of corn. He turned his face slightly and spit out a flake of tobacco.
"People spew all kinds of nasty rumors," Marisa said with a sneer that had no feeling behind it. She was praying for a group of trick-or-treaters to come up the walk, but none did.
"I heard about you and Roberto. You two threw some
pleitos
and you messed him up good. He's a weak
pendejo,
but you're tight, girl." He turned to his friends. "She's tight, huh?"
The friends nodded like those toy Chihuahuas in the back windows of cars. One took the cigarette from Joel and used it to light his own. The tip of the cigarette caught and glowed red as sin.
Marisa couldn't think of a smooth escape. She looked back into the living room and said, "My aunt wants me."
"You all right, girl," Joel slurred. He turned to his friends. "She's all right, huh?"
Their heads did the toy-Chihuahua nod.
They left tripping down the walk and unwrapping candy bars, their masks sitting on top of their heads.
They don't need masks,
Marisa thought.
They're already scary.
"You're tight, girl!"
All the next day the phrase played in Marisa's mind and made her hate Joel and his low-life Mends.
"You're tight, girl!"
echoed again
like a refrain and made her hate the world.
You want to be happy
; she thought,
and then a weasel-neck like Joel shows up to make you feel bad. To make you think nothing has changed at all.
When Rene and Marisa went to rehearsals for
Romeo and Juliet,
Marisa felt out of place. Everyone was so cheerful, hugging one another and clasping hands. They were
so
touchy-feely.
"They're a bunch of fakes," Marisa muttered. She had just watched the scene when Juliet discovers Romeo dead—Marisa could see the dead Romeo's eyes fluttering. And he had crossed his legs. A dead person crossing his legs? Even their love for each other seemed fake.
"No, they're not. They're as genuine as you or me." Rene pouted with his head down, as if he were mad at his shoes. He asked, "What's wrong with you? How come you're so negative?"
Marisa was hurt. She could take a punch from Roberto, or a slap from a girl with a bad attitude. She could take her mother's scolding voice about her not cleaning up her bedroom. But the questions from Rene hurt. So he thought she had a bad attitude?
"Nothing's wrong with me." Her back stiffened with anger.
"I know that you went to a bad high school—"
Marisa cut Rene off with a bitter stare. She got
up and left the auditorium, her backpack feeling like it carried something heavier than books.
"These Hamilton kids don't know the real world," she muttered as she stood in the autumn sunlight, the wind flicking her hair about her. She took out her cell phone and checked the time: 4:17 P.M. Her mother was going to pick her up at 5:00 in front of the school. Marisa turned, faced the auditorium door where she had exited, and waited for Rene to come out, apologizing on his knees. But the door didn't swing open. She made out laughter coming from inside. Were they laughing at her?
Marisa was sensitive to criticism and she knew that at times she imagined things—a mere glance from someone on the street caused her to roll her hands into fists.
Is it me?
she often thought, and she thought it at that moment:
Is it me? Or is it this new school?
Her mood was dark. She wanted to kick something.
"Maybe I am negative," she muttered. "But I don't care. I don't belong here."
Marisa walked down a hallway plastered with signs for the school clubs—science, vegan, bisexual, poets for the world, thespians, Latinos in business. She sneered at the posters. At her old school the walls were tagged with graffiti.
"I know they're fakes," Marisa said. She boiled
with anger and ventured into the restroom. With a fingernail, she dabbed at something in her eye, which could have been dust, an eyelash, a windblown speck from a tree. She blinked, but her eye still felt scratchy. She closed her eyes and reconstructed the image of Rene asking her, "What's wrong with you?" She
"People spew all kinds of nasty rumors," Marisa said with a sneer that had no feeling behind it. She was praying for a group of trick-or-treaters to come up the walk, but none did.
"I heard about you and Roberto. You two threw some
pleitos
and you messed him up good. He's a weak
pendejo,
but you're tight, girl." He turned to his friends. "She's tight, huh?"
The friends nodded like those toy Chihuahuas in the back windows of cars. One took the cigarette from Joel and used it to light his own. The tip of the cigarette caught and glowed red as sin.
Marisa couldn't think of a smooth escape. She looked back into the living room and said, "My aunt wants me."
"You all right, girl," Joel slurred. He turned to his friends. "She's all right, huh?"
Their heads did the toy-Chihuahua nod.
They left tripping down the walk and unwrapping candy bars, their masks sitting on top of their heads.
They don't need masks,
Marisa thought.
They're already scary.
"You're tight, girl!"
All the next day the phrase played in Marisa's mind and made her hate Joel and his low-life Mends.
"You're tight, girl!"
echoed again
like a refrain and made her hate the world.
You want to be happy
; she thought,
and then a weasel-neck like Joel shows up to make you feel bad. To make you think nothing has changed at all.
When Rene and Marisa went to rehearsals for
Romeo and Juliet,
Marisa felt out of place. Everyone was so cheerful, hugging one another and clasping hands. They were
so
touchy-feely.
"They're a bunch of fakes," Marisa muttered. She had just watched the scene when Juliet discovers Romeo dead—Marisa could see the dead Romeo's eyes fluttering. And he had crossed his legs. A dead person crossing his legs? Even their love for each other seemed fake.
"No, they're not. They're as genuine as you or me." Rene pouted with his head down, as if he were mad at his shoes. He asked, "What's wrong with you? How come you're so negative?"
Marisa was hurt. She could take a punch from Roberto, or a slap from a girl with a bad attitude. She could take her mother's scolding voice about her not cleaning up her bedroom. But the questions from Rene hurt. So he thought she had a bad attitude?
"Nothing's wrong with me." Her back stiffened with anger.
"I know that you went to a bad high school—"
Marisa cut Rene off with a bitter stare. She got
up and left the auditorium, her backpack feeling like it carried something heavier than books.
"These Hamilton kids don't know the real world," she muttered as she stood in the autumn sunlight, the wind flicking her hair about her. She took out her cell phone and checked the time: 4:17 P.M. Her mother was going to pick her up at 5:00 in front of the school. Marisa turned, faced the auditorium door where she had exited, and waited for Rene to come out, apologizing on his knees. But the door didn't swing open. She made out laughter coming from inside. Were they laughing at her?
Marisa was sensitive to criticism and she knew that at times she imagined things—a mere glance from someone on the street caused her to roll her hands into fists.
Is it me?
she often thought, and she thought it at that moment:
Is it me? Or is it this new school?
Her mood was dark. She wanted to kick something.
"Maybe I am negative," she muttered. "But I don't care. I don't belong here."
Marisa walked down a hallway plastered with signs for the school clubs—science, vegan, bisexual, poets for the world, thespians, Latinos in business. She sneered at the posters. At her old school the walls were tagged with graffiti.
"I know they're fakes," Marisa said. She boiled
with anger and ventured into the restroom. With a fingernail, she dabbed at something in her eye, which could have been dust, an eyelash, a windblown speck from a tree. She blinked, but her eye still felt scratchy. She closed her eyes and reconstructed the image of Rene asking her, "What's wrong with you?" She
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