Show and Prove (9 page)

“Nah, man,” he says. “Big Lou—”

I just reach over and hit play myself.

The next time someone's teaching, why don't you get taught?

It's like that—what?—and that's the way it is.

Big Lou doesn't say anything about it, but Smiles turns down the volume like,
You ain't the boss of me.

I glance over at Sara, and she's staring dead at me. The second we catch eyes, she picks up her newspaper and pretends to read. What she needs with the paper now that I've become the bad news of the day? I shoot a look at Shorty Rock, who's knee-deep in a game of rock, paper, scissors with Smiles's kid, Pedro, as if nothing happened. It's gonna take a miracle for me not to kill that kid before summer's end.

T
hey thought I was just playing basketball, but from the corner of my eye, I busted those chicks making fun of Pedro. And when I hunt down Cookie, what's she doing when she should be minding her kids? Teaching Sara, the twins, and some other girls how to break-dance. I swear she's a Nike in cornrows. I jet across the gym to tell her off, with Nike on me like a tail, instigating all the way.

“Yo, Cookie!” I reach down and snap off the radio in the middle of “Electric Kingdom.” “While you over here trying to be Rokafella, your kids are bullying Pedro.”

“My kids?” Cookie picks herself up off the floor, tucks in her Menudo T-shirt, and dusts her jeans. “You sure?”

“You a trip, Cookie!” Nike yells over my shoulder. “You be talking all that women's lib stuff, but homeboy says your kids ain't sugar and spice, and you act all surprised. Girls can be malcria'as, too, you know.” Then he turns to Sara. “But not your girls, Sara. The twins are sweethearts, just like you.”

Unlike Cookie, Sara seems genuinely concerned about Pedro. “What did the girls do?”

“They were teasing him for not knowing English,” I say. “And making fun of his clothes.”

Nike says, “Yeah, asking him when he got off the boat, calling his pants brincacharcos, and shit like that.” At first, I thought Nike was just jumping in because he likes to mess with Cookie and wants Sara to think he cares about the kids. Loyalty to me was the last thing on his mind. But as he repeats what he heard Cookie's kids tell Pedro, I remember when he first moved to the South Bronx.

Nike wasn't Nike then. He was just Willie. Really he was Pedro, with his fake Izod shirts—the crocodile looked more like a snake with legs, and the buttons were plastic instead of pearl—and his high-waters. In a way, Nike probably had it worse than Pedro. He understood every dis, and having moved from Williamsburg, where he was born, he had no defense for not knowing what was in style.

Remembering how the kids on the block used to make fun of Nike just makes me even angrier at Cookie. “Put your kids in check, Cookie.”

“Fine!” Cookie looks for the girls and hollers for them. Then she calls over Pedro.

“What you calling him for?”

“You want I take care of this, right?” All three kids look nervous. Pedro shouldn't worry. He didn't do anything wrong, and I'm here to stand up for him. Cookie asks the girls, “You guys bullyin' Pedro?”

The ringleader says, “Like we told Smiles, we was only playin'.”

Cookie turns to Pedro and asks, “¿Qué te dijeron?” Pedro repeats in Spanish all the things they said to him. I don't catch most of it.

The sidekick mumbles to Pedro under her breath, “Gosh, why you gotta take us so serious?”

I yell, “Don't talk to him.”

“Y'all should be ashamed of yourselves,” says Cookie. “Walking around like you going on twenty, only to go pick on a ten-year-old. You should be looking out for Pedro, not making fun of him.” Her finger zigs and zags as she puts them in check. “Your mother buys you some Vanderbilt jeans and lets you relax your hair, so now you think you're big and bad? Two weeks ago y'all were running up and down Cypress Avenue with your Skippy sneakers, so stop playing the role.”

“Dissed and dismissed!” Nike snorts, and Pedro chuckles.

“Apologize!” The two girls mutter, “Sorry,” and Cookie shoos them away. Then she turns to me. “Satisfied?”

“No,” I say. “You should've told them they're not going on the bus trip Friday.”

“Why you got to be all exaggerated, Smiles? That's two days away, and they said they were sorry.”

“Only 'cause you made them.” I look over at Nike. Homeboy says he can't take b-girls seriously, but he's teaching Sara and the twins how to six-step. He has his hands on Sara's waist, even though he doesn't need to be doing that to demonstrate anything.

“I'm not going to punish them just for being kids,” says Cookie, folding her arms across her chest. “And not for nothin', Smiles, you could teach Pedro how to stand up for himself.” Cookie bends over to look Pedro in the eye and says, “La próxima vez que alguien t'está molestando, tu le dice,
Step off!
” Pedro laughs. “Dímelo ahora.”

“Eh-step ahff.”

“¡Con gana!” orders Cookie. “Step OFF!”

“EH-STEP AHFF!”

Sara giggles. “So cute!”

Now Nike gets into the act. “Yo, Pedro, say,
Step off, B!
y te pare así.” Then he demonstrates a b-boy stance.

“Word,” Cookie laughs. She cheers on Pedro. “Hágalo, hágalo!”

“Eh-step ahff, B!” Then Pedro cocks his head to the side and wraps his arms around his chest until his hands rest on the opposite shoulder.

Nike yells, “Yeah, buddy!” He gives Pedro a high five. Then Nike finally catches the dirty look I'm giving him. “What?”

I jab my finger in his face. “Forget you.” I take Pedro's hand and say, “Venga conmigo.” As we walk away, I hear Sara ask Cookie and Nike what's wrong with me now, and they both mumble that they have no idea.

I lead Pedro into the cafeteria. I motion for him to have a seat while I go check to see if we have any leftover breakfast. When we leave for the day, Barb lets in the street people and gives away any remaining food. She says Cutter comes every day. I look inside the box, grab two peaches, and head back to the table. I hand Pedro a peach and take a deep bite from mine. So many things I want to tell him, but I just don't have the vocabulary. We sit in silence for so long that Pedro must wonder if he's in trouble, and I feel bad about that. He did nothing wrong. He didn't even tattle on those girls. I keep thinking,
¿Cómo se dice…?
and
¿Qué quiere decir…?
—the phrases we learned in Spanish 1R to ask the teacher,
How do you say…?
and
What does…mean?
The words run repeatedly into each other in my head like a chant.
¿Cómosedicequéquieredecir? ¿Cómosedicequéquieredecir? ¿Cómosedicequéquieredecir?

And it works like a prayer, because I get an idea. “Pedro…” I find the right words and pronunciations in my mind before I continue. “¿Quiere que yo te enseño un poquito de inglés cada día?”

A big grin breaks across his face, and he nods. “Yes,” he says. “Teash me the English.”

“OK, cada mañana desayuno y la lección del día,” I say as I tap the table. “Aquí.” Then I quickly add, “¡Pero no malas palabras!” Pedro wants to learn how to curse? He can see Cookie for that.

He laughs. “Okai.”

I offer him my hand, and we shake on it.

T
he phone rings and Glo is on it like white on rice. I pretend to ignore it, but I'm listening. My sister pouts and holds out the receiver. “It's for you.”

“Me? Who is it?” It better not be Vanessa.

Gloria sucks her teeth. “I don't know. Some dude.”

“Smiles?”

“Just take it already!”

I snatch the phone out of her hand. “ 'Lo?”

“Nike, what's up, homeboy?”

Javi. What does he want? “Hey, man.”

“Yo, you need to get to the park, like, now. Some dude here poppin' shit about you. Says you can't break to save your life.”

“Who?” Can't be a guy from around here, that's for sure. Everyone in this neighborhood knows I'm the real McCoy. No matter. I'll battle any sucker who tries to play me.

“Man, I don't know one b-boy from the next. Especially with those stupid tags y'all be having.” Someone behind him feeds him a name. Probably Booby. “Lazarus?”

“Hazardiss?” My heart pounds as I sit up on the sofa. “Where he at?”

“Pulaski Park. He and his crew are there. Booby and me was doing our thing when we heard him call you out. We were like,
Nike's our boy,
'cause you know what time it is. Even if we beef among ourselves, Mott Haven homeboys gotta stick together and not let no outsider come over here poppin' shit. That's when he started going off on you, and Boob and me, we tol'im,
Why don't you say that to his face, B, you so big and bad?
And he was all,
Where he at?
” Behind Javi, Cutter is singing. “ ‘Wanna be startin' something, got to be startin' somethin'—' ” “Yo, shut up, Cutter! If you ain't got no more dough, take a hike.”

I reach for my dogs and slip my feet into them. “Yo, forget about Cutter, and go tell Haz I'm on my way and he better get ready to throw down.”

“Ha! You know he's gonna try and leave. Punk.”

“Don't let 'im.” I hang up the phone and race out the door. I fly down the street toward the Bruckner on pure adrenaline. My chance came sooner than I expected, but I'm ready. Been ready. This is better than I had planned.

When I turn the corner, I crash into Cutter. He falls to the ground like a rag doll. If I weren't quick on my feet, I would've landed right on top of him. “Damn, Cutter, you such a basehead!”

Then I make the mistake of looking him in the eye and see a glimpse of the old Cutter. The guy who coached Little League. The suit-and-tie guy. The family guy. The good Cutter gazes back at me, his shame washing over me and curdling into guilt like spoiled milk. Least I can do is wait until he gets up, make sure he's OK—I mean, as OK as a basehead can be. Cutter is reaching for a hand, but I'll be damned if I touch him. He probably got that AIDS from all his shooting up. When Cutter gets to his feet, he grabs my shoulders and peers into my eyes. “ ‘Wanna be startin' somethin',' ” he sings. “ ‘Got to be startin' somethin'.' ”

“Cutter, you crazy!” I shove him away from me before he can infect me. “It's a freakin' shame.”

I start running toward the Bruckner again. Cutter keeps singing at me, his voice fading as I race down the street. Only when I have to stop for a light a block away from the park does it hit me.

Why can't I hear any music?

Hazardiss ain't at the park. Nobody from Rock Steady is. The only dudes at the park besides the baseheads are the people who keep them high.

The Barbarians.

Javi set me up so Junior and his gang can corner me.

Booby spots me just as I'm about to turn around to go back to my building. “Yo, there he goes!”

And fake-ass Javi says, “What's up, homeboy?” He starts to walk toward me, and I break. Now Booby, Javi, and three other Barbarians chase me. Even though I have a good head start, I pray for the traffic on the Bruckner to flow in my favor. I don't think this is what my old principal Father Davis meant when he be telling us to pray with our feet.

My heart is slamming against my rib cage. I'm not going to make it to my building. I have to find someplace to hide. Forget about any alleys either. If the Barbarians don't own them, a rival street gang does. If I run into a bodega or the game room, they'll corner me for sure. I could head to Moncho's barbershop or JD's clothing store—the Barbarians won't disrespect their places of business—but they'll just wait for me. I have to hide somewhere they won't think to look for me.

I duck into the Laundromat, scrambling through moms and carts toward the bathroom. Someone is locked in there, and I have to make myself scarce before a Barbarian runs past the window and sees me. I rush to the row of arcade games and squeeze myself into the space between Pac-Man and the wall. I listen for kicks pounding concrete outside the Laundromat.

Javi rushes in. “Yo, anybody see a dude with a sky-blue shirt, baseball cap, and navy-blue Nike sneakers? About this big. My complexion?”

A girl says, “Yeah, he actually ran past here.” Her voice sounds familiar. “Knocked me down, spilled all my laundry, and didn't even say sorry, the jerk. Now I have to wash everything all over again.”

“Which way did he go?”

“That way,” says the girl. “Smack him once for me.”

I hear Javi rush out and tell the other Barbarians, “He went that way.”

“How he go that way and we not see 'im?” asks Booby.

“You askin' me? That's what the girl said.”

“Man, Junior's gonna go off when he finds out we lost 'im again.”

“We ain't lose 'im!”

I just sink between the game and the wall as Javi and Booby bicker. They eventually stop, but I'm afraid to crawl out. Even though I can't hear them, they could still be out there. My foot feels like an anthill now.

“You can come out, Willie,” says the girl, hovering above me. “They're gone.” I look up, and Sara smiles down on me. That Hall and Oates song plays in my head.
Smile awhile for me, Sara.
“Need help?”

I want to take her hand, but I already look like a doofus, cowering behind Blinky, Inky, Pinky, and Clyde. “No, I'm OK.” I crawl out and stand. I make a big deal of stomping the numbness out of my foot to avoid looking Sara in the eye. I keep gettin' embarrassed in front of this girl. Still I follow her back to her machine

Sara lays a shirt across the counter and smooths out the wrinkles. “Why is that gang chasing you?” She glances at the TV set sitting on a shelf and showing Wile E. Coyote chasing the Road Runner off a cliff. Then Sara looks at me. Her eyes are the color of tea, and suddenly I'm thirsty.

“Who knows?” I can't tell her about Vanessa. “I'm the victim of the week, I guess.” And just so she knows I'm not some punk who tried to get over on the Barbarians, I add, “I'm not down with none of that gang stuff. That's why they don't like me.”

Sara nods, adding a shirt to the stack on the counter. I'm not sure if she heard me, because her eyes are fixed on the television, even though now that boring
In the News
just came on.
Israel has agreed to pull its army out of Lebanon, but only if Syrians and Palestinians also leave Lebanon, and they say they won't.

I stand in her line of sight. “Listen, thanks for helping me out. And just so you know, I ain't afraid of nobody. I'll whoop any one of 'em one on one in a fair fight. But you see how they rock, wanting to jump somebody.”

“I hate bullies.” Sara pulls clothes out of another dryer, folding, then stacking them on the counter. The smell of hot fabric softener calms my nerves.

“Word.” I'd offer to help her fold the clothes, but I'm not good at that. Besides, I see some panties in there, and I don't want Sara to think I'm getting fresh with her. Instead I say, “Since we're headed the same way, I'll wait until you're finished so I can carry your laundry bag for you.”

“That's sweet of you, Willie, but I have a cart.” Sara points to it by the window. It already has another bag in it, as well as bottles of detergent and bleach.

Wait. Did she just call me Willie? That has to mean she's been asking Cookie about me. No other way she could know my government name. Yeah, buddy! “Still got to get it up the stairs in front of the building, though.” Even if Sara's mother spots her, how can she trip? I'm just being a gentleman.

Sara laughs. “You're so persistent.”

“There's no other way to be if you want to have anything in life,” I say.

She pulls one of her long skirts from the dryer and shakes it out before folding it. “I have one more load to go, though. Won't be finished for another hour at best.”

I reach into the dryer for her orange Saint Aloysius day camp T-shirt. “I've got all the time in the world.” I fold the shirt and add it to the pile in the cart. “Besides, it's my fault you got to wash everything all over again, right? Sorry about that.”

Sara squints at me. “What?”

“When I ran in here, I knocked over your cart, and your clean clothes got dirty.”

“Oh! You didn't do that.” Sara laughs and laughs. “Nobody did. I just made that up to get rid of 'em.”