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“What!? The boy ain’t that stupid,” he gasped.
“What Char means… is that everyone in their caravan back in Romania was related to each other in one way or another. Their father was a powerful and popular Chovihano, which is like a shaman and…well…”
“He liked to do a little late night tent hoppin’,” Char laughed. Raven turned and elbowed him again. They proceeded to take their little cat fight into the back room. Where I heard Raven shout, “You know how important this is to Marija!” I went over to Valeska’s desk and saw that she had laid out three cards. One was of a pretty, brown haired lady holding a cup to her chest, the other was of a building on fire, and the last one was face down. I flipped it over just as I heard Esperanza’s voice coming down the stairs. The laughing skeleton on it almost made me crap my pants. I ran outside sweating like a hoe in church. I barricaded myself against her car door determined to get her to listen.
“Be careful! I think those white folks are trying to put the root on us,” I whispered.
“Hmmm,” she said, while turning my head from side to side.
“What is it?”
“Just as I thought, you’ve caught Zombie Brain Rot. Go easy on the horror comics for awhile, caramelo. I left some nice, neutral Superman comics upstairs for you,” she laughed, pulling me into her arms. Her humor disarmed me, and I just fell into her warmth. I reached up to touch the Dominican flag bandana that covered up her new hair cut. Her tattoo now looked like it was checking to see if the coast was clear. It had that look that all birds get when they are just itching for some serious cloud time.
“Are you going to start throwin’ up DDP signs and tagging random shit now?”
“Dominican’s don’t play,” she laughed.
“Please try…to attempt to be nice,” she said, pulling out into traffic. Lucky for me school started, and I was too busy avoiding beat downs to “attempt” anything with the sideshow sisterhood.
When you’re in the fifth grade and you prefer your conversations to be in bubble form, you have to learn to avoid eye contact with just about everyone. One extended glance is enough for them to label you the nerdiest nigga and earn you a free year supply of ass whoppins. For the first week of school, I remained relatively invisible. At lunch I hid behind the dumpster with big titty biker demons, and during recess I camped out under the bleachers with hoards of zombie worms. However, at week two I ran into some trouble and a pack of happy meal sized gang-bangers. I accidently dropped a comic book onto one of their lunch trays, and before I could even apologize, a grade wide social hit was already in effect. Every chance they got they would steal my comics, push me into the girl’s bathroom, and use my scar for a paper ball bull’s eye. Fifty points if you could get it to stick.
One day I missed my bus and decided to hoof it home. About seven blocks from the shop, I started to notice that every step I made echoed about four or five times. I turned to see them all packing semi-automatic water guns and wiffle ball bats. I ran about three steps, before tripping over my own feet and eating a fresh batch of pavement.
“This sumbitch thinks he can fly,” one of them laughed. They squirted my jeans with what I prayed was water.
“Captain Piss Pants to the rescue!” they all chanted in unison.
“Hey, let’s play Piñata,” the other said, razing the yellow bat to my temple. Then, a pale hand darted over my head, grabbed the bat, and crushed it all in one swoop. They all took off screaming.
“Opere Roma!” a voice cried out. My vision cleared, and there was Valeska picking me up off the ground like a shit stained penny.
“What?” I asked in haze.
“It means Roma Arise. It’s sort of a gypsy catchphrase,” she said, wiping the blood from my forehead. Before I could argue, she flung me around her shoulders and proceeded to power walk down Federal Highway.
“Don’t any of you broke-ass bitches own a car,” I groaned. She revved it up to roadrunner speed like it was some kind of a challenge.
“How did you know where I was? You stalking me, or some shit?” I asked, bouncing up and down. I pictured her sniffing my dirty laundry and searching around on her hands and knees for my scent trail.
“No, you were late and Marija started to worry. I figured you must have missed your bus and decided to take it on foot. I knew I would run into you eventually somewhere between here and the bridge.” I reached up to feel an Everest sized lump starting to form over my scar. She must have felt my weight shift.
“So, I take it by that scar that this sort of thing happens a lot.”
“No, I got this when I was I baby. A cat bit me or something.”
She stopped dead in her tracks, and I went flying into a nearby puddle of greasy rainbows.
“When I was born my mother said she heard an owl cry. I guess unlucky critters just got us all mixed up inside,” she said, staring down at me. At that point, I was too worn-out to translate crazy and just nodded.
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About Christina Ginfrida
