Efrain's Secret (3 page)

“FLAN?” I can’t help but call out—and in English, no less. “That’s
flan
. What terrorist organization is going to name itself after a dessert?”

“That ain’t gangster,” Stevie agrees.

“Whatever,” says Marco. “They just said ‘Puerto Rican terrorists’ and never explained why they were wilding out.” Now he sounds as upset as Señorita Polanco.

“En español,”
she reminds us, and once again she has us politicking while getting our learn on. This is my favorite class, no doubt. It even beats my civil rights elective.

The hour sails by, and the bell rings. Everyone rushes off to their next class while I hang back. “Very nice use of the present perfect indicative,” says Señorita Polanco.

“Gracias, profesora.”
I take a deep breath. I don’t know why this is so hard to ask when I know she won’t say no. “Señorita Polanco, I was wondering if you would please write a college recommendation for me.”

“Of course, Efrain!” she says. “It would be my pleasure. Just give me the forms and deadlines.” When I reach into my bag for the folder I created with her name on it, stuffed with the recommendation forms, a calendar of deadlines, and self-addressed stamped envelopes, Señorita Polanco laughs. “Your confidence and resourcefulness are going to get you far, Mr. Rodriguez.”

I hope she’s right.

Pittance
(n
.) a very small amount, especially relating to money

After my last class, I head to the school library to my job as a peer tutor. It’s only ten hours per week for minimum wage, but at least I don’t have to spend time or money traveling to work. When I reach the library, Chingy’s outside finishing off his usual after-school snack of soda and chips. “S’up, cuz,” he says.

“Gimme some of those,” I say. Then I dive into his bag without his blessing, and he pretends to mind. That’s just how we do.

No, Chingy’s real name isn’t
Chingy
. We may be ’hood, but we’re not ghetto, so don’t get it twisted. A few years ago, some girls started calling him Chingy because he looks just like the rapper. Hated it at first. “What about Nas?” he’d whine. “Why can’t they call me Jigga?”

“’Cause you don’t look like a llama or a camel, kid,” I’d say. “Take a compliment.”

But then it was
Chingy, Chingy, Chingy
from the likes of GiGi González, and let’s just say homeboy acclimated. This is why when he works my nerves or I’m in the mood to work his, I remind him that his mother named him Rashaan.

That’s rare, though, because we’ve been boys since kindergarten. Even Baraka calls me his little brother, too. Not seeing Chingy every day will probably be the toughest thing about going away to college, but he wants to go to an HBCU—a historically Black college—just like Baraka. BK wants Chingy to go to
Morehouse, where he’s a junior, but Chingy’s leaning toward Howard. He says that he’s not trying to go to no all-boys school.

“Check it,” says Chingy. “GiGi said she and Leti and all her girls are headed to the Grand Concourse now to see that new horror movie. Asked us to meet her there.”

“You mean she asked
you.”
GiGi’s official, but that girl only goes out with two kinds of guys. Pretty boys like Chingy and street cats like my other friend Nestor.

“Nuh-uh,” says Chingy. “She told me straight out, ‘Bring Efrain.’”

“No, she didn’t.” Chingy’s got jokes. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bad-looking dude. My mother’s a Nuyorican who’s always being described by girls around my block as “that Black lady with the ‘good’ hair.” (Don’t get mad at me. I’m just telling you what they say.) My sister Mandy, who just turned twelve, and I take after her. And Rubio? With that blondish brown hair and green eyes, they don’t call him Rubio for nothing. At least, that’s what the dumb chicks and ignorant jokers who admire him do. Moms claims that I favor whichever parent’s standing next to me, but I don’t see it. The only thing Mandy and I get from Rubio is the last name Rodriguez, but according to the U.S. Census, so do over eight hundred thousand other people. Rubio probably fathered half of them.

Anyway, when girls find out I’m an honor student, they’re, like,
Oh, but you’re so cute. You’re mad cool, too
. Why are they so surprised that I’m smart because I don’t act like an herb? I like girls as much as the next guy, but I can’t be bothered with anyone stuck on stupid. Problem is a lot of smart girls try to hide it, which isn’t all that smart, so what am I supposed to do with that?

“I kid you not, cuz,” says Chingy. Yeah, if Chingy truly wanted to mess with me, he would tell me that we had a physics test when we didn’t. “So let’s skip tutoring today and go check out that
movie. Maybe GiGi’ll get all scared and grab onto you talking ’bout
Oh, papi!”

“Shut up,” I laugh. “For real, though. I can’t, man.”

“C’mon, E.! Sweren won’t trip on the first day of the program. I mean, how many times can you go through the same orientation?” Chingy flings his soda can into the trash. “Besides, we’re his favorites.”

True. Chingy and I have been tutoring for Mr. Sweren ever since our first year at Albizu Campos, and we’re the only two in our graduating class that have stayed with the program. “I don’t know, Chingy.”

“We’re seniors now!” he whines. “You need to give into the itis, son!”

I laugh. “Bro, that itis will kill you.” Not that I’m not tempted. I imagine GiGi smiling when she sees me and telling me that she’s happy I decided to come. And then I see her whispering to Leti when I reach into my pockets to pay for our tickets and come up with nothing but lint. Forget the popcorn, cherry slush, and Milk Duds.

And even though there’s no way I can make thirty grand between now and next August to pay for a full year’s tuition at an Ivy League college, I still need every penny I can save. As hard as I came at Mrs. Colfax this morning, she’s right. Once I get admitted, I’ll have to run hard just to stay in place. Maybe with enough savings, loans, and grants, I can avoid having to work during my first year of college. With those twenty hours to study, maybe I can bust out a four-point-zero, make the dean’s list, and win enough scholarships to stay in school for the next three years. But I don’t know how much money the government will lend me or how many scholarships I can win. The only thing I can control is what I earn, so the more, the better.

Between spending money I don’t have and earning the little
money I can, I make up my mind. “Sorry, man,” I say to Chingy as I hold out my fist. “I have to stay here and make that paper.”

He gives me a pound. “You mean those coins.” Chingy and I may tease each other about our choices, but we always respect them. That’s why we’ve been boys for so long.

“Whatever, kid.” I open the door to the library. “I’ll tell Sweren you came down with the itis.”

Chingy laughs. “You wrong, man, you wrong.”

“Tell GiGi I said hi.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”

Yeah, he will. “Peace out,” I say as I close the library door behind me.

Officious
(adj.)
offering one’s services when neither wanted nor needed

I notice her the second I walk into the library. What a banger! Her skin is just like the wooden chairs, dark and smooth. She wears her hair in neat cornrows, and I like that. Some of the Black girls in my school do the craziest things with their hair—finger waves, burgundy streaks, lopsided haircuts. But even if a girl is fine, who notices her face with all that commotion at the top of her dome?

If this girl has on any makeup other than lip gloss, I can’t tell, and I like that, too. Her nails are long and plain but clean. She’s what Chingy, Nestor, and I would call a Halle. The last time we hung out before those two fell out, we found this Web site that showed just how much makeup and airbrushing goes into making famous women look like “natural beauties.” It’s scary, man. The only woman we all agreed wakes up pretty every morning was Halle Berry. Even with crusty eyes and morning breath, Halle can get it, all day every day. So now, whenever we spot a natural beauty, we say,
Halle at three o’clock
.

I go up to her and say, “Hi, I’m Efrain. You’re new, right?”

“Yeah, I’m Candace.” She smiles at me, and her teeth glisten like porcelain. They match her eyes like the jewelry sets my moms used to wear when Rubio took her dancing when I was little. She would put on these pretty dresses and match her necklace and earrings. She still has them, just never wears them because she works sixty-hour weeks, Rubio’s with that chick Awilda, and …
Let me stop thinking about that because I’m going to get upset, and I don’t want Candace to think I’m a ruffneck.

“So, where are you from?” I ask her.

Candace’s smile disappears. “The South.” Then it hits me that she might be that transfer student Chingy mentioned last week. But “the South” is a big place, and this girl doesn’t look … I don’t know. I mean, I’ve seen videos of those poor people who lost everything to Hurricane Katrina, and Candace doesn’t seem … Well, she certainly doesn’t look like someone who’d throw a chair at somebody. Besides, if that were true, wouldn’t she be locked up somewhere? I start to ask her if she’s from New Orleans, but then I figure if she wanted me to know, she would’ve said so. Instead, I ask, “Are you a senior?”

Candace hesitates again. “Almost.”

She seems so uncomfortable. I decide to quit asking questions and make her an offer. “Well, whatever help you need, I’m your man.”

Candace scowls at me. “What do you mean?”

“You know, whatever class you’re having trouble with, I can help you.” Then I say a quick prayer that she’s not taking physics.

“I don’t need your help,” she snaps.

“Whoa!” What’s up with that? “I’m just saying—”

“I heard you the first time, and
I
said I don’t need your help.”

Before I can answer, I hear, “E., what’s up?” Lefty Saldaña comes over and gives me a pound. “This is the year you finally get me out of Math B, rah?”

God, I hope not. Lefty’s nineteen and in the tenth grade, I kid you not. Now you know why we call him Lefty. Every year he needs a new tutor because no one who knows better wants to be stuck with him. I’ve avoided Lefty so far, so I hope Mr. Sweren doesn’t ruin my last year at AC by assigning him to me.

Mr. Sweren sails through the door. “Hello, everybody. Have a
seat.” Candace stalks clear across the library. Mr. Sweren drops the papers and books he’s carrying onto the table in front of him and says, “Okay, by a show of hands, who’s here to receive tutoring?” A few kids raise their hands. I look at Candace, and she’s staring straight ahead as if she knows my eyes are still on her. Mr. Sweren grabs some sheets and walks from table to table. “This first session is an orientation for tutors only. If you’re a tutee, take this form and fill it out. Bring it back tomorrow, and I’ll have a tutor assigned to you and a meeting schedule.” Then Mr. Sweren walks over to Candace. “Miss Lamb, it’s wonderful to see you here. The program really needs you. We never have enough math tutors.” She flashes him that porcelain smile, and he hands her another stack of forms. “Would you mind passing out those forms to the other tutors?”

“Sure, Mr. Sweren.” Candace takes the stack and rises from her seat. She reaches my table, and even though I hold out my hand, she drops the form on the table in front of me and keeps it moving. All because I assumed she was a “tutee”? Maybe I should be relieved she didn’t go WWE on me and smash a chair over my head. Some dudes love girls who cop attitudes, but I’m not the one. I have more important things to worry about, but, man, do I wish I did have the money to meet GiGi at the movies after all.

Insidious
(adj.)
appealing but imperceptibly harmful, seductive