Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass (6 page)

“It’s Bach you should listen to,” she tells me every time I ask. “Not salsas by heroin addicts.” Last year for Christmas, she gave Lila a Kmart CD called
Timeless Masterpieces
, hoping to steer us both her way. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s still shrink-wrapped in Lila’s bookcase.

Sometimes I wonder if piano music is why Ma fell in love — or, as she says, “ruined her life.” Not that she’d ever tell me. She keeps the story of her and my father to the CliffsNotes version: His name was Agustín Sanchez. He was from Santo Domingo, a real brain in his country, but he couldn’t find work and came here. He played the organ every Sunday at Saint Michael’s Church, the Spanish masses at eleven and two. He left before I was born. They were never married.

That’s it. I don’t even know what he looked like. There’s not a single photograph left of him anywhere. Lila helped Ma burn every picture of him when he disappeared. Neither one of them is one bit sorry, either. Ma calls him “My Lousy Destiny.” Lila just calls him “the Scuz.”

In fact, all I have left of my father is his last name — and I think that’s only because Ma couldn’t stand the shame of leaving
FATHER’S NAME
blank on my birth certificate. What if the hospital people thought she was the kind of woman who couldn’t remember the names of the men she slept with?

“Why do you want to know all that old history?” Lila says when I ask about him. “Your mother takes care of you, doesn’t she? And I’m always here to help. Forget him.”

“Because I want to know. What if I’m riding next to him on the bus and never even know it! What if he has other kids, and I marry my own brother by mistake and my kids come out funny?” I don’t add the rest:
What if he’s sorry and misses us and wants to send me to good schools and give me piano lessons?

Lila shakes her head and looks at me with her eyes a little sad.

“Not a chance,
mija
. The Scuz went back to DR with his tail between his legs. Leave it at that.”

I’m in my still nearly empty room again on Friday. I’m blasting an old
son
and dancing with an imaginary partner, waiting for Mitzi to call me back. I’m keeping a list of everything I want to tell her. She’s been so busy these days. Practice. Tests. Clubs.

The phone rings, and I think it might be her. Unfortunately, it’s Ma, and that ruins everything.

“Meet me at Met Foods at five.”

It’s four fifteen, and she’s on break.

“We need some things, and I need your help carrying them,” she says. “We got a big TV shipment today. My shoulders are numb.”

“Can’t we go tomorrow?” I beg. “I’ll make us fried eggs and rice.”

“Don’t be lazy. Chicken is on sale, two for five. We’ll take some to Lila. God knows if she’s even feeding herself without us. You want her to end up looking like one of those scrawny Russian models?”

Ma hangs up.

By six thirty, I’m walking by the school yard with Ma. The sun is starting to sink behind the buildings, but unfortunately it’s still daylight, so I can actually be seen. We’re each hauling two bags; Ma’s got the light ones with the plantain chips and napkins. I’ve got four roasters, which took Ma fifteen minutes to pick. She made me rummage through the whole refrigerator case to find the best ones.

The chain-link fence feels too long, especially with Ma’s sneakers squeaking every step. She clutches her bag and frowns at the kids hanging out on the pavement, like she’s ogling man-eating cats in a zoo. An old Pitbull song is blaring from a radio. The bass makes the ground shake. It takes everything I’ve got not to pump my hips and move to the beat.

I pray Ma won’t start in. If there’s one thing she can’t pass up, it’s warning me about life’s dangers. They’re lurking everywhere, from dirty toilet seats to strange men waiting in alleys for girls stupid enough to be out alone.

No luck.

“No one decent hangs out in a school yard,
oíste
?” she starts. She’s loud enough to hear over the music.

“Shhh, Ma, please . . .”

“Look at that one.” She actually points. “A savage on the street.
Qué chusma
.”

When I look across the yard, a jolt of fear runs through me. Of all people, it’s Yaqui Delgado, live and in the flesh, like a nightmare that’s stepped out into the real world. She’s playing an old game called suicide with three other girls. I can tell she’s lost the last of her points because she’s leaning her back against the school-yard wall, waiting for the firing squad to shoot. The other girls start to launch their hard rubber balls, nine free shots in all, but Yaqui doesn’t flinch. She keeps her hands behind her head and smiles, even when a ball hits loudly near her ears, even when one hits her squarely in the mouth. Those yearbook eyes are flashing with fire as she’s pelted; it’s like she wants more.

I keep my eyes down, hoping Yaqui is too preoccupied to spot us as we go by. Sometimes I swear Ma’s going to get us killed with her mouth. I’m hurrying, but she won’t let up. Decency is her favorite topic these days — or the lack of it. Working at Attronica only makes it worse. The news blares all day on dozens of screens until she’s in knots. Rapes, attacks, beatings just for being in the wrong neighborhood. You name it. She’s convinced the world has gone putrid. If I’m not careful, I’ll be swept away in the tsunami of filth, too.

“Son unas cualquieras,”
she mutters. Nobodies. No culture, no family life, illiterates, she means. The kind of people who make her cross to the other side of the street if she meets them in the dark on payday. They’re her worst nightmare of what a Latin girl can become in the United States. Their big hoop earrings and plucked eyebrows, their dark lips painted like those stars in the old black-and-white movies, their tight T-shirts that show too much curve and invite boys’ touches. The funny thing is, if I could be anything right now, I’d be just like one of them. I’d be so strong that I could stand without flinching if people pelted me with rubber balls. I’d be so fierce that people would cross to the other side of the street when they saw me coming. Yaqui and me, we should be two
hermanas
, a sisterhood of Latinas. We eat the same food. We talk the same way. We come from countries that are like rooms in one big house, but, instead, we’re worlds apart.

From the corner of my eye, I see that Yaqui and a few girls have started to play handball now. It’s a hard and quick game, all instinct. Yaqui’s not wearing a jacket, even though you can see her breath in the air. A tank top shows off her cut shoulders. Me, I’m trailing my mother home with a bag of dead birds and frozen yucca, like a sap.

Ma sees me watching. “I didn’t sacrifice to have you turn out like one of them,” she says.

“Hurry,” I say. The light up ahead is blinking yellow.

All I want is to get home. I don’t want to hear about Ma’s sacrifice right now. I’ve heard about
el bombo
a million times. Cubans couldn’t come to the United States like people from other countries. They had to enter a freakish government-run lottery. That’s what Ma did, and she likes to make it sound really dramatic. How she ran with her curlers still in her hair to mail her name to the lottery people. How she prayed to every saint for her name to be pulled for a visa so she could keep from starving. How when she first landed in America, she sat at the airport, waiting to be claimed like a piece of luggage by a cousin she’d never met. How she’s worked like a dog ever since.

And so on.

I cut in front of a car just in time. Ma is older, slower, so she’s stranded, waiting for the light.

“Piddy!” she shouts after me.

I’m sure Yaqui has heard. I don’t slow down as my name echoes in the street. I’m practically running until I reach the door.

“What’s the matter with you, Piedad?” Ma is out of breath when she finally catches up with me at the front door. Her sneakers have come unlaced, and she looks even more worn out than usual. She doesn’t even try to say hello to Mrs. Boika, who is at her spot, guarding the last of the fading roses. “Where’s the fire?”

I grit my teeth as I fumble for my key.

“How can you say bad things about someone you don’t know?” I shout. “How can you hate a stranger? Why do you have to pick on people?” She’s no better than Yaqui. It’s like everywhere I look there’s a bully in my face.

My key won’t budge the sticky lock. I’m mute with fear and anger as I rattle the door and give it a hard kick. Ma blinks at me in surprise. The corner of her eye is jumpy as she straightens her back like a concert pianist on the bench.

“What’s wrong?” she demands. “You’re shaking. Tell me what’s the matter.”

What can I say that won’t make things worse? If I tell her about Yaqui, she might storm to Daniel Jones in her squeaky shoes and rant to the principal about savages. Then I’m dead for sure.

“I hate this stupid apartment, okay?
I hate it
. I wish we’d never moved!”

Ma looks like she’s going to say something else, but then she shakes her head and digs through her purse.

“Dios de mi alma,”
she mutters. “You’ve been moody all week!”

It’s been fifteen years since she’s gone to Saint Michael’s, but she crosses herself like a nun and shakes inside the blackness of her purse for her key.

Saturday is the busiest day at Salón Corazón, and that’s why Gloria Murí sometimes asks me to come in with Lila. I’m so bored on the weekends without Mitzi, and the tips are good. Besides, I need money to buy a new sweatshirt before the weather turns much colder. Turns out chocolate milk stains worse than blood.

Gloria is the owner, and business has been so good over the years that she’s rich. She has a house in Great Neck and a lady who cleans and cooks for her. Everybody knows Salón Corazón. It’s one part hair salon, three parts social hangout. She has six hairdressers, two shampoo girls, three manicurists, and me. As far as I know, there’s only one golden rule she has for us employees — and it’s not that you have to be legal, since she’ll pay you cash if you want. No, what Gloria demands is that you make her clients happy. When she unlocks the door for business, she calls over her shoulder,
“¡Sonrisas!”
and that’s our cue to paste on our happiest faces. She puts out endless pots of
café negro
and vanilla ladyfingers, and she never complains if her customers come a little late or hang around to talk after they’re done. It’s a beehive of gossip and harmless arguments shouted over the sound of the dryers. Sometimes it’s so crowded in here, you can hardly move. You’d think it would drive her crazy, but no. This is just how she wants it.

“
Mijas
, in this business you have to be like an Alka-Seltzer!” Gloria always says. “A comforting relief.”

Basically, my job is to fetch coffee, sweep up hair, and fold the hot towels from the dryer in the back. Sometimes, if there’s a new nail-polish line, I’m the hand model, too, on account of my nice
uñas
that stay long. It’s not bad except when Gloria’s dog is in the shop — like today. Fabio is an old shih tzu with long hair. He’s got one blind eye and a nasty disposition. If I’m not careful, he bites my ankles — hard. Not even my high-tops help against his needle teeth. I have to arm myself with a squirt bottle to keep him in line when Gloria’s not looking. Nobody dreams of complaining to her about that nasty creature, though. She adores him; it’s like she birthed him herself.

Gloria’s next favorite is Lila, naturally. In fact, Lila’s the favorite
champú
girl around here, making even more tips than the hairdressers. That’s good news for me, since Lila sometimes takes me shopping on Saturdays, and she treats me to dinner, too.

As usual, she’s been giving out love advice all morning — that, and inviting customers to her next Avon party, on Halloween night.

“I’ll serve a little rum, play a little music, and make everyone have a good time,” she says. “It will be a party!”

“I’ll come if your boyfriend is the bartender,” somebody calls out.

Lila laughs from deep inside as the room breaks into applause. Lately the hot topic everyone wants to know about is her boyfriend, Raúl the cop. I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s all right. Big teeth, if you ask me. Who knows how long Lila will keep him.

“I saw you two dancing at the club,” one of the manicurists says through her face mask. “He looks hotter than William Levy. Lucky!” She shakes her fingers like she’s been burned. Giggles.

I just listen as I sweep. If you want to know anything about anybody’s love life in Queens, come to Salón Corazón on a Saturday. You would not believe the private stuff a woman will say when she’s in a plastic smock with a head full of foil. It’s like the chemicals are a truth serum. In no time, she’ll tell you all you want to know about her lousy husband and the good-looking neighbor with the big you-know-what.

Just then Fabio growls and lunges at my broom.

“Knock it off,” I say, spritzing him. I didn’t sleep well, and he’s been nipping the whole morning.
“¡Vete!”

“
¡Dios mio!
Is that Clara’s girl?”

I look up from the pile of brown curls on the floor. A customer at Lila’s sink is peering at me from under the towel she’s using to guard her eyes. Uh-oh. It’s Beba, the show-off cashier at Lewis Pharmacy. Her daughter, Merci, is studying medicine at Cornell on a full scholarship — which she has to mention in every conversation. Beba used to give me lollipops from behind the counter when I was little. She’s a big lady with shelf boobs and full lips. If you didn’t know better, you could take her for a guy in drag.