A Tiny Upward Shove, page 14
That’s right, the Bronx.
Hi, I’m Marina.
Heather had a hardy workman’s face and later Marina would hear she was born addicted and impulsive. Heather guffawed more than spoke. She ate her feelings, and she hated her extra weight so she would try not to eat in front of everyone, and always made a show of throwing up in the bathroom. She’d come out of the bathroom delighted, smiling from ear to ear. Alex never talked about it, just got Heather drunk off of pruno now and again so she would laugh and be free and eventually eat whatever the fuck she wanted.
And that is Sammy. Alex stuck her thumb at a silent hunched-over girl who looked like she was on too many meds. She was short and tan and had chip-chopped dirty-blond hair. She had an extra tooth, and many of the other girls called her One-Too-Many. She was emo and wore her hair oily and long in her face. Aside from shadowing Heather, she mostly chased loneliness. On the outside, she was a heavy metal girl. Turns out she came here as a last resort after her second bout in rehab. Sammy was never able to disagree, and this would later make her the perfect employee, the personality of a bobblehead.
Heather walked off, a bald spot at the crown of her head pointing back at them. She was fourteen, but she looked like she was twenty-three and had smoked a couple hundred cartons of Benson & Hedges and drank water tankers full of Mountain Dew. She wore a plaid shirt over a flower dress and work boots.
Marina watched Sammy’s limbs unfold as she padded after Heather. As they walked away, she remembered the two sneaky silhouettes from the night before; it was them, they were the two who had slipped off into the night.
Alex had a rosary on her bunk.
What, are you into some sort of cult? Marina asked. Of course, Marina knew that it was a rosary, but she was still in the phase where she thought she needed to tease people about things that were precious.
You know how you can tell a cult from a religion? Alex asked.
Nah.
’Cause a cult is just a set of rules that lets certain men get laid.
I see.
C’mon, we have ILP together. I’ll walk you there.
A mural of trees and fairies and lions and frogs was painted along the wall. The floors were painted with stripes. The black lines were the normal lines they walked on to get to and from class, the red line was for someone going to a medical appointment or on medical watch. The lines were intentionally painted at least arm’s length apart. If adults approached while any of the kids were walking on the lines, the kids had to stand up against the wall and wait for them to pass. If Alex or Marina were coming up behind someone who was really slow because they were a janitorial worker pushing a cart or they were just old, they were supposed to say, Passing, or Behind, so they could go against the wall and allow Alex and Marina to pass. Even though they moved so orderly around the facility, there was a manic energy around them, the place felt full of longing and violence. The courtyard bustled with birds chirping and the comings and goings, the crisscrossing of kids, and walkie-talkie white noise, and whistle blowing and code calling, Crossing lines! or Boundaries! or No nuts in butts! All orders to assure all the kids were at least arm’s length apart. She’d soon learn, although she already felt it, that everything here was made more difficult for the residents. The girls fought among themselves more than the boys, they talked smack to each other and went for their hair and their boobs (if they had them). All sorts of things happened in the dark corners, at night it was worse. Marina imagined the place coming alive at night, the barren quad crawling with worms and crickets and all the lice that came burrowed into the little heads of babies, the flies, the asbestos, that harsh dust found in the ceilings—she imagined the particles frolicking together in the water and the air mingling with the maggots in the pantry, entering their food and making the girls as bitter and angry as hungry mother piglets, or as angry as Mutya was at the bank tellers. They were worse off than the boys, because the boys fought, but they almost always resolved everything in the end after a quick scrap, while the girls—the girls carried their resentments forever. They burned and burned with no end in sight.
Marina learned quickly; she was learning that this was a time of barred-up windows and plastic cutlery and hiding in closets and the locking up of cleaning supplies and smoking in game rooms.
Alex spoke like she was enjoying her authority in showing Marina the ropes—she tried to shock her or get her to admit she didn’t know things. Look, here’s the stuff you’re gonna need to know, you’re gonna need to know how to make pruno and what a Fifi is.
Marina was taking it all in. She knew kids her age drank and smoked and boys liked to touch themselves, some kids even had sex. As far as she knew the only ones she’d seen were a small gang of kids at her school that mostly hung out back behind the handball courts and kids on the after-school specials. Turned out pruno was some funky-smelling wine that folks made out of hidden fermented fruit stolen from the cafeteria, and a Fifi was a pocket pekpek guys made out of toilet paper rolls and socks and a latex glove. It seemed all the kids wanted to talk about was sex. This is how you French kiss, this is how you give a hand job, this is how you finger a girl. There were names for things. Endless ridiculous names, dirty sanchez, donkey punch, reverse knock, reverse cowgirl. Everything you could do in one way could be done in reverse.
It was not a time with guidance counselors trying to steer her in the right direction. Encouraging her to reach her full potential. Nobody was trying to help Marina get into Harvard, Yale, Brown. No, it was all ILP classes.
Wait, what’s ILP?
Independent Living Program. It will prepare you to get emancipated.
What’s emancipated?
You age out when you’re eighteen, or if you get prepared sooner you can emancipate at seventeen and a half.
Well, I’m not gonna be here that long.
Yeah, right, you keep telling yourself that.
Their ILP class was in a bungalow, there were two small bookshelves, a guy dressed in gym clothes sat in front, the ceiling was missing little plexi squares that covered the lights, and she could see all the dead fly carcasses that had accumulated over what looked like years.
Take your seats, please, the man in the gym clothes said. His name was Mr. Hunter, and he also served as a boys basketball coach. His voice was just authoritative enough to whip a room full of teenagers into their seats.
So we take these books, and first, we take the quiz at the beginning, then we find the career we want, and then we write a paper about it. Alex pointed to a shelf lined with big colorful books, the spines read What Color Is Your Parachute? 1977, What Color Is Your Parachute? 1979, What Color Is Your Parachute? 1984, What Color Is Your Parachute? 1986.
Marina looked at her in amazement. You are fucking kidding me, right?
Nope. We used to host debate in this class, but they shut it down because whoever was losing would call the other one a fascist cow and they’d bust out in a fight no matter what they were arguing about.
The book didn’t list careers but more jobs, like jobs in the medical profession, accounting, or retail.
Marina learned the best thing was to take up space on the paper by writing big or drawing a picture. Marina kept with her original choice: secretary.
Do you have a number for her yet? Alex asked Mr. Hunter.
What number? Marina asked.
You’ll see.
Each of the girls got a voicemail number assigned to them so they would have a phone number they could put on résumés if they were applying for jobs or apartments as they got closer to their emancipation date.
Mr. Hunter had a telephone on his desk and an empty seat beside him. Alex sat there and used the phone to listen to her voicemails.
Marina thought it was strange she got so many voicemails in response to jobs she applied for. Marina also thought she saw Mr. Hunter put his hand on Alex’s thigh.
She raised her hand. Finished!
Already, Ms. Salles? Well, let me just head over and check it. He was slowly attempting to stand, his belly pushing against his sweatpants, it seemed to take him a long time to get straightened out from sitting behind his desk, his keys a jumble the size of a melon hanging from around his neck
Alex’s eyes got big and she shot Marina a warning look, then told Mr. Hunter, Actually I just got a call for an interview that is in a couple of days, do you think you can help me prepare for it?
He was already moving his hand off her leg and onto his desk, but Alex gently placed hers atop his.
Okey dokey. Looks like I’ll just stay right here then.
Mr. Hunter let out a relieved sigh. For a coach, it seemed like moving wasn’t his thing.
Marina knew something fucked up was going on back there. She couldn’t help but feel a little bit fascinated by all the attention Alex got from Mr. Hunter. His desk was filled with graffiti and drawings Alex had done and she seemed to quickly move into sitting in the seat beside his desk. Right before class let out Mr. Hunter exclaimed, Well, young lady, you are the best.
Hey … hey—I might be the best but I ain’t no lady.
And they both had a laugh together. Like old chums.
There was an ease about her. Marina thought she glowed from this certainty. To be so tough and soft at the same time. Marina could see she was sharp and quick. The way she swooped in between Mr. Hunter and Marina said that she was willing to sacrifice herself, that there was no way anyone could do harm to her, but there was something still precious about Marina. When Alex returned to Marina’s side, she gave off the smell of something wild and gamey, her sharp cheekbones, her taut muscles, she looked pretty to Marina and for a quick moment Marina wondered if she should cut her hair short like Alex’s too. If she could pull it off, or if her head would be too round and she would appear to be an ugly girl rather than a beautiful boy as Alex did now.
They had the next class together too. It was a high school proficiency prep class. This class seemed a little more focused. Before they stepped in Alex warned, The thing in this class is whoever is caught fucking around is called on.
Their teacher, Mrs. Allen, handed out the vocabulary portion of the exam, all the way down the row, while everyone sat in their seats with number two pencils poised. All the other students were staring at Marina because she was new, she heard the two boys behind them whispering.
Yo, homey, new booty look fiiiiinnne …
Alex sat beside Marina and turned to the guys. What are you staring at? Mind your business.
Marina figured Alex didn’t get the same kind of attention because she was skinny with muscles and had a rough look about her while Marina was swollen with hormones and had the beginnings of curves. Mrs. Allen paused at Marina’s desk. Well, you don’t look quite old enough to take the proficiency exam.
How old do you have to be?
Sixteen.
The proficiency exam was the first step to getting emancipated, so everyone wanted to pass. Also, once you passed the proficiency exam you could work full time and you didn’t need to attend these lame classes anymore.
I’m not old enough—but this is where they told me to go.
All right, Marina, well, let’s start with you then. Mrs. Allen adjusted herself in opposition to Marina, as if she were challenging her to a duel. Marina didn’t like the way her name sounded in Mrs. Allen’s mouth, like an insult.
Number one: bildungsroman. Is it (a) a roman building, (b) a coming-of-age novel, (c) a Greek god, or (d) young adult literature?
Marina answered, B, coming-of-age.
Mrs. Allen’s face lit up like she was talking to a child, which she was. That’s exactly right! If it is a coming-of-age novel—here Mrs. Allen paused, looked up at the ceiling, like she would find the answer to her riddle there—that would mean what exactly?
Marina didn’t fully understand what she was getting at, her face must’ve looked confused.
Mrs. Allen smiling now, wringing her hands together, content to be back in this superior position, the teacher, the bestower of knowledge. Your main character or your protagonist would be what? And here she extended the question mark in a high-pitched tone, like Californians do.
Alex tried to help and jumped in. A child?
Pleased, Mrs. Allen clapped her hands. Yes, exactly, Alex, that’s correct.
A darkness closed over Marina’s heart. She felt frustrated and dejected. She went from being the top of her class in her gifted programs to this teacher now in the reject school shaming her in front of everyone. And Alex already seemed to be everyone’s favorite and that was beginning to grate on her.
Okay, who wants to read number two?
Actually, that’s not correct, Marina interjected, her cheeks still burning from the humiliation of being berated.
I’m sorry? Mrs. Allen tilted her head to the side like a dog trying to listen.
Marina felt stuck between two pains—one, Mrs. Allen’s cruelty, or two, losing Alex as an ally.
The narrator can be an adult looking back. Like in Catcher in the Rye.
The whole class erupted in dayummms and oohs and aahs. Mrs. Allen seemed stuck.
Alex hit her on her shoulder and teased, Show-off.
Marina was relieved Alex wasn’t insulted. In fact, she seemed impressed, which was the most Marina could hope for.
What Alex lacked in vocabulary she made up for in math. What looked to Marina like a bunch of gibberish with x’s and y’s Alex formed into perfect equations, demonstrating for the rest of the class on the chalkboard.
At one point when Alex turned around self-assured with not only the correct answer laid out for everyone, but the precise movements and steps on how to get there, Marina heard Mutya’s swooning chime the bee’s knees and for the first time fully understood.
When the bell rang, Alex walked Marina to her next class.
Look, you seem nice, so I’m just gonna put you on; the new booty needs to throw down.
The who?
New booty—that’s you. You gotta have a fight on your first night and they’ll leave you alone. But two things.
Alex held up her index finger; Marina noticed a freckle in the center. One, you need to start it. Alex held up her middle finger. Two, you need to finish it. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria for dinner, all the cottages usually eat together, so look for me there.
All right. But I never—
Shhhh … Alex put her index finger to Marina’s lips, then turned around and sent a peace sign over her shoulder. Don’t ever let ’em see you sweat, Show-off!
Marina thought she looked like a cute guy from afar. Then immediately her mind was flooded with thoughts about this fight she was supposed to have. It was as if she’d been in training for this sort of thing her whole life, with the codes and Ma’s and Lola’s instructions on how to kick a guy where it counts, but never had she really had to come face-to-face with another kid. Hit another kid. There would be an audience of people watching, hoping she won or hoping she lost, and she would have to empty her head of them. She would have to focus on the child in front of her. She was scared and anxious and just wanted to get it over with all at once. She thought of the fairy tale of the maganda sister and the good brother and how the brother stabbed the mean auntie’s arm with a ginunting sword. Or was it a wicked stepmother? Her lola’s stories were slipping from her. In the back of her mind, she thought of how soon enough she would return to Lola, and then, even further, how adorable Alex was.
* * *
All the students from Marina’s last class lined up against the wall in the cafeteria. They each took a tray one at a time. She could feel all the other kids’ eyes on her. She heard the whispering, Check out the new booty. There were kids with helmets and kids who wore sweatpants and sweatshirts that said LPJH for Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall and she prayed she would not have to fight with one of those kids. Some kids wore pajamas, some kids took their T-shirt and tucked it up and over the collar like Marina did when she was belly dancing with Fatimah. The tables all seemed pretty mixed, except the cholas and the cholos all sat together, and the kids who needed assistance sat at the two back tables with aides. It was Salisbury steak that night, and the meat was swimming in a tray of hot water, so it looked soggy halfway through. There were also green beans and powdered mashed potatoes.
The woman serving her was wearing a paper bonnet over her hair, and giant white gloves. Any particular piece?
Marina wasn’t sure what it was she was looking at, so she asked, Um, uh … do you have anything for vegetarians? The guy standing next to her squealed, Nah, fool, just keep it pushing. It’s all the same anyway.
The girl on the other side of her hollered, Ah sheeeiiiitt, new booty wants a veggie burger, yo!
She did not want to have to fight either of them, so she just smiled and took what was offered her. Looking out at the rest of the cafeteria with her tray, she spotted Alex. Marina’d already decided she wasn’t going to get too attached to the other kids. She’d be leaving in a couple of weeks. She needed to set herself apart from them. She could never belong in a place like this. She looked at the pregnant girls and the cholas and the boys, all of them with their saggy pants and frozen soupy vegetables, and their same dinners and sometimes looking through the donation bin for clothes, and curfews, and chores, and lights-out. She looked at them and chanted a mantra in her head: you are different you are different you are different.
She walked over to the table that seemed to be all the girls from her cottage; she recognized Heather and Sammy and Alex. There was also Nikki, with a bright, unblemished face framed with straight dark hair and her shocking curves revealed in short cut-off jean shorts. Nikki was hoping to make it in television. She was the kind of girl who would have been popular on the outs. Because she had perfect teeth and a perfect body, and also ’cause she was an enigma, all religious and slutty at the same time. Danielle, a Marilyn Monroe look-alike with short platinum hair, a mole on her chin, tight white freckled skin, who wanted to become an actress. And finally, Sammy, who did not want to become an actress. Not even close.
