The Gifted Gabaldón Sisters Page 14

  And today as you brush past her and her band of similarly attractive friends, she makes a show of greeting you, “Sophia, girl, how are you?”

  You smile, baring teeth. “Hi, Lucretia.”

  “It’s Lydia.”

  “Right.” You twist the combination lock.

  “How’s it going?” asks Elizabeth Montoya, the prettiest girl in the sophomore class, with her honey-blond hair and tilted green eyes. She takes advanced classes, and you suspect she’d be somewhat of a decent person, if she didn’t run with this bunch.

  “So, Sophie, who’re you bringing to the Spring Fling?” Lydia asks with a glance at the sniggering group.

  You shrug, as though oblivious to the banners that have been hanging in the corridors for weeks, and you grab a literature anthology. “Do you need your Stuart Little, or anything, before I lock up?” You estimate Lydia has accumulated over a hundred dollars in library fines on the children’s reader that she checked out at the start of her freshman year. “Need anything for first period? Remedial reading, isn’t it?”

  She stares straight ahead, biting her lip. You slam the locker shut. “Stuart Little —let me know how that baby turns out, will you?” You hold up the anthology, thick as the Sears catalogue. “I have to read all these big books without pictures.”

  Lydia’s face clenches like a fist. “Bitch.”

  “Cool it, Lyddie,” whispers Elizabeth.

  “I ain’t going to cool it. She’s trying to make like I’m a dummy or something.” She turns to you. “Girl, why do you got to act all smart? Don’t you know everyone’s laughing at you? Don’t you know what a joke you are?”

  “Shush, Lyddie. It’s Rita.”

  As your sister strides across the hall, Lydia and company clam right up. Rita, aside from being silent and scary, is a forward on the basketball team. She’s notorious for fouling out through rough play. If she’s not afraid to throw someone across the court in front of a hundred witnesses, who knows what she’d do if you pissed her off before a mere gaggle of girls? Elizabeth and the others slip away, but Lydia stays rooted, swinging her head from side to side like a demented cobra. She probably does need one of her basic books for first period, or she’d scram, too.

  “Need money, Soph?” asks Rita, keeping an eye on Lydia.

  “I’m okay.”

  Rita sniffs at Lydia. “You smell like shit.”

  You also wriggle your nose gamely. “Phew!”

  Rita says, “You must have stepped in it.”

  Lydia glances at the thick lip of grass-bearded stool adhering to one heel. “Shit!”

  “You stink.” Rita shakes her head.

  “Really bad.” You wonder why you didn’t smell it earlier.

  Lydia winces, gives a frustrated shrug, and limps off, favoring the crap-encrusted shoe as though she has twisted an ankle.

  “What’s that payasita’s problem?” Rita asks, using her favorite name for a girl who applies cosmetics excessively —a little clown. “Why was she picking on you?”

  “Who knows? Maybe her leg makeup itches.”

  “Leg makeup?” Rita grins. “Do they really have leg makeup?”

  “Leg makeup, scar eliminator, nose putty, butt-vanishing cream . . .”

  Rita laughs, glances at her watch. “Catch you later.”

  You check that the coast is clear before dashing to first-period English. You’re on the lookout for Sister Barnabas, a huge hunk of nun who has made up her mind to “counsel” you for “body image” issues. She’s hoping to get you to join her “group,” fatties all, who gather together to lament that nobody likes them. She’s singled you out because you are not only overweight, but you present the added psychological challenge of being half an orphan. Now you know that Barnabas probably cares —she’s that type —but you also know she’s working on a counseling certificate in order to get her butt out of the classroom and into a cozy little office. You can’t see how on earth —explícame, Virgen —this nun, who is larger than you by two, and, let’s face it, a nun, thinks she can help you.

  Nevertheless Barnabas stalks you, relentlessly skulking around, lurking in corners, and tiptoeing up behind you. But you give her a good run for her money. Though you’re big, you’re slippery as hell. You slide into supply closets, crawl under bleachers, and dive into crowds without a ripple, ever dodging her massive shadow. Until today —Madre mía, things have got to go better than this —when she claps a meaty claw on your shoulder outside English class. Then in a moment of nunnish playfulness, she cups her other moist hand over your glasses, smudging the lenses annoyingly.

  She disguises her voice with a lilt. “Guess who?”

  “Hmm . . . Sister Barnabas?”

  Barnabas squeals, “How did you guess?”

  “Wow, Sister, what a coincidence, I was just thinking about you.”

  “Really?” Her blue eyes are deceptively normal behind stylish granny frames.

  “I was planning to come by and have our little chat after midterms.”

  “You don’t have to wait that long.” She pats your arm. “You might even do better on the tests if you had a chance to get a few things off your chest.”

  “After midterms, Sister, I swear I’ll come by to see you.” Naturally, after messing with Lydia, then horsing around with Barnabas, you’re late again for first period. Sister Cleophas, a musty old nun who resembles a garden gnome in full habit, reels her pocket watch from the folds of her habit. “Third tardy this week, Miss Gabaldón.”

  “Well, maybe the second, but even then you shouldn’t count the time I slipped on the stairs, and today I got held up by Sister Bar —”

  “Third tardy this week, Miss Gabaldón.” Cleophas scribbles out a pink slip. “You must see Mr. Barresi before returning to class.”

  You snatch the slip and begin the sad march to Barresi’s office. Cleophas has had it in for you since you refused to kiss her before Christmas when one of the suck-ups strung mistletoe over her desk. The entire class lined up —one by one —to buss her dried apricot of a cheek, but you acted so engrossed in “Araby” that you didn’t notice. You thought it worked, too, but she’s been so pissy ever since that it’s clear you’ve only been fooling yourself.

  You try ducking into the bathroom to hide out, but there’s Lydia González at the sink, spritzing herself with Jean Naté in a fury. You hold your nose and back away.

  So now you have to deal with Barresi, a failed hairdresser who lucked into the vice principal gig at Sacred Heart. As a result, he believes he rules the known world. Maybe he was handsome once, but now he’s so bloated and old, not even Cleophas would give him a second look. Of course, this doesn’t affect his certainty that all the girls —especially unattractive ones —are mad with love for him.

  Once inside his office, you determine not to look at him, not to flatter the conceited boor with your gaze. You stare instead at the dusty books on his shelves.

  “Why are you always late?” he grumbles after a pause.

  You decide to pull “a Rita” and keep your trap shut.

  “Do you hear me? What happened to your eye?”

  That he’s never noticed you before strengthens your resolve.

  “I asked you some questions, young lady, and I want answers.”

  Your tongue curls, resting in your mouth like a slug in a stony crevice.

  “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to.” His voice rises, and though you’re not looking, you can tell he’s up from behind the desk. His feet pad the carpet. Maybe he’ll slap you, so you can go home early, catch the soaps, and later sue the school. “Am I going to have to call a parent conference?” he asks. “Because I promise I will, young lady, and you can take that to the bank.”

  Not your fault that your father’s working in the Harbor area and can’t be reached, so your oldest sister has to be called instead —and certainly not your doing that Bette arrives at the school falling-over drunk. She whispers —as you head for the conference room —that last night s
he dropped acid, and she’s just gulped sangria that morning to take the edge off. But when she got this call, she says, she knew she had to come, even though the streets keep pulling apart like taffy. She just couldn’t find good shoes, so she had to wear her wedding heels.

  But being stoned out of her mind and stumbling along on burnt and noxious-smelling white pumps doesn’t keep your sister from defending you before the semicircle of nuns congregated with Barresi in the conference room. Normally, Bette’s well-groomed and attractive, with long, curly black hair and a sweet, dimpled face. She was a cheerleader, senior class president, and a prom princess at this very school. But since her miscarriage, she’s kind of gone to pot. Today her hair is as strung out as she is, her cheeks gaunt and sallow, and her eyes glassy, huge, and spooky.

  Sister Barnabas nearly smacks her lips at the sight of your depraved sibling, while Barresi makes it seem like you were trying to instigate insubordination. How can someone like you instigate anything but mildly creepy feelings in others, dígame, Virgen?

  Some of the nuns, your teachers, pipe in with positive remarks about your grades. But Bette blurts, “Where are your balls? You don’t have any, do you?” This seems absurd since: a) it is completely out of context following comments on your decent grades, and b) apart from Barresi, she’s addressing a group of testicle-less nuns.

  “You have no balls!” Bette smacks her palm on the table. “And I mean it to the maximum!”

  You don’t dare laugh. Instead, you cough and fiddle with your glasses. Faster than a rattlesnake can strike, Barnabas thrusts a Kleenex box at you.

  That’s when you break down and talk. You suggest calling a taxi to take Bette home. You’ll have your father drop off Cary later to retrieve Bette’s car, as that roomful of wimple wearers, plus Barresi, have nary an idea how to cope with the smashed older sister of a snotty, one-eyed freshman.

  The dang conference takes the whole lunch period; so after they’ve sentenced you to detention next week, you go straight to class. When the final bell rings, you are so hungry that the hookworms in your biology text look mighty tasty. But, as arranged, you stop by your locker for the Father Cochran record and then head to the Chalice Hidalgo Memorial Bench. You are the first to arrive. Your friends are slow as mud, and they’re forgetful, too. They may not show up at all. Ten minutes pass, fifteen, then twenty.

  You tuck the record into your book bag when Elizabeth Montoya slips between the willow’s fronds. Her stride is loose and lazy like a pacing tiger’s, her hair stippled by sunlight slanting through the droopy branches. She’s puffing a cigarette and blowing perfect smoke rings.

  Most of the other girls have gone by now. Only Maria Spinetti, the freshman who never bathes, sits out front, waving off flies and scratching her grubby knees while she waits for her equally filthy father to collect her.

  Elizabeth moves closer until she’s standing beside you, casting her cool shadow over your thick white legs, as she pulls a pack of Marlboros from her bag. “Want one?”

  “Sure,” you say, your voice high and squeaky. “Thanks, Elizabeth.”

  She laughs, revealing a row of even teeth that are so white they seem unreal. “You’re funny, you know that?” She taps out a cigarette. “Your voices, your jokes —you got a sense of humor. You could be on Johnny Carson, I bet, telling jokes. That Stuart Little stuff was hilarious, but I couldn’t laugh or anything ’cause Lydia was right there. It was a real gas, though.”

  “Thanks.” You hold the unlit cigarette casually between two fingers.

  She pulls out a matchbook and snaps a flame. “Hey, you hungry? I got my boyfriend’s car. You want to drive over to Tommy’s for a hamburger or something?”

  You swear your stomach has ears because as soon as Elizabeth utters the word “hamburger” —before your brain can register the information —it bawls like a water buffalo. “Sure.”

  “Come on, then. He parks it around the block for me, so I can drive it while he works at this body shop on Alvarado. I’ve got my own key.”

  You’re barely listening. You are like Popeye’s friend Wimpy when it comes to hamburgers, and Tommy’s burgers —nested in steamy buns, slathered with chili, and topped with warm pickle slices —are the best around. “Wait,” you blurt. “I don’t have enough money.” The dollar in your pocket won’t even get you a full order of oily fries.

  “My treat.” Elizabeth crinkles her cat eyes, baring her luminous teeth. “Come on.” You approach a primer-colored Chevy, and she unlocks the passenger-side door. “It’s a bomb, I know, a real cholo-mobile,” she says. “But it drives.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.” Her boyfriend is one of the older dudes who turns up at school dances, basketball and volleyball games, like a jackal on the prowl, always waiting for some simple thing to stray from the herd. Pedro, Pito, Pepe —something like that —already has gray hairs threaded in with the black, and acne scars you can see from across the street. “He’s nice to let you use his car.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s convenient. But I’m definitely going to break up with his ass once I get my license and my parents buy me a car.” She twists the rearview to check her lipstick, smoothing over her lower lip with a pinky finger.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. Have you ever seen him? He’s pure cochino —ugly and gross. He keeps wanting me to touch his chorizo, and you know that ain’t never going to happen.” She shudders and stabs the key into the ignition. “You mind if we stop at my house so I can change first? I hate wearing this school shit.”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  “I live up near the park. Hey, can I show you something? I have this favorite place —a special place —I want you to see it. Do you mind?”

  “No, no,” you say, silently warning your stomach to shut the hell up. Virgencita, can you help me here? You cover it with your book bag, hoping to muffle the sound. But the roar of the engine does a pretty good job as you and Elizabeth Montoya wind up the twisting streets into the park to see this special place.

  You have to laugh. Of course, Lydia González, Suzy Gómez, and Marina Verdugo are waiting at Elizabeth’s “special place.” What did you expect? That Elizabeth Montoya, the sublime, would inexplicably befriend you, Sophia, the ghastly. No reason for the jolt of surprise when the other three emerge from a copse of eucalyptus trees. You’re not too worried, but you wonder why they look so odd approaching you. Then you realize they’re holding sticks behind their backs. A chill slides up your spine, but still you have to laugh.

  “What’s so funny, huh?” Lydia draws her stick from behind her and hits it against one palm. “Now there’s no big sister here to protect you.”

  Elizabeth Montoya drags on her cigarette, releasing a couple of perfect rings from her well-shaped lips. “Look, I got her up here, but I don’t want no part of this.” She turns her back and hikes down the hill.

  Lydia lands the first blow, stinging your upper arm. The trio hoots. “Take off that patch!” shouts Marina. “Come on!”

  You have to laugh.

  But another blow breaks against your shins, and you stumble to your knees.

  “Think that’s funny?” Lydia asks. “Take off the patch.”

  “Okay, okay.” You peel it off. “There.”

  “Ugh,” cries Suzy. “That’s ug-ly!”

  “Put it back on,” Lydia says.

  “It won’t stay now,” you say. “The adhesive —”

  Lydia raises her stick and a hot-white surge rushes from your nose to the base of your skull, blinding you. Your glasses dangle from one ear. “I can’t see.” With a dull rain of thumps, the glasses spill to the grass. It’s not that bad, almost as though it’s happening to someone else or to some thing. Like these girls are pounding a dusty tapestry strung on a line far away, in another city, at another time.

  You hear them grunting and cursing. Through the bitter odor of blood, you whiff their sour sweat, the Jean Naté, the dog shit, and hairspray. You almost taste menthol
from the trees and the warm fresh-cut grass pressing under your nose when you tumble. Rolling feels good, in fact. The knoll ahead is curved like a lap. You imagine your mother’s broad, warm lap, then Fermina’s, and now this. You roll down, down, down. The trees, the grass, the wind-torn clouds overhead, churn, like you’re a marble spinning in a kaleidoscope. Your skirt hikes to your waist, and you’re sure you will never, ever get the grass stains out of your blouse, your panties. But still you let yourself roll. For a while, they are after you, thumping your back, legs, stomach, with their sticks.

  You roll harder and faster and someone says, “Shit!” And they grow silent. But you keep spinning, snagging your hair and clothes on twigs, bushes, rocks, but these don’t stop you, and you can’t stop yourself. You don’t even try. Not even for the stone embedded near the bottom of the hill, or at the sickening sound of a bone splintering above your wrist when you strike it hard. The hill ends and you finally grow still. A fierce jolt shoots from your elbow to your fingertips when you stand. You cradle your mangled arm with the good one, and squint up at the others.

  Of course, they are gone.

  You smooth down your skirt and hike to the park station for the telephone booth. Once there, you call home collect. Loretta answers, and you say, “It’s me. I’m at Elysian Park. Can you come pick me up?”

  “What are you doing there?” she says. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  You open your mouth to explain before realizing there’s no way to say what happened and why.