South Central Noir

I’m not proud of the fact that my Spanish stinks. There, it does. Jenny’s is perfect, and she talks about tortillas and champurrado and enchiladas all with the right pronunciation that would only make me feel awkward trying to say, as awkward as it makes me hearing Jenny say it. Like it’s not embarrassing at all to speak Spanish. Like it’s not a sign of low rent or house cleaners or janitors or shopping at the swap meet.

I’m not knocking janitors or housekeepers or swap meets. My mom works at La Market, and still has time to make us good food. My dad used to be a janitor, before he became a paralegal, before he gave up. That’s what my mom calls it. He gave up on himself, not us, she said. And then she doesn’t talk about him.

That’s a long way of explaining why I am in Spanish class. Or, more precisely, why I am not in Spanish class, but instead here. I am here because I could not stand one more stupid word out of Mr. Torres’s mouth. Not one more idiotic thing! He was talking about the Lizard People, and I was thinking, how does an adult believe something so stupid?

He’s going on and on and on and then I say, “Do they speak Spanish?”

He shoots me a dirty look, but asks, “What?”

I say it slowly, so he can better understand me: “Do the Lizard People speak Spanish?”

He shrugs as if to say he doesn’t know, then, “Why? Why do you want to know?”

I say, “Because this is a Spanish class and it would be great to learn it here.”

Another dirty look, then, “Fine. You wanna learn Spanish? Class, pull out a paper and pencil. Thanks to Abigail here, we’re gonna do a pop quiz.”

Groans from the class and now they all want to kill me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I was confused. I didn’t think enrolling in Spanish 202 was really Lizard People 101.”

Referral to Ms. C.

I have been referred twelve times this semester, seven from Mr. Torres. He probably wants to expel me from his class. That might be the sensible thing to do. But I think that would mean I win. He doesn’t just tell us about Lizard People, but also about his dirt-poor childhood which I know for a fact all of us kids in this class could totally beat. Who’s he trying to impress? Who does he think is going to feel sorry for him?

I don’t feel sorry for him, and I don’t want to hear any of his sad, sad tales of woe. Ms. Cifuentes, on the other hand, looks at you kinda sad, so you know she’s got her own hurt, but she’s not gonna lay her grief on you, a kid. She’s gonna be a real woman and take care of it, and take care of you. That’s right. That’s like my mom. When, as she says, Dad gave up, she cried with us. But she never asked us to make it right. To take care of her. Caro, my little sister, tried to make her coffee or ramen, and Ma just said, “No, baby, that’s my job.”

Ma sleeps a lot. That seems right to me. Sleeping is the only form of time travel we got. Something bad happens, go to bed. Somehow it hurts just a little less in the morning.

I guess another thing you could do would be to play Animal Crossing. All video games are good for focusing right on what’s in front of you, and forgetting about the shit all around. I mean, it’s like the house disappears, right?

Another thing is movies. But sometime they’re so loud.

Another thing is books. Sometimes a book can make everything disappear. The sleeping mom, the deadbeat dad, the lousy teacher, and the broke-ass school.

These things can make it all disappear, and then it’s almost more painful to come back to the barred windows of real life. Even inside our place the street traffic noise runs 24/7. I can smell the bus’s exhaust, hear the shriek of brakes. The walls of our apartment smell. I think it’s the diesel fumes. Caro and I are good at cleaning, we don’t mind (no, I hate it really, but I don’t mind. Ma shouldn’t have to do everything), but there’s a smell inside the walls we can’t get rid of. Maybe that’s why people go for candles?

Our old home had a yard. I had a bike I could ride to the corner and back, or in the street in front of our house. The bike disappeared with the move. It doesn’t matter — it’s not like I would ride it anywhere.

It’s just me with Ms. C right now. I guess not many kids get into trouble during first period. I mean, if you’re coming to school for trouble, just hang back, stay home. Kids get to be antsy, moving around right before lunch. I figure everyone’s hungry and bored and that’s a sure recipe for bitching at each other.

Just write it out, Ms. Cifuentes said. Don’t stop, keep writing. I wonder what she would be writing about. Are her eyes sad because of some guy? I hope not. Guys are dopes. Maybe not all guys. My dad was not a dope, he was just at the end of his rope.

Ugh, that’s a terrible rhyme.

Ms. Cifuentes said my time was up, so I just left. That was last week. That was February. Now we’re in March and I don’t really want to talk about my dad — I don’t care what Ms. C says.