Burn Baby Burn Page 2

  I practice our sprint in my mind the way athletes do. We’ll race through that patch and break through to the other side, victorious. It will take only a few seconds, no more.

  But as we get closer, my feet slow down, and it feels as though I’m trying to walk through molasses. Kathleen slows down, too. Each tree trunk we pass makes us skittish. Anyone could be hiding behind there in the shadows.

  I hear a man’s voice in my head.

  Hey, girls.

  Click, click, click, like a gun cocking over and over.

  It’s just our boots, I tell myself, closing my eyes. Move faster.

  But behind my eyelids, an ugly picture waits. Kathleen’s pretty white coat is soaked with blood as she lies on the ground.

  “I don’t want to,” Kathleen whispers suddenly. “Let’s go back. We can call my mom from a pay phone. She’ll be pissed, but she’ll get us.”

  I pause, unsure. Northern Boulevard seems so far behind us, and the shops are all closed and dark. We’re already at the trestle. We’ll only have to run twenty, maybe thirty steps. We’re practically adults, aren’t we? Nearly eighteen, as Kathleen always says. Not scared little girls.

  “We’re almost there,” I say stubbornly. “We’re just psyched out from the stupid movie.”

  And with that, I pull us into the darkness.

  The temperature has dipped again for the night, and the spring chill makes me shudder. “We’re fine,” I say.

  “We’re fine,” Kathleen repeats.

  Click, click, click.

  But Kathleen stops again. This time, she raises her finger and points ahead without a sound. A parked car has come into view. It’s up on the sidewalk, headlights off. Why didn’t we see it before?

  Someone is definitely inside.

  The door opens, and I suck in my breath as a tall man slips out of the driver’s side and faces us.

  Everything happens quickly after that. A bright light shines in our faces, blinding us. In that fraction of a second, I see a gun at his waist, one of his arms outstretched. I don’t even have time to scream. Instinctively I yank Kathleen to the ground and cover my head, waiting for the blast.

  But a second later, instead of gunshots, I hear footsteps running in our direction. And another person — a woman — stands over us. She’s young, with long dark hair, and she flashes a silver badge from inside her jacket.

  “Police,” she says.

  I stare at her from the ground, confused. My mouth is completely dry, but I’m soaked in a chilly sweat.

  I struggle to my feet, trying to make sense of things. Police? These two cops staring down at us look barely older than we are. They’re in jeans and boots, like us. If it weren’t for their NYPD badges, it could be a joke.

  “You looked like you were running from something. Anything wrong?” she says as she helps Kathleen to her feet.

  I’m too stunned to answer. Sure, I’ve watched plenty of Charlie’s Angels, but I’ve never had a live encounter with a female cop. This one is nothing like Farrah Fawcett Majors with her big hair and lip gloss.

  Kathleen is the first to speak. “We were just . . . running, I guess.” She taps her cheek and winces at the blood on her fingertip. There’s a scrape. She must have hit the ground hard.

  “Just running?” the cop asks. “Not drinking or tipsy, right?” She pauses as Kathleen and I exchange looks. “You girls have ID?”

  My heart is pounding now. It’s no big deal for Kathleen — her dad’s a firefighter. But you can’t always trust a cop, especially not if you have the wrong skin color or a last name like López. Look at that kid in Brooklyn. A cop shot him in the head on Thanksgiving Day for the big crime of being black and standing in front of his building around the time somebody else reported a robbery. Randolph Evans was fifteen.

  Kathleen fumbles in her purse for her license as the blood starts to drip down her face.

  “We’re not drunk,” she says. “You scared us, that’s all.”

  I hand over my school bus pass, which is all I’ve got to prove who I am.

  “MacInerney.” The cop holds her flashlight to read the cards. “López.”

  I try not to look nervous. Cops brought Hector home last summer. They picked him up at Kissena Park for carving graffiti of a penis into the park benches. He told them the benches were so old and broken down, his artwork made them look better.

  Would they remember that, or make the connection?

  Kathleen puffs up a little. “That’s right. My dad is Patrick MacInerney, with the fire department. He’s with Engine Company 258 in Sunnyside. We live right around the block.”

  I hold my breath. Good thinking, Kathleen. I once watched Mr. Mac get out of a speeding ticket by mentioning he was a firefighter. Apparently there’s a network of civil servants giving one another a free pass when they break laws.

  The cop hands back our IDs.

  I look from her to her partner, waiting.

  “You’re going to have a nice lump,” she finally says to Kathleen. “You need a ride home? I can explain to your parents.”

  My stomach seizes up. Very bad idea. What would Mima say if she finds out the cops stopped me under the trestle in the dark? Not to mention Manny, our super, and the neighbors, who gawk and gossip about anybody they can.

  “I live in that building right over there.” I point at the next corner. “We can walk. I’ll get Kathleen cleaned up at my place.”

  “Yeah, I’m totally fine,” Kathleen adds quickly.

  Silence.

  I try not to stare at their guns. “Can we go?” I ask. “It’s kind of cold out here, and her parents are expecting us.”

  The cops look at each other, a secret message passing between them. “Go right home,” the guy finally says.

  We hurry off, too shaken to look back at them or ask any of the million questions running through our minds.

  “Holy crap,” Kathleen whispers when we finally step into the lobby of my building. The bump on her cheekbone is bright red. “What are they doing hiding like that? There’s nobody to arrest around here, is there?”

  We look at each other, but neither one of us mentions the girl in Forest Hills aloud.

  I take a look at her scrape. Sure enough, a lump is rising fast. “Wait here.”

  I run upstairs, pop a few cubes out of the ice tray, and am back out the door before Mima can even ask what I’m doing.

  Kathleen presses the compress against her face for a few minutes, as we think of a good explanation for her parents. It’s never easy with underdeveloped lying skills like hers, but I coach her as best I can.

  “Just say you fell, and leave out the part about missing the bus,” I tell her. “It’s easy. You could have fallen getting off the Q12, see? Those stork legs of yours could have tripped you up, right? Tell them you’re late because I was patching you up.”

  I stand behind the glass doors and watch her race around the corner for home. When she’s gone, I climb the stairs slowly. I don’t stop on my landing, though. Instead, I go all the way up to the roof and prop open the door.

  It’s blustery up here, but I can still see the cops’ darkened car under the trestle. The sight of them leaves me uneasy. I’ve watched enough episodes of Baretta to add things up. They’re decoys, I’m sure of it, and they’re here to lure somebody in.

  Two cops dressed to look like teens are being used as bait?

  I cross back over the roof and head for our apartment, thinking. I won’t sleep tonight, but it’s not because of Carrie or the eyes of some statue turning red.

  It’s because I know plenty about bait, thanks to all those times I’ve been fishing with Kathleen and Mr. Mac.

  Fake lures don’t fool the prize fish you’re trying to catch.

  It’s always the real worm, hopelessly writhing on the hook, that draws what you want from the dark.

  “Nora!”

  Ms. Friedmor, our head guidance counselor, is on bus duty when she spots me leaving school on Monday. I’ve got no
cover. Kathleen hitched a ride home with a guy named Eddie. She said she didn’t want to ride the bus with the bruise on her cheek. I tried to tell her it didn’t look too bad, but she knew I was lying. She wore sunglasses on the ride in, but people still stared.

  “Leaving already?” Ms. Friedmor checks her watch as she catches up to me.

  The bus pulls away from the stop, stranding me until the next one. “Senior privileges, remember?” I say.

  My schedule is amazing, at last. I have exactly two classes left in my high-school career. Wood shop is first thing in the morning, which is actually okay, followed by English IV with Mr. Darius, a flat-out coma inducer. I’m home every day by noon.

  Ms. Friedmor nods and pulls her jacket around her. “Making any progress on your college application?”

  She is such a pain. She’s always bugging us about filling out our postgraduate action plan. She’s big on being intentional. “Knowing what you want is ninety percent of the battle,” she always says, as if we’re warriors.

  Well, I wish to defect, madam.

  I’ve already tried to explain to her that what I really want to do is get a job and an apartment instead. Plenty of people do that, but you’d think I was explaining that I was going to throw myself in front of a train.

  Last month she dragged me to her office. She pretended to listen to me, but she was really just scowling at my FOXY LADY T-shirt. When I was done, she leaned across her desk and pointed at my lapel button. It’s from Mrs. MacInerney’s endless collection of women’s-lib pins. A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE WORLD. Kathleen and I have a pretty good spread on our jean jackets. You’d be surprised how they come in handy. When we need extra bus fare, we can hock a few buttons at lunch, easy.

  “So, are these just fashion slogans or what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ms. Friedmor shook her head. “You’re a smart young woman. Life is more than disco dancing with your friends. Get your education first. That’s where you’ll find power and independence.”

  “I’m not much for books, Ms. Friedmor. You know that.”

  “So? You love working with your hands, don’t you? I saw Mr. Melvin’s display of his students’ work. Maybe woodwork or construction is your passion. If it is, follow it,” she told me.

  “No way am I going to Apex Tech. Have you seen the commercials? Pure cheese!” Apex is a tech school in Long Island City that’s always begging for students. Call and get started on your new career right away.

  “Think bigger for yourself, Nora,” she said, sighing. “Thanks to Title IX, a lot of women are moving into nontraditional jobs. That’s where the money is.” She reached for a folder and handed it to me. “Apex is not the only option for you. How about New York City Community College, in Brooklyn? You can get a degree in construction technology and even go on to a bachelor’s degree from there. Who knows? You might run a business yourself someday.”

  I stared at her. Me? Have a job where I could call the shots and make goons like Angel fetch me coffee? Not a bad idea, even for Ms. Friedmor.

  “Life gets hard and more complicated later, Nora. Get your education while life is still fairly easy. Otherwise, you might not go back.”

  More complicated? The thought plagued me all day.

  Right now she’s eyeballing me, so I know she hasn’t forgotten. I shift on my feet. The application to NYCCC is still in my bag. “I’m having trouble finding a typewriter,” I tell her.

  She crosses her arms and gives me a pained look. “There are plenty of machines available for use in the typing lab, and you know it. You just have to schedule with Mrs. Pratt.”

  Will this woman never let up? Can she not see the signs of senioritis? I’ve explained several times now that it is an established condition.

  “Oh, good,” I say. But in my mind, I’m typing her a little message.

  [Shift. Cap lock.]

  I AM OVER THIS. [Return.]

  “Deadlines, Nora,” she warns. “And one thing more, please.”

  I take a deep breath and turn around. After four years, I am actually starting to hate her. If she says one word about aspirations, I will scream.

  “Your brother,” she says.

  Oh, even better.

  Now what? Hector hasn’t exactly made many fans among his teachers over the years. Luckily only a few of them still care enough to call home to tell Mima about his late assignments, his absences, his general attitude problem — or, to be more accurate, to tell me so I can explain it to Mima in Spanish. But now I can see they’ve called in the big guns. He’s a guidance case.

  “Did Hector do something?” I ask innocently.

  “No. That’s the trouble,” Ms. Friedmor says. “He’s not here. Again.”

  “He’s been sick,” I say. That’s not technically a lie. He’s been coughing, though what can you expect if you smoke a pack a day?

  “Please ask your mother to call me,” she says. “There are a few matters we have to discuss about his course work.”

  “Sure, I’ll let her know.” Poor Ms. Friedmor. She has no idea that it will mean nothing.

  “And you’ll speak with Mrs. Pratt, too?”

  I give her an exasperated look. “Yes, Ms. Friedmor.”

  She pats my cheek. “Have the application on my desk in a week and I’ll add my recommendation.”

  The following afternoon, I climb the stairs to our apartment. As soon as I turn the key and step inside, I can tell that I’ve landed smack in the middle of one of Mima and Hector’s showdowns.

  Crap.

  If only I’d put my ear to the door first, I would have heard the muffled voices and waited out their argument. It’s a pretty day; I might have been able to ride the city bus all the way to the island and back to kill time.

  I try to back out quietly, but it’s too late. Mima spots me. “Aqui está tu hermana,” she says, announcing me.

  She’s at the sink, elbow-deep in soapy water. Hector stands in the kitchen doorway, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips while he does hand tricks with one of his Zippo lighters. He can close it with a sharp flick of the wrist alone. Sure, it’s impressive, but how many lighters does a person need? The answer is infinite, if you’re a pyro like he is, and matches just aren’t enough. I find Zippos rattling in the dryer after I do the laundry every week.

  The truth is I feel a little guilty watching him smoke. It wasn’t so long ago that Hector and I sucked on peeled Crayola crayons, pretending to be a movie star and a cowboy, all my idea. But now it’s not a game. He smokes like a fiend. At first, Mima nagged him about his lungs and all that. Eventually she stopped because it pissed him off. Now, along with smoking, he’s acquired a new habit of overturning kitchen chairs to let you know when you’re on his nerves. I had to swipe a tube of Mr. Melvin’s best wood glue to keep on hand for the busted legs.

  I hang up my coat in the hall closet and notice that the orange light from my turntable is on. Haven’t I been perfectly clear? No touching my stuff unless I’m home. Hector’s Led Zeppelin LP is still sitting there, too. I have a good mind to scratch it up for him.

  “No lo tengo,” Mima says. I don’t have it.

  “You do have it.” Hector flicks his wrist and snaps the lighter. “You just don’t want to give it to me. That’s different.”

  Mima digs for the rubber stopper under the murky water. “I didn’t get all my hours this week. You know that.”

  Her boss, the aptly named Mr. Small, has started closing his tape factory in the middle of the afternoon. He claims that business is bad because the City of New York, his biggest client, is nearly broke. Okay, everybody knows that’s true. Even the teacher in 3D rushes to cash her paycheck on Fridays in case it doesn’t clear at the bank. But how bad can it really be for Mr. Small if that little Napoleon still drives around in a new car every year? I think he’s full of it. Still, Mima worries constantly about losing her job in “un la-yuff.”

  “And the rent was due last week, in case you don’t know,” she adds
.

  “So? You don’t pay that.” Snap! Click!

  True. In theory, Papi’s child-support check more or less covers the rent. Plus, Mima makes me pay her fifty dollars every month from my earnings at the deli to “teach me responsibility.” I have mentioned that Kathleen still gets an allowance, but Mima says it’s another way Americans raise unappreciative children.

  “Well, he hasn’t sent it,” she says. “He’s late. As usual.” She shakes her head and sprinkles Ajax into the sink.

  “Then call him.”

  Mima sighs and stares at the ceiling. Then she turns to me with a pleading look.

  I see where this is going. My parents haven’t spoken directly since the day they signed their divorce papers. Guess who’s their messenger pigeon?

  “I don’t want to call him,” I say, squeezing past Hector to get to the refrigerator. Slim pickings, as usual. I reach for the cheese and fan away the cloud of cigarette smoke that has filled the room. “Jesus, Hector. Have a heart. It’s not like we can open a window in this cold.”

  “I need ten bucks,” he says.

  “Yeah. Ha — me, too.”

  He doesn’t know about my stash, thank God. I keep a little wad of bills hidden inside my old boots at the back of the closet. I’ve been socking away what I can so I can avoid asking Mima for anything. This month, seniors had to buy their cap and gown for graduation, plus, sue me, I splurged on a pair of Sasson jeans. So now I’m running low, considering that I should also be saving my money to move out. Mima would never understand, so she doesn’t know. She thinks girls should live at home in the calor de su familia until they get married, no matter what. I say family warmth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, at least not in this family.

  Hector inhales deeply. “Seriously. Ten measly bucks.”

  “For what?”

  “The Ramones are at CBGB’s in a couple of weeks. I want to go.”

  I wrinkle my nose. The Ramones are nothing I’d spend ten hard-earned bucks on. They’re punk, best known for giving their audience the finger. I don’t know what he sees in them except attitude. Personally I like dance music, or what Hector refers to coolly as “disco shit.” Kathleen and I have worn out the needle on her turntable listening to Vicki Sue Robinson’s “Turn the Beat Around,” the best song on the radio. The violins mixed against a heavy dance beat make us hustle across the room until we’re dizzy. It’s a known fact that we’re good dancers, too. We’ve been getting in at the Arena for at least a year. Hector, on the other hand, says disco makes him puke. He likes to groan like Donna Summer singing “Love to Love You Baby” and grab at his crotch. Gross, but somehow it always makes me laugh.