Читать книгу Throw - Rubén Degollado - Страница 10

Later at the food court, I could feel the pizza going all the way down to the bottom of my stomach. At the table next to us, this mother was slapping her son on the head because he was blowing bubbles in his soda. His sister smiled about seeing her brother get hit. The little boy blinked his eyes shut tight and smiled as she kept slapping him on the head. We all laughed and Ángel said, “Mira, el future cagapalo of America.” Kid was going to be a troublemaker.

Ángel was talking to Rigo, Monstruo, and Bobby about what they were going to do tonight, but I wasn’t hearing any of it. I was looking at the pretty preppy girls a few tables away from us in their nice clothes, bright Americanas, smelling sweet, their white teeth laughing, their eyes trying very hard not to meet mine. They looked like rich gringas who went to Sharyland High School, where all the other rich kids went, where I would have gone if Pop had bought a house any further east of where we lived.

Ángel looked over at me and said, “Hey, Güero, you like those gabachas over there?”

“Just looking, güey.”

Ángel said, “Watch this,” and got up.

“No’mbre, where you going to go?”

“Don’t worry, I’m just going to go talk, see what’s up, see if I can get some numbers just to say I did.”

I said, “Órale, go try your best,” just because I wanted to see what Ángel would do.

Ángel said, “Oye Rigo, Monstruo, and Bobby, you all stay here. We don’t want you scaring them and then them calling security. Okay?”

The way Monstruo smiled it was like he’d said something nice to him. His real name was Reginald, but he hated it because it was an old man gringo name. Because his dad was nowhere to be found the day he was born, his mother had named him after the doctor who delivered him. He liked Monstruo or Monster better, even if it was because of how scary he looked. Ángel turned back around and asked me if I wanted to go with him.

“Vámonos,” I said. I was the only one Ángel wanted on missions like this.

I know it’s crazy, but sometimes when I walk into a room like a club or a classroom I get a feeling where everything slows down, everybody’s watching me because I’m the baddest Mexican who ever lived, and I own the whole room and nobody can stop me. Walking with Ángel, I got this feeling now and those girls looked at us as if they weren’t sure if they wanted to walk away or stay and see what would happen. These were the same type of girls Smiley saw in the halls and went, Psst oye güerita! to, the same girls who acted like they didn’t see us every time.

“¿Qué onda?”

“Excuse me?” the blond one said. Her hair was so blond it was almost white. Girl also had a fake and bake tan. I hated that. Why weren’t people ever satisfied with the color they were? Like I was one to talk, right, me wishing I was darker like my dad.

Ángel said, “I said ‘what’s up,’ as in how you bien buenas doing?”

“Just sitting here,” the second one said, kind of sweet. She had a little more skin on her than the one who was all attitude. Even though she had lost some weight, was wearing a different style of clothes, I suddenly recognized her as Bell, this girl I’d had for art the year before. Bell was a Hispanglo, a half-white, half-Mexican whose real name was Maribel Porter. Her skin was the white kind that could get all golden brown, but not dark, if she spent time in the sun. Since my mother was light-complected and my father was dark, Bell and I almost had the same color of skin, but hers was pinker, especially in the cheeks.

We had talked a lot with each other in art class and always paired up whenever we had a project. I knew she liked me, and I had liked her in a way too. Bell was nice to everyone, and it didn’t matter if they were prep, kicker, thug, grifo, or whatever. If she ever saw a kid sitting alone in class when we were supposed to be doing a project, she would go over and ask if they wanted to join us. Back then in the hallways, I didn’t make a big deal that I knew her, and pretty much ignored her, not to be stuck-up, but so that Llorona and her girls wouldn’t mess with her. Bell had moved to Sharyland second semester and I never saw her after that, but always wondered how she was doing.

The third one just kept looking at the blonde to see what she was doing. She was the leader. I just lifted my eyebrows, gave each of them a little what’s up look, not too much, not too little, but made sure I smiled at Bell. I was going to let Ángel do the talking, even though that was my specialty and I had an in with Bell. Mama once told me that I had the Izquierdo gift like my father, that I knew exactly what to say to women, exactly when they needed to hear it. She had heard me talking to Llorona on the phone late at night and knew.

“So the reason I came over here was to ask you all what you were doing tonight. Me and my friend Güero here are going to have us a little party at the Hilton. We like to do that, rent a room and buy some champagne and go swimming at midnight with pretty girls.” Ángel wasn’t doing too bad on his own, but as it was about to happen, I was the one who got the play.

Bell snapped her fingers, pointed at me and said, “You go to Dennett, don’t you?”

“Yeah I do. You seen me there?” I said, acting dumb. I sat down next to Bell, so close our knees were touching. Bell didn’t move away from me like the other two would have.

“I think I had you for art. Did you have Ms. Fields last year? Yes, yes, you did! I remember! You won that award in class!”

“Yeah, that’s right, I did,” I said. Bell looked good still even if she was wearing all the preppy clothes like you see in the magazines. I remember thinking that with the way she sometimes wore dark lipstick and nail polish, the way she wore her hair up, this girl wanted to live the life, at least once in a while. Looking back, maybe she did her makeup like that for me, thinking that was what I liked. Bell didn’t look like that now. Her new friends wouldn’t allow anything like that. She was a born-again prep. I hoped Bell was still the girl that talked to other kids who weren’t like her, like she had talked to me, not scared of my shaved head, my baggy pants and the rosary I wore underneath my shirt.

“I’m sorry, I’m so stupid, but I don’t remember your name.” Me lying was all part of the game. You could meet some of these girls four or five times and still act like you never could remember their names. This was the way the preps played it. I knew the rules from when I was at OLL and was good at them.

She looked a little hurt that I didn’t remember her name. I had judged her wrong, and she hadn’t totally gone to the prep side of thinking. “You don’t remember? Bell, as in ‘campana.’ Why did he call you ‘Güero’ when I remember your name was Cirilo?” She pronounced Güero like Where-o, like gringos did, but had pronounced Cirilo like she learned how to, saying See-ree-lo. At least Bell was trying in front of me. And the thing was she had said these Spanish words without sounding sarcastic at all, like some girls who were trying not to be Mexican did and didn’t care if her friends looked down on her for it.

“I got the name Güero from my friends. They call me that because of my skin and my eyes, which are lighter than theirs. I’m so sorry I didn’t remember your name.” Here I looked down and acted shy.

Bell said, “It’s okay.” To change the subject, she said, “Hey, look up. I want to see your eyes again.” Bell touched my chin with one finger and lifted my head. “They are lighter. I forgot how different they were.” Her fingers smelled sweet and clean.

“They call you Bell, but I remember your full name was Maribel. You have two names too. I always thought Maribel sounded like a song to me.” It wasn’t the greatest I had ever come up with, but it was enough to make her smile.

“I never thought of it that way.”