretion?

“Thank you, Miss Edmund.”
Mr. Smith signals Chico. “Continue.”

“‘
Ha!’” Chico stops, shakes
his head, and then starts again. “Ha? I don’t like
that.”

“Rewriting Shakespeare are
we?”

“I like not that.’” Chico
looks up. “That just don’t sound good, Mr. Smith.”

“Granted, it may sound a
bit strange, but humor me and trust Mr. Shakespeare’s grammar. We
are already taking liberties with this abridged version, so with
that line we will adhere to the original. But now that we’ve
stopped, let’s discuss this single line and its importance. Why
does Iago say this?” Mr. Smith points to the back of the room at
Othello. “Juan.”

“He’s a jerk, you know.
Trying to stir the pot for Desdemona.” Juan casts another dazzling
smile over the heads of the students. He gives me a slight nod and
I feel my cheeks flush.

“But he doesn’t say
anything bad about Cassio talking to Desdemona, does he?” Mr. Smith
scans the room.

“In-nu-en-do.” The girl
named Dolores doles out the word in hushed syllables. “You know
like hinting and letting the old man make the connections
hisself.”

“Excellent, Dolores. Now,
Chico, read the next line that Iago says as if you were hinting
that, as you say, ‘something bad has gone down.’”

Chico reads the line and
throws in a sneaky side-glance.

Mr. Smith claps. “Now we’re
starting to get the drama our playwright intended.”

The rest of the class
passes quickly. I’m surprised when Desdemona stops rapping and
starts sounding more like the doomed heroine. I close my eyes and
listen to the words. As long as I don’t see Katy’s magenta-tipped
hair it’s possible to believe she’s the obedient wife of the Moor.
Poor jealous Othello plays into Chico’s Iago just as I remember
from the time I saw the play with Mom and Dad at Shakespeare in the
Park.

At the end of the period,
before I can stand to leave, Chico’s at my desk looming over me.
“So where you from?”

I don’t have time to
answer. “Buzz off, Chico.” Anthony shoves Chico and they pretend to
sock each other.

“Gentlemen, you may take
that outside.”

The two play-punch their
way out of the room.

On my way to the door, Mr.
Smith signals me to wait. “You’re from Channing.” It isn’t a
question. “You’ll like this bunch once you know them.”

I don’t plan to take the
time to “like” them. I’m just a tourist.
Yet, I sense the implication. “Don’t be a Channing snob,”
he’s saying to me, “and you’ll get along here.” He should play
Iago; he’s great at innuendo.

“I don't think I'll be here
too long. This is, uh, temporary.”

“That is too bad. Las
Pulgas has much to offer.” He stacks Shakespeare on top of Grammar
and Composition III, then picks up a folder. “I've learned a great
deal since I arrived. I hope you enjoy your time here, no matter
how long it may be.”

The rest of today will be
way too long, but I lock my lips and back away.
“Thanks.”

Juan Pacheco, the guy with
the smile a toothpaste manufacturer should trademark, meets me in
the hall. “Hi, Channing.”

“What? I have Channing
tattooed across my forehead?”

“You might as well. Or
preppy.”

“Why’s everybody so uptight
about Channing?” I walk around him and he follows me to my
locker.

“We’re not uptight. Are
you?” He smiles at me, and I can’t look away. It’s as if he’s
captured my gaze with some kind of sci fi tractor-beam. My palms
grow sweaty before I dig my nails into one of them and break my
trance.

“Look. I have to be in this
stupid school, but I don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to
talk to the . . . inmates.” I spin my locker combination and slam
the door against my neighbor’s locker.

“You sound kinda uptight,
like royalty.” He walks away. “See you later, Princess.”