Becoming Beatriz Read online

  The juniors and seniors are sort of together. Already looking like they’re over it, and the bell ain’t even ring yet.

  Time to get busy.

  I scan the crowd, looking for my runners. Junito made sure I knew who they all were last year when I was in eighth grade. The rules are always clear. Every grade needs a boy and a girl. They share the responsibility of making sure orders are taken and distributed. Me? Stay away from the product once it’s transferred. Keep my nose and hands clean. Once the runners get the product, it’s their job to sell it. All of it…or face the consequences. Fridays are meetings, held in an empty storage room beneath our bodega. Take attendance. Drop your load. Me and DQ take our cut. Divvy up the funds. Set up the next round of sales. Meeting adjourned.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  David “Mooki” Sanchez is my top pick for the freshman class. He’s been down with me since sixth grade. Maricela was more than happy to volunteer to cover ninth grade with him. But I know that has more to do with getting David’s attention than actually being of any help.

  “What’s up, Beatriz? Good to see you.” David gives me the signature Diablo handshake, and I slip five nickel bags in his pocket. To some, it might look like I’m grabbing his junk. But me and him know the deal.

  For the sophomore class, Nilda Perez and Juan Diaz keep their spots from last year. They notice me before I even see them. They walk over, give me a handshake, and the deal is done.

  Two grades down. Two to go.

  The junior class was supposed to have Victoriano Lopez and Damarys Novaro as the runners, but last year Victor took a hit for Junito and got locked up for the next four years. Never snitched. Never said a word about our operation. A real soldier. And Damarys got pregnant by Victor right before he went in. Every Diablo knows there’s only three ways to get out of the gang: death, get a beatdown that leaves you barely able to walk, or, if you’re a girl, get pregnant. Needless to say, I was gonna have to recruit two new runners for the junior class.

  Tony Pedros is our top seller at Barringer. Has been since he first got here his freshman year. The thing about Tony is that if you look at him, you’d never know that he’s a dealer. B-plus student. Captain of the football team. He’s got this whole existence outside the Diablos. And because Junito always thought he had a chance to get drafted in the NFL, Tony’s literally the only Diablo that got a pass—didn’t have to put as much time in with the gang so he’d have room for sports.

  Tony seeks me out in the crowd. Valerie Reyes follows behind him. She’s keeping her spot alongside Tony as female runner this year for the senior class.

  “Glad to see you’re back in the game, princesa,” Tony whispers in my ear as he hugs me close. He smells of soap and Airheads and hunger. But that hunger won’t last for long. While I’m wrapped in his arms, I weasel my hand through my sweatshirt and up to my bra. Nice and smooth. No one even notices. I slip enough bags in his pocket for him to split with Valerie.

  “How you feeling, girl?” Valerie asks, with real concern in her eyes.

  I shrug my shoulders and look around at the crowd.

  “I’m maintaining. Pero oye, no Junito talk. I’m good. Trust me.” My words are a Band-Aid over a still-open wound.

  Just as the bell rings, I can sense a pair of eyes hawking me from the direction of the auditorium doors. When I turn, I see some tall dude with dark brown skin and a curly black ’fro. He’s dressed in khakis, a collared shirt, a bow tie, and the shiniest shoes ever. The look on his face screams, “I’m new here. Please be my friend.”

  Seriously, who wears a bow tie to school?

  Swarms of students whiz by, but he stays standing there. And there I am, like an idiot, staring and standing too, when I should be moving. His gaze is a magnet. He smiles at me, and I shoot my eyes straight to the ground. Nosy Julicza notices immediately and just has to give her little two cents.

  “Yo, who’s that guy checking you out?” She tickles me in the ribs, and I hunch over to stop from laughing.

  But when I straighten up to look at him again, he’s already disappeared into the sea of students bum-rushing their way through the doors.

  NEW SCHOOL, NEW PROBLEMS

  “BEATRIZ MENDEZ, PLEASE REPORT to the main office.”

  I can’t even get to homeroom in peace before they’re already calling me over the loudspeaker. Funny, because I promised myself that going to Barringer would give me a chance to turn over a new leaf. I’m still gonna be a Diabla through and through, but I’m gonna be as low profile as possible. Do enough to get by.

  There’s a lot of commotion in the office. The phones are ringing off the hook, the secretaries acting more nervous with each ring. They don’t even notice me standing there, even though I’m sure one of them called my name on the intercom.

  A man strolls out from behind a wooden door marked “Principal.” He might be the tallest guy I’ve ever seen. Dressed in a three-piece suit, he looks like he’s ready to preach at church. He looks over and says, “Are you Beatriz Mendez?”

  I nod but don’t say nothing.

  “I’m Dr. Brown. Come on in,” he says.

  There’s a woman with her back to me seated in one of the chairs. I see her blonde hair and black roots piled up in a loose bun. Scope out those white patent-leather pumps and black stockings. There’s only one teacher notorious for that combination: Mrs. Ruiz.

  She swings the chair around and twists her mouth into a smile soon as she sees me.

  “Your face healed up nicely,” she says.

  Lies! I want to scream back, but I don’t. “What are you doing at Barringer? You were just teaching Spanish at King Middle.”

  Mrs. Ruiz rises from the chair, leans toward me, then whispers in my ear, “Un nuevo trabajo para mí. Y una nueva escuela para ti. Let’s not mess this up, eh?”

  Dr. Brown pulls up an extra chair for me near his desk, and we all take our seats.

  “Why’d you call me here? Did I do something wrong?” I stare at walls and walls of degrees and awards. Seton Hall University. Yale. The Governor’s Award for Leadership. Pictures with the mayor. It’s like this man is the freaking president or something.

  Dr. Brown speaks first. “Our new guidance counselor, Mrs. Ruiz, had some wonderful things to say about you and her time with you at King Middle School.”

  My stomach does this little backflip. Wonderful? Doubt it. The last word I would use to describe my time at King Middle is wonderful. Mrs. Ruiz must see the yeah-right smirk on my face, so she speaks next.

  “As I mentioned before, Beatriz has a lot of potential, despite some challenges she recently went through.”

  Potential? Challenges? Code words for my ass was always in trouble.

  “I know about your brother and his gang involvement,” Dr. Brown says. “And though I am sorry for your loss, I wanted to—”

  “Alleged.” I cut him off.

  “Excuse me?” he asks.

  “Alleged gang involvement. Sir.”

  I’m not putting my business out there like that. I can see Dr. Brown skimming through that big shiny, bald head of his, searching for how to be firm, but not a total pendejo.

  “I looked through your records.” He clears his throat. “You were placed a grade behind where you belonged when you arrived from Puerto Rico.”

  My whole chest rises, thinking for a split second that maybe the school will do right by me. But deep down, I know it’s not possible. Not when my report cards are always full of Ds with a side order of Fs.

  “I didn’t speak much English then, so they held me back a whole year. Why? You gonna put me in my right grade? As you can see, I speak-uh dee English just fine.”

  Okay, maybe I’m the pendeja for that last part.

  Mrs. Ruiz coughs and kicks me with the tip of her heel. Dr. Brown pulls at his tie like he needs to catch his breath.


  “Given your grade point average, that’s highly unlikely. But what I would like to see is a fresh start for you. Better grades. Complete focus. Think you can do that for yourself?” This guy’s all looking me up and down.

  Mrs. Ruiz doesn’t give me a chance to tell this cabrón where he can stick it. “She can do it. She’ll try her best and work hard, right, Beatriz?”

  I flash Mrs. Ruiz a fake smile. I still got a soft spot for this lady.

  Dr. Brown clears his throat and slaps my file folder on his desk. I already know what’s coming next.

  “Barringer High School strives to maintain a positive image. We expect excellence from our students. More importantly, this is a drug-free school, young lady, and we’d like to keep it that way,” he says as he puts the folder into a drawer.

  Yadda, yadda, yadda.

  It all goes in one ear and out the other. The funny thing is my best customer at King Middle was Mrs. Caldwell. Claimed that reefer helped with her arthritis. Who knows if that was even true? She slept half the time when she should’ve been teaching. And when she wasn’t sleeping, homegirl had the munchies. But I guess Mrs. Ruiz don’t know nothing about that.

  “Dr. Brown.” I’m tired of his “say no to drugs” speech. “I’m not into that life—drugs, gangs, and such—never was.”

  Lying and breathing become one.

  Mrs. Ruiz clears her throat like she’s got a jagged-edged rock caught in there. “Yes, and anyways, that was her brother’s life. It’s not hers. Right, Beatriz?”

  She stares deep into my eyes. I’m not really sure what she’s looking for.

  “He wasn’t into that, either.” I try my best to hide the lie in my voice.

  “Mrs. Ruiz tells me you’re an excellent dancer.” Dr. Brown changes the subject.

  Bring on the stomach rumbles again. Can’t I just get to class, old man? I got rounds to finish.

  “I used to dance…for fun. I don’t dance no more…anymore, sir.”

  ’Cause I’m too busy taking care of Mami—and reliving the day that took away my brother, the music, and every dream I ever had for myself.

  Mrs. Ruiz reaches into her bag and hands me a stack of flyers and applications. I flip through them for a millisecond and see ballet and dance and camp and one paper with NAACP in the heading.

  That stops me. I remember learning about black identity and the NAACP during Black History Month back in sixth grade. Mr. Pullman even took us on a trip to the Schomburg Center in New York. And as I gazed in awe at all the pictures and stories, he looked me straight in the eye and told me that even though I spoke Spanish, I too was black. And that I should embrace that. Like Celia Cruz, Arturo Alfonso Schomburg, Roberto Clemente, and so many other people featured at the center. It might’ve been the only time I ever listened in his class, or any class for that matter.

  I pull the NAACP flyer from the pile and read it.

  Calling all New Jersey high school students of African descent: Register for the Olympics of the Mind with the NAACP ACT-SO competition! Categories include poetry, science, art, dance, and more!

  There’s more words, but I can’t get past the CP, and still wonder if I belong. CP meaning people of color. I mean technically I’m black, right? No matter how much Abuela tried to deny it when we were growing up. She’d often say, “No somos moreno porque somos africano. Es porque somos indio.” Whenever Abuela said that, Mami would just roll her eyes and tell me not to listen to the crazy old lady. But I still remember Abuela’s reason for our family genetics: our bronze skin, broad noses, and pelo malo. Sure, our ancestors were the Taíno people, but there ain’t no denying they were African too.

  Beyond that, the letters CP got me thinking of two more words: can’t and possible.

  Once upon a time, I would have jumped at something like this. It was almost possible when I joined the pageant at King Middle last year. But I messed that up, got myself kicked out before I even gave myself a chance. And now, with everything that’s going on, I can’t even dare to dream.

  Two feelings break out in a war—hate and loyalty. And honestly, I can’t shake either.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mrs. Ruiz can’t hold in her excitement. “I remember your beautiful salsa dance for the pageant. You can’t pass this up. Plus, it looks like it’s a free contest.” She says free like I’m supposed to care.

  Money ain’t the issue. It’s me. And these legs, these arms, this corazón that have lost the will to feel the music.

  I tuck the papers in the back pocket of my overalls. “Thanks. I’ll look into it.”

  I rise up abruptly, like I’m eager to get to class.

  “Remember, Ms. Mendez, bad times don’t last forever. If you need to talk, I’m here, and Mrs. Ruiz is available too. I expect to hear great things about you.” Dr. Brown gets up too, starts toward the door.

  “Sure thing, Dr. Brown,” I say quickly. I get ready to bounce out of there.

  I make my way out the office door as fast as my feet will go.

  The halls are crowded with students shuffling to next period. First stop? Bathroom. The hangout spot. Julicza and Maricela are already in there with a couple of other Diablas, tagging up the walls with our signature pitchfork. I notice the bathroom has trash on the floor and is missing a couple doors on the stalls. Brings me right back to King Middle School.

  The crew doesn’t see me at first, so I decide to give them a scare.

  “Julicza Feliciano, report to the principal’s office now!”

  I never seen that girl hide a can of spray paint so fast. When they all whip around and see it’s me, they bust out laughing.

  “You scared me half to death, Beatriz!” Julicza is giggling.

  “Yo, what’s up with getting called to the office earlier?” Maricela is all up in my Kool-Aid.

  “Nada importante. But guess who works here now?”

  “Shut up, don’t tell me. It’s Mrs. Caldwell, with her sleepy behind?” Julicza laughs so hard she almost snorts.

  “Nope. Mrs. Ruiz. She’s a guidance counselor here.”

  “That’s dope. Always liked her. What she want with you?” Julicza asks.

  “Just wanted to give me some papers.”

  “Ooh, for what?” Maricela asks.

  “For some stupid fix-my-life camps and a NAACP dance contest.”

  Maricela’s face lights up at the word dance, and she starts tugging on my sleeve like a four-year-old.

  “Don’t even think about it. Those days are done. I already tossed the papers in the garbage.”

  “Ain’t the NAACP for black people? Why would she give you a paper about that?” Julicza asks.

  “You don’t see that butt? That thing is straight from the motherland.” Maricela laughs and smacks me straight on the nalgas.

  I laugh and press my hand on my butt cheek to stop the sting.

  “My dad’s black. I told you that a long time ago, not to mention have you seen my abuela? And quit it, Maricela!” I don’t know if I’m playing or if I’m really annoyed.

  Julicza stares back at me with twisted lips.

  Maricela breaks up the silence. “Y’all, remember what Mr. Pullman used to say? Only difference between black and brown people is where we were dumped off the slave ships.”

  Some of the other girls start chiming in. “My abuela is black too.” “Yo, my papi is blacker than black.”

  “Whatever, y’all. I got bigger things to do anyway.” I cut everyone off.

  “Like what?” Julicza asks.

  “Like getting back to normal.”

  “Word, yo, ’cause we missed you like crazy this summer. I mean DQ is holding things down and all, but the Diablos aren’t the same without you and our regular meeting spot!” Maricela says.

  And Junito. My knees weaken for half a second. I grab the sink to hold me up.


  “Yeah, sales were okay. Just not as booming ’cause DQ said we had to lay low during the investigation. Man, I even had to ask my mom for money for school clothes. And she made me ask Ruben for it,” Julicza says.

  “Ruben?” I ask. “What happened to Dwayne, stepdaddy number four?”

  We all look at her, confused as all get-out. It’s hard keeping up with Julicza’s mom’s love life.

  “Dwayne lasted all of four and a half seconds. So in comes this new guy, Ruben, stepdaddy número cinco. Mom met him at some festival this summer. Wasted no time moving him in. And this pendejo don’t do nothing for free. But he still hooked it up, though.” Julicza looks in the mirror, holding up a new tube of red lip gloss.

  A dark cloud of worry rises in me. Julicza would never say it, but most of us have a feeling that life at home with her mom’s boyfriend of the week isn’t all bubbles and rainbows.

  “Hey, some guys asked if we wanted to hang out at Frank’s Pizzeria after school.” Julicza changes the subject.

  “That sounds cool. Right, Beatriz?” Maricela jabs me in the ribs.

  I let out a little cough. Maricela is forever trying to hook me up with somebody, but it’ll never work. All I hear is Junito’s voice ringing up inside my head. No novios. Anything that takes your attention away from the Diablos is dangerous.

  Sometimes when I hear his voice in my head, I want to scream. Pick up the nearest object I can find and throw it. I was supposed to be a loyal sister, even though I found out he didn’t follow his own rule.

  “You guys go. I gotta help out at the bodega after school.”

  Before I leave the bathroom, I pull the last nickel bags from my bra and hand them to Julicza. “You think you can handle sales for the juniors? I mean, just for this week?”

  Her smile reaches maximum cheese level. “Oh, most definitely!”

  She has until Friday to sell them all. She knows the drill.

  “And hey, no sampling the product, nena,” I remind her as I leave the bathroom to make my next stop.