Read Online Down to the Bone by Mayra Lazara Dole - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mayra Lazara Dole
Ads: Link
all the right-wing assholes here. He hates gays, blacks, environmentalists and shit like that.” She shakes her head. “He’s twisted. And to top it off, he lives with us because he lost his job. I can’t wait till tomorrow. I’m heading to Oregon for summer vacation to be with my mom. I’m like my parents. My uncle, your mom and your teachers are ignorant fools. You’re a million steps above them all.”
Soli changes the conversation. She always does just when things start getting intense. She hates talking politics, or anything serious, for too long. She says, “It cramps my style, Shylypop.”
She starts advising me. “Today, all the hoodrats who made fun of you or did you wrong need to be erased from your mind. Don’t you dare give them the time of day again.”
I start leafing through pages of a magazine, catching every word she’s saying, without seeming sad.
Right before the Incident, Soli and I had been spending some of our spare time at the beach, swimming, rollerblading and things like that. We never had the need to give each other guidance or vent about problems. We were too busy having fun.
I want to reach out and hold Soli and Rynn’s hands and tell them I really appreciate their support. But something stops me. I suddenly feel gloomy beyond my control and don’t want to start sobbing.
Soli does a three-sixty. “Hey, tell Rynn how I used to wear pigtails in elementary school.”
I pull my little tick-machine to me and squeeze the furry ball into my arms. Soli’s trying to entertain me. She knows I’m going through hell and wants to make me laugh. I don’t want her to feel bad. So I start:
“She always had three pigtails, two on the sides, and one on top of her head. She looked like she was sprouting trees.”
“Hey!” she slaps my knee. “I was way ahead of my time.”
“Absolutely!” I pinch the tip of her nose. Neruda barks at her in agreement. “Her mom starched and ironed her dresses every morning. Her uniform was stiff as a board.”
Soli tosses her head back, and lets out a melodious laugh. Her eyes light up. “Remember how Mrs. Agria used to grab your cheeks and pinch them hard when you were sketching instead of paying attention in class? Remember the day Mrs. Guantes cut your shaggy hair in class, and gave you short bangs because, she said, ‘I can’t see your eyes under there. You do have those round things inside sockets, don’t you?’”
“What a whacko!” Memories fly around me.
She faces Rynn. “In third grade, this girl, Olga, once yelled to me, ‘Black Bootie Bitch!’ Shyly screamed to her, ‘Look who’s talking. You’re white like dirty sour milk, at least she looks like yummy chocolate!’” Soli goes on. “Another time Olga screamed to me, ‘Hey, Charcoal!’ Shyly said to me, ‘Don’t pay attention to her.’ She pulled me by the hand, took me to the far corner of the playground, and started making jokes. She made me laugh with her wacky sense of humor.” It was hard for me to see the way that one girl had it out for Soli. I’m glad I was there to protect her.
I look to the colorful friendship wristband I gave her for her birthday and remember she and I were the only kids in our class without fathers. Her dad died of a heart attack a month after mine passed away. Soli was as inconsolable as I’d been about Papi’s death. We were there for each other to console one another. That was the only time I’ve ever seen her weep uncontrollably. Every year, around the time our fathers died, Soli, her mom and I do candle rituals and dedicate the day to our dads. We spend it remembering them and doing things they loved, like horseback riding, eating their favorite foods, playing catch (they both liked baseball) and things like that.
Having grieved together bonded us in a way that’s indescribable, and that’s why our friendship is indestructible.
I rub the wristband she gave me for my birthday, and we throw each other a smile.
One thing about
Soli changes the conversation. She always does just when things start getting intense. She hates talking politics, or anything serious, for too long. She says, “It cramps my style, Shylypop.”
She starts advising me. “Today, all the hoodrats who made fun of you or did you wrong need to be erased from your mind. Don’t you dare give them the time of day again.”
I start leafing through pages of a magazine, catching every word she’s saying, without seeming sad.
Right before the Incident, Soli and I had been spending some of our spare time at the beach, swimming, rollerblading and things like that. We never had the need to give each other guidance or vent about problems. We were too busy having fun.
I want to reach out and hold Soli and Rynn’s hands and tell them I really appreciate their support. But something stops me. I suddenly feel gloomy beyond my control and don’t want to start sobbing.
Soli does a three-sixty. “Hey, tell Rynn how I used to wear pigtails in elementary school.”
I pull my little tick-machine to me and squeeze the furry ball into my arms. Soli’s trying to entertain me. She knows I’m going through hell and wants to make me laugh. I don’t want her to feel bad. So I start:
“She always had three pigtails, two on the sides, and one on top of her head. She looked like she was sprouting trees.”
“Hey!” she slaps my knee. “I was way ahead of my time.”
“Absolutely!” I pinch the tip of her nose. Neruda barks at her in agreement. “Her mom starched and ironed her dresses every morning. Her uniform was stiff as a board.”
Soli tosses her head back, and lets out a melodious laugh. Her eyes light up. “Remember how Mrs. Agria used to grab your cheeks and pinch them hard when you were sketching instead of paying attention in class? Remember the day Mrs. Guantes cut your shaggy hair in class, and gave you short bangs because, she said, ‘I can’t see your eyes under there. You do have those round things inside sockets, don’t you?’”
“What a whacko!” Memories fly around me.
She faces Rynn. “In third grade, this girl, Olga, once yelled to me, ‘Black Bootie Bitch!’ Shyly screamed to her, ‘Look who’s talking. You’re white like dirty sour milk, at least she looks like yummy chocolate!’” Soli goes on. “Another time Olga screamed to me, ‘Hey, Charcoal!’ Shyly said to me, ‘Don’t pay attention to her.’ She pulled me by the hand, took me to the far corner of the playground, and started making jokes. She made me laugh with her wacky sense of humor.” It was hard for me to see the way that one girl had it out for Soli. I’m glad I was there to protect her.
I look to the colorful friendship wristband I gave her for her birthday and remember she and I were the only kids in our class without fathers. Her dad died of a heart attack a month after mine passed away. Soli was as inconsolable as I’d been about Papi’s death. We were there for each other to console one another. That was the only time I’ve ever seen her weep uncontrollably. Every year, around the time our fathers died, Soli, her mom and I do candle rituals and dedicate the day to our dads. We spend it remembering them and doing things they loved, like horseback riding, eating their favorite foods, playing catch (they both liked baseball) and things like that.
Having grieved together bonded us in a way that’s indescribable, and that’s why our friendship is indestructible.
I rub the wristband she gave me for my birthday, and we throw each other a smile.
One thing about
Similar Books
