Chameleon (3 page)

Because. Because. My life has doors. Doors hide things. And that was a door I didn’t want to open.

I tapped the Walk button. This light is always slow.

“Ay, Shawn, is that Marisol?”

Across the street a young Mexican girl about our age headed into the Tamale Hut. Lorenzo nodded her way.

“Where?” I said, darting my eyes around the intersection. Marisol. My savior.

She was at ten o’clock. The Tamale Hut. Clear jellies on her feet. Sunshine-yellow pedal pushers on her legs, a flower on the lower right pant leg. White blouse. Long black hair caressing her butt, with a butterfly clasp pulling the hair out of her face.

Yup. Marisol.

Her slow, easy stride carried her inside, where she was joined by two of her friends, Passion and Ivy.
Mare-ee-solll.
Just the syllables coming out of my mouth made my heart skip a beat. We went to school together, and I had it bad for her. I wanted to learn Spanish because of her. It might have been the hair or . . .

Lorenzo elbowed Trent in the ribs and nodded again toward the Tamale Hut.

“I feel like gettin’ a tamale,” he said.

“Awww, man. Let’s just go to the park. I ain’t trying to deal with Passion and Ivy,” Andre said.

Lorenzo grabbed me around the neck.

“Come on, Trent. I
know
Shawn is hungry for some spicy Mexican food. Huh, Shawn?” he said.

Andre snatched the ball from Trent. “I thought we was gonna play some ball?”

Trent tapped at the Walk button with excitement, then did a little dance on and off the curb.

“Come on, you guys.”

Lorenzo tugged on my left arm.

“Yeah, Shawn. What you got to be afraid of?” he said.

Plenty. But anything that’ll keep me from my auntie’s house is fine by me. Even if it did mean I might make a fool of myself.

Marisol Rodriguez. Yes, she was fine. But better than that, she was cool. She was even finer because she was cool. Most girls that are fine know they are fine and act all conceited and stuck-up. But the ones that are fine and don’t quite know they are fine are usually cool. Real cool. This was Marisol. We been going to school together since Head Start, and for as long as I can remember, she’s had that long, jet-black hair of hers. Sometimes she wore it in a ponytail. Sometimes she twisted it up. Most of the time she just let it cascade down her back like a waterfall.

Our neighborhood is a pretty good mix of blacks and Mexicans. Almost equal. Everybody’d gotten to know each other over the years in school, and me and Marisol became friends. Not close friends, but friends. The first time I heard her speak Spanish to a friend of hers, I asked if she could teach me something. I didn’t think she would teach me “I love you” right off the bat, so I started with the basics: cuss words. From there we moved on to the alphabet, then numbers, then the real touristy stuff. Things like:

Hello.

Hola.

How are you?

¿Cómo estás?

I’m fine.

Estoy bien.

Where is the bathroom?

¿Dónde está el baño?

What time is it?

¿Qué hora es?
(Which really means “What hour is it?”)

My name is . . .

Me llamo . . .

Yes.

Sí.

No. Which is still “no,” just with a hard accent.

I had her repeat that one because it formed her lips into a kiss. I think she was on to me, though, ’cause she only said it a couple of times. I mean, how hard is it to say “no”?

What I really wanna say is:
You are so beautiful, I want to brush your long flowing hair and taste your hot-sauce lips.

But not yet. Right now I can barely say
“hola.”

The light changed and we booked it across the street. Lorenzo made a beeline for the Hut. I brought up the rear except for Andre, who was bouncing the ball. Trent got behind me and pushed me inside.

“Come on, Shawn. You look hungry. Ain’t you hungry?” Trent asked.

Not for food.

Marisol, Passion, and Ivy noticed Lorenzo right away when he stepped through the door, and they all started talking. Andre stayed outside bouncing circles around each leg. Right hand: dribble-dribble right, dribble-dribble back, dribble-dribble between legs, switch. Repeat with left hand. He’d gotten good enough that he could wink at me and Trent as we crept inside.

The Tamale Hut. It was also in the DMZ, and since it was on the way home for almost everybody, it was always jumping on afternoons during the school year. The door dinged open onto little wooden tables with orange benches scattered across a small room. Bottles of Cholula hot sauce sat next to Tabasco and salt and pepper as the condiments of choice. Miguel, the owner, had been bangin’ the bell there for as long as we could remember.

Ding-ding: “
Número ocho.
Tamale platter. Strawberry soda.”

Miguel was cool too. His son went to our school a few years ago, and Miguel was nice to everybody: blacks, Mexicans, whoever. Plus his food was good. But the hot sauce he put on the table was a monster! The first time Lorenzo tried it, he poured it on like it was salt or something. Shaka-shaka-shaka. Shaka-shaka-shaka.

“Lorenzo, man, you gonna burn your tongue. Why don’t you taste it first?” I said.

Shaka-shaka. Shaka-shaka-shaka. Shaka. Shaka-shaka.

“See, that’s the difference between me and you, Shawn: you too careful for your own good. Me: I’m an adventurer, an explorer,” Lorenzo said.

When the tamale touched his lips, his tongue leaped from his mouth. His nostrils flared, and his eyes became a faucet for his tears.

“You all right there, Marco Polo?” I asked.

“Water! I need water! Miguel . . .
agua, por favor! AGUA!
” Lorenzo had screamed before rushing the counter like his drawers were on fire.

See, there’s a difference between being an adventurer and being stupid.

“What’s up, skinny Shawn?”

Passion’s voice snapped me back into the present.

Her thin black frame plunked down next to me, across from Trent. Lorenzo was already up at the counter.

“Oh, and hi, fool!”

Trent rolled his eyes and looked at me. I knew that look.

But Passion Jackson is a good friend to have. If somebody was to curse any of her friends or bad-mouth someone who’s done something good for her, then she is their personal pit bull. She’ll defend your name like it was hers. Get on her bad side, though . . .

One time during PE she got mad at Trent because he almost hit her with a softball. It was an honest mistake, because everybody knows that Trent can’t throw too straight. So the ball comes flying in a little too close to her face. Well, that was just
it.
Passion sucked her teeth, shook her head, rushed the mound with the bat, and started swinging at Trent. Me, Ivy, and Lorenzo jumped in, and ol’ girl just would
not
stop. Good thing Trent was fast, ’cause he ran away from her when she got too close with the bat. Ever since then she thinks Trent is out to get her. Trent thinks she’s crazy. Shoot, if I had a girl rush me with a bat, I would think she was crazy too.

“So what y’all up to today?” she asked.

“You know. Same ol’, same ol’. Play some ball. Hang out . . . you know,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed in on Trent.

“Yeah, I know . . . a whole lotta nothing as usual.”

“Don’t start with me, Passion,” Trent said.

“Don’t start with
me,
little boy,” she said, rolling her eyes and neck at Trent.

“Come on, now. You guys are worse than cackling hens,” I said.

As Trent and Passion exchanged evil eyeballs, I wandered my eyes over to Marisol. Mare-ee-sol.
Te amo.
I love you.
Te quiero mucho.
I want you. Oooh, you look good today. How you say that?

“So what’s up with Marisol these days?” I asked Passion.

“What you mean, what’s up with Marisol?”

“He’s asking you if she got a boyfriend, thickhead,” Trent jumped in.

“Shawn, please tell me Dumbo here didn’t say what I think he just said. I
know
he didn’t call me no thickhead!” She stood and hovered over Trent.

“Passion, sit down. And calm down,” I said.

This girl. Man. I don’t know how her family puts up with her. I guess when you have six brothers and sisters, you gotta find some way to stand out.

“Come on, Shawn, everybody knows you got a thing for my girl. Why don’t you just talk to her? She ain’t with nobody right now, but”— she motioned at Marisol sitting between two older guys —“as you can see, that could change at any time.”

“Who’s that?” Trent asked.

“Shoot, I don’t know. Pro’ly some Marshall boys,” Passion said, taking her seat.

“For real?” Trent said.

“Is it true what they say about Marshall?” I asked Passion. I knew a couple of her brothers and sisters went there.

“Is what true?” she snapped.

“Come on, thickhead. You know what he mean. Do they be wilding out like we hear or what?”

Aw, Trent, “thickhead” again? This boy was one tamale short of a combo platter.

“What you say? I
know
you didn’t just say what I thought you said. Right, Dumbo? Those words didn’t just come out of your nasty little mouth, did they? You did
not
just use your little pea brain to step to me, did you?” Passion said. Her eyes bored holes into Trent.

Here we go again.

“You know, I should just take some of this hot sauce and splash it in your ugly mug. That’ll shut you up once and for all. I’m trying to sit here and talk to my
friend,
but your stank behind keeps
interrupting
me.”

Passion lived up to her name. All eyes were on us for a moment.

“Trent, be cool. Can we just sit here for a little bit and have a conversation?”

“Whatever, Shawn.” And just like that, he got up to join Andre outside.

Thurgood Marshall was the high school we would be going to in a few months, and we all had heard stories. Some had relatives there. Some, like me, didn’t. That’s what happens when you’re an only child.

Passion cooled her fire.

“My older brother Vonnie told me that one time in his world civ class, this Crip comes in all blued up, right, and then starts talking loud and cursing the teacher out, right? But when the teacher tries to send him to detention, the Crip pulls out a blade twice as long as my longest finger and straight rushes the teacher. Nobody moved, but security came running when the teacher screamed and yanked the Crip off him before he could do any damage. Vonnie said he ripped the teacher’s pants and took a slice out of Africa on the map, but as they dragged the Crip out, he was all like, ‘I’m go do to you what I did to Africa, homey!’”

A fly could’ve flew in my mouth the way it hung open. Crips pulling knives on teachers? Is this what I have to look forward to?

“You all right, Shawnie-Shawn?”

“Ah yeah. I was just getting ready to yawn.”

“Yeah right. Looked like your heart was about to jump through your chest. I know the Crips and Pirus got y’all spooked.”

“I’m not spooked. I was just thinking about high school and how it’ll be different from junior high. That’s all.”

“Oh, it’s gonna be different, all right, but from what my brother tells me, the principal has the school on lockdown now with the ‘pink slip.’”

Her bright white tank top touched her seat back as she folded her arms.

“The ‘pink slip’? What’s that?”

“What’s up, guys?” popped into my ears from behind. Who said that?

Marisol. Uh-oh. She took Trent’s still-warm spot on the bench.

Right in front of me.

Sit up straight. Be cool. Pretend you don’t see her. Dang, but she’s fine. That hair. Those eyes. Those lips. Those lips . . .

“Marisol, can you believe Shawn here ain’t heard of the ‘pink slip’ at Marshall?” Passion said, thumbing my shoulder.

“It’s not like everybody has brothers and sisters that go there,” Marisol said.

Her big, beautiful oh-so-lovely eyes met mine before she spoke again. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard about it, though, Shawn.”

She rested her oh-so-lovely chin on her oh-so-lovely left hand while she pushed her oh-so-lovely hair back with her oh-so-lovely right hand.

Sigh.

Don’t look in her eyes. You won’t be able to talk if you do. Remember?

Look around. Where? The counter. Behind her. Yeah. Hmmmm, today’s special is the tamale combo with one tamale, Mexican rice, and a Jarritos soda. Ohh, I love Jarritos, especially
tamarindo.

“All right. I don’t know what it is. So sue me. Is somebody gonna tell me, or are we just gonna sit here talking about how Shawn don’t know what the ‘pink slip’ is?”

“It ain’t no big thing,” Passion said. “It’s a permission slip they send home with you on the first day of school so the principal can paddle you if you act a fool.”

“Oh, that slip. I thought you was talking about something else.”

“Yeah, right. ‘Something else.’ You don’t even know what the paddle looks like, do you?” she said. Her arms crossed and she stared me down.

I threw it right back at her, though.

“Do
you
know what it looks like?”

“Well . . . I’ve never seen it, but I heard it’s real long with all these holes drilled into it. My brother told me Principal Simms has assemblies when it’s time to paddle so everybody can see what happens when you act out,” Marisol said. Her eyes met Passion’s, then shifted over to mine.

Look away. The counter! How much is the combo? $3.95. Dang . . . didn’t it use to be $2.95?

“All right, so I haven’t seen it. But I heard the same thing. I also heard that it’s about as wide as my hand and about as long as your fool friend Trent’s bony legs.” Passion pointed her eyes and right thumb at the window next to us.

Lorenzo must have already gotten his tamale and left. He, Andre, and Trent were on the other side, fogging it up with their hot breath. Three big mouths sucked and squeaked against the glass.

Lorenzo banged at us.

“Uh-oh, y’all, Shawn is talking to Marisol now. Watch out!”

Passion rolled her eyes, grabbed her drink, got up, and left. Leaving me and Marisol. Alone.