Read Online Show and Prove by Sofia Quintero - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sofia Quintero
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They’ll realize he’s all talk and no action, and come August, Nike’s kids will be getting over on him left and right.
They call me Smiles because I’m always smiling. This is camp, not juvie. The kids come to have fun, and when they have fun, I have fun. But I know when the kid gloves should come off. Even the counselors know better than to test me. We might be around the same age, but they respect me as much as the kids do. That’s why I should have been Big Lou’s assistant.
I find Pedro sitting in the bleachers by himself, slowly washing down his blueberry muffin with chocolate milk. Most day camp kids are Saint Aloysius students or at least live in the neighborhood. They come to camp already having friends from school or the block. Since I’ve never seen him before, and he’s alone, I deduce that Pedro must have just moved here.
“Pedro?” He looks up and watches me climb the bleachers toward him. He’s a cute kid—dark spiky hair and big brown eyes—but small for ten. I would’ve guessed eight. Pedro’s clothes also set him apart from the other campers. Even the poorest kids try to keep up with the trends, just like Nike did when he first moved to the neighborhood. If they can’t afford the Pumas or Lees, they at least get the latest haircut or pull their pennies together to buy some “in” thing like a Rubik’s Cube or rubber bracelets. Pedro has on a faded red T-shirt and shorts cut from discount-store jeans, the bluish white threads dangling toward his ashy knees. His sneakers are the fake Adidas with the fourth stripe they sell at Woolworth’s, where he probably got his picture taken in the photo booth. I don’t know how long he has lived here, but the kids must be crazy teasing him, like they did Nike. For five days a week, though, I’ll keep the bullies in check.
“What’s up, homeboy?” I sit down next to him. “I’m Smiles, your counselor.” He just blinks at me. Although his address is on the registration form, to make conversation I ask, “Where do you live?” He still doesn’t answer me. I scan the medical section of his form to see if he has any problems, and it’s empty. But in the box labeled NOTES it reads:
ESL.
I say to Pedro, “No English?” He shakes his head. Cookie trying it, yo!
And just as if she timed the entire scenario, she scampers up the bleachers. “He just moved here from Puerto Rico last month,” she says. Then Cookie turns to Pedro and says something in Spanish, including my name and a word that sounds like
counselor.
I take Spanish in school, but she’s speaking so fast I can’t follow. Probably doing that on purpose, too. Pedro asks her something that makes Cookie laugh. She then says to me as she starts her way back down the bleachers. “In fifteen minutes, we’re lining up the kids to take them to the Central Park pool.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I say. If the weather’s nice, we always take the entire camp to Central Park on the first day. I suggested it to Barb three years ago, and it’s now our tradition. It’s only four stops on the 6 train with no transfers—a good way to get the kids and counselors used to taking the subway as a group before we start venturing to the pools as far as Astoria, Queens, or even taking the ferry to the one in Staten Island. On Mondays through Thursdays, each of the three age groups heads someplace different in New York City. On Fridays the entire camp goes on a bus trip to a state park. The last week it’s bus trips every day, including Bear Mountain and Coney Island. These kids get a lot for their five-dollar registration fee, including the orange camp T-shirt they have to wear every Friday. “You’re not the only one who can read the schedule.”
Cookie tells Pedro, “Si él no te trata bien, búscame. Me llamo Carolina.” Then she smirks at me, motions toward Pedro, and says, “When you need help, you know where to find me.” And then she skips down the steps and back into the
They call me Smiles because I’m always smiling. This is camp, not juvie. The kids come to have fun, and when they have fun, I have fun. But I know when the kid gloves should come off. Even the counselors know better than to test me. We might be around the same age, but they respect me as much as the kids do. That’s why I should have been Big Lou’s assistant.
I find Pedro sitting in the bleachers by himself, slowly washing down his blueberry muffin with chocolate milk. Most day camp kids are Saint Aloysius students or at least live in the neighborhood. They come to camp already having friends from school or the block. Since I’ve never seen him before, and he’s alone, I deduce that Pedro must have just moved here.
“Pedro?” He looks up and watches me climb the bleachers toward him. He’s a cute kid—dark spiky hair and big brown eyes—but small for ten. I would’ve guessed eight. Pedro’s clothes also set him apart from the other campers. Even the poorest kids try to keep up with the trends, just like Nike did when he first moved to the neighborhood. If they can’t afford the Pumas or Lees, they at least get the latest haircut or pull their pennies together to buy some “in” thing like a Rubik’s Cube or rubber bracelets. Pedro has on a faded red T-shirt and shorts cut from discount-store jeans, the bluish white threads dangling toward his ashy knees. His sneakers are the fake Adidas with the fourth stripe they sell at Woolworth’s, where he probably got his picture taken in the photo booth. I don’t know how long he has lived here, but the kids must be crazy teasing him, like they did Nike. For five days a week, though, I’ll keep the bullies in check.
“What’s up, homeboy?” I sit down next to him. “I’m Smiles, your counselor.” He just blinks at me. Although his address is on the registration form, to make conversation I ask, “Where do you live?” He still doesn’t answer me. I scan the medical section of his form to see if he has any problems, and it’s empty. But in the box labeled NOTES it reads:
ESL.
I say to Pedro, “No English?” He shakes his head. Cookie trying it, yo!
And just as if she timed the entire scenario, she scampers up the bleachers. “He just moved here from Puerto Rico last month,” she says. Then Cookie turns to Pedro and says something in Spanish, including my name and a word that sounds like
counselor.
I take Spanish in school, but she’s speaking so fast I can’t follow. Probably doing that on purpose, too. Pedro asks her something that makes Cookie laugh. She then says to me as she starts her way back down the bleachers. “In fifteen minutes, we’re lining up the kids to take them to the Central Park pool.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I say. If the weather’s nice, we always take the entire camp to Central Park on the first day. I suggested it to Barb three years ago, and it’s now our tradition. It’s only four stops on the 6 train with no transfers—a good way to get the kids and counselors used to taking the subway as a group before we start venturing to the pools as far as Astoria, Queens, or even taking the ferry to the one in Staten Island. On Mondays through Thursdays, each of the three age groups heads someplace different in New York City. On Fridays the entire camp goes on a bus trip to a state park. The last week it’s bus trips every day, including Bear Mountain and Coney Island. These kids get a lot for their five-dollar registration fee, including the orange camp T-shirt they have to wear every Friday. “You’re not the only one who can read the schedule.”
Cookie tells Pedro, “Si él no te trata bien, búscame. Me llamo Carolina.” Then she smirks at me, motions toward Pedro, and says, “When you need help, you know where to find me.” And then she skips down the steps and back into the
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