The Almost Murder and Other Stories

The Almost Murder

AND OTHER STORIES

AND OTHER STORIES

Theresa Saldaña

The Almost Murder and Other Stories
is funded in part by grants from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance and by the Exemplar Program, a program for Americans for the Arts in collaboration with the LarsonAllen Public Services Group, funded by the Ford Foundation.

Piñata Books are full of surprises!

Piñata Books

An imprint of
Arte Público Press
University of Houston
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004

Cover design by Exact Type
Cover art by Esperanza Gama, “Ángel de la Tierra”

Saldaña, Theresa.

The Almost Murder and Other Stories / by Theresa Saldaña.

          p.    cm.

ISBN: 978-1-55885-507-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)

     1. Hispanic American teenage girls—Juvenile fiction. 2. Short stories, American. [1. Hispanic Americans—Fiction. 2. Family life—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 5. Short stories.] I. Title.

PZ7.S1492Alm 2008

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

© 2008 by Theresa Saldaña
Printed in the United States of America

8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7               10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated with love to a special teenager,
Tianna Saldaña Peters,
my one and only daughter,
my daily inspiration
and
my best friend always.

With love always to my family, who nurtured and loved me as I wrote these stories: my husband, Phil Peters, and my daughter, Tianna. Both tirelessly read, re-read and encouraged me all along. No words can describe what you mean to me.

Love to my mother Divina Saldaña, to my sister Maria O'Sullivan, to my brother, Peter, to my godmother, Gilda Rendeiro, and to my adopted family, Mike and Fayola.

Thanks to my dear friend Cheri Warner for presenting my stories to Arte Público Press and for not taking “No” for an answer—from me or anyone.

Thanks to my attorney, Fred Warner and my pal/publicist, Michelle Vazzano.

Thanks to dearly departed Barbara and my goddaughter, Amelia.

Big love to my sister-friends, for love and fun before, during, and after this book was written: Alexandra, Caroline, Esther, Felis, Gabrielle, Galina, Gayle, Gusti, Helen, Jane, Josefina, Julie, June, Lana, Laura, Libby, Lori (Miss R.I.), Margarita, Mayra, Maria S., Nina, Pam, Patty, Soorya, Stella, Susan, Suzi and Theresa (OT).

A very special thanks to Dr. Nicolás Kanellos, and to all at Arte Público Press who, with their wonderful work, have made this book a reality.

Acknowledgments

Reel Red

Scars

The Almost Murder

Be So Pretty If …

Dear Maureen

Dear Cousin Leti,

Cuz, don't kill me over this long e-mail. Once you read it, you'll understand—Moms wants you to have every little detail. Don't worry—no one's dead or sick—but this situation could change our lives, so we need you to help decide what to do.

I'm in the library, which closes in an hour. Excuse my typos since I have to go fast. No computer at home so here I am, with Moms peeping over my shoulder. She says you know more than us two put together, since you're almost a college grad, and we both want to go by your opinion.

I'm freaking out—but in a good way. Crazy happiness and panic combined. If you think we should go for this, we will. As Moms' dead sister's only child, her favorite
chica
besides me, you get the final vote. I HOPE you check your email soon. We left you tons of voicemails, too. Once you read this, Pleeeez CALL US any time, even if it's three a.m. We're waiting to hear what you have to say before deciding.

Like I told you last week, Cuz, I thought this year would be SO boring. Nothing cool happens to sophomores. Well, I was wrong, which is a good thing. What just went down is amazing. Cuz, Hollywood discovered ME—your sis/cuz—on the N train. Nobody, not even me, could've dreamed this up. It happened.

I was riding to Brooklyn with friends, after a field trip to The Natural History Museum in Manhattan. I was goofing off with Nellie and Miguel, carrying on, all loud and
ranking on each other, jut trying to spice life up. I was twisting Miguel's arm—kidding,
claro
, but hard. He was howling—kidding,
claro
, but loud. We did stunts, swung on poles, hung from hand-holders. Dumb at fifteen, but I still do it. You taught me every subway-gym trick I know. Now I'm the champ, like you in your day.

As soon as we got on the train, I knew I was being watched. This dude, a grown-up but young—like maybe thirty-five, was staring at me. I stared right back and could tell he wasn't a perv. He'd gotten on the train at Times Square, like us. I kept up my antics and let him watch. The dude found my moves, and me, funny.

Adults on trains don't usually find loudmouthed Puerto Rican teenagers amusing, so it was cool to be noticed in a positive way. He looked at me all pleased, like teachers do at their pet students. I looked back: he was slim, with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes. Italian, Jewish, maybe Greek. He watched me like he was watching
I Love Lucy
.

I was slapping at my friends, laughing and singing some J-Lo. I showed off real good, goofing around, wired from two cans of Pepsi Max. I called Miguel a wart-hog and tickled Nellie until she doubled over. When the train was outside, with us on the bridge, I put on my Wet-n-Wild red lipstick real heavy and painted a big black Cleopatra line on my eyelids. I had the feeling I should keep up my antics; so I did.

When we got to DeKalb Avenue, the dude reached into his bag, the kind Euro guys carry. He stood, like his stop was coming up. I figured he'd get off in yuppy Cobble Hill—way before our stop in the 'hood. He smiled (not weirdly, but like a proud uncle).

“Hey, Red,” he said, coming over to sit by me. I jumped. How'd he know my nickname? I was suspicious, Nuyorican that I am. On second thought, a lot of people
call me Red on sight, thanks to my newly red frizzy red mop. I relaxed.

He stared like he'd found a gold mine. Then, I got a whiff of his jacket: new, soft butter-leather. I inhaled deep and felt woozy. Intoxication by leather. Anyway, he interrupted my sniffing by handing me a business card.

In a serious voice, the dude said, “I'm David Appel”—not apple like the fruit but Ap-EL, accent on the second syllable.

“Please call or have your parents call tonight. We're doing a reality show you're perfect for. Google me, if you want … and call tonight, okay?”

I said, “Okay—if my parents let me.”

“I'm sure you'll persuade them,” he said, and rushed off the train, of course in Cobble Hill.

I read the card: “Reel TV Productions,” with an address on Sunset Blvd—in HOLLYWOOD!!!! The phone number has a California area code, 323.

The dude had written his cell number on the card, too. Area code 718. It had to be Brooklyn-Cobble Hill or Prospect Park, I bet—fancy digs.
Reel TV
had its own Website, too. All of a sudden it hit me hard: all of this was for real.

Miguel and Nellie tried to snatch the card, but I stuck it in my bra, where even they dare not go. I didn't want to jinx it. That dude could change my life, and Moms'. I don't know how I knew, but I did.

We got off at 68th Street. Miguel headed to the projects, and Nellie to her building. I swung by the library to use the computer, the one I'm on now. I googled “Reel TV” and the Website popped up. The show is happening; David Appel is a Hollywood big-shot. He's done shows for MTV, Fox Family and Disney.

I read that they're in the “final stages” of casting kids for a new show,
Brooklyn!
A quote from the site: “
Brooklyn!
, an urban, gritty, compelling answer to shows
like
The OC, Laguna Beach
and
The Hills
. Our characters: different as night and day, with one thing in common: Being teenagers and living in Brooklyn.”

Sounds cool, right? I mean, I'd watch THAT over the ones on now, with blond
idiotas
guzzling booze, fighting over guys more conceited and spoiled than they are.

I SO wanted to email you last night—but I had to baby-sit. I speed-walked nine blocks, my heart pumping so hard I thought it'd bust out of my chest. I thought hard, deciding I should check things out, before getting you involved. Your advice to me, for school and life, “Always do your research,” rang in my ears.

I got to my building, climbed upstairs, turned the key. Once inside, my real life, nothing to do with TV, was in my face. Pops was passed-out drunk, slumped over in the big blue chair. He still had a beer can in his hand and was snoring real loud. Ugh.

Moms was stirring soup but cranked her head around at me. Her look said, “What can
I DO, mija?
” I smiled and went to her, making a big curve around Pops so I wouldn't brush by and wake his sorry butt up.

I put down my backpack and popped myself backwards onto my favorite perch: the kitchen counter. I've climbed up there to talk with Moms since kindergarten, whenever there's something big to say.

“What's up,
mija
?” Moms asked.

“Siéntese, mamita, escúcheme
,” I said pointing to a chair.

Moms looked worried, so I told her I had good news. I reached into a cabinet and grabbed a saucer. I took the card from my bra, put it on the plate and handed it to her.

She read it out loud, let out an
“¡Ay, Dios
!” and said,
“Dígame.”

I blurted it all out. Moms asked if it was for real, and I told her what I'd seen on the Internet. Then, I begged her
to call, or let me call the dude right away. She surprised me by saying
“¿Por qué no
?” and pointing to the phone—like I should do it right away.

I jumped off the counter and hugged her again. Then, I handed her the phone. She punched in numbers; someone answered right away. Moms asked for Mr. Apple (like the fruit!) I heard him—right through the phone, “That's me” in a happy voice. He knew it was Moms before she even introduced herself.

David asked Moms to take me to
Reel TV
's offices on 57th Street in Manhattan. He wanted to talk to us and explain everything. Moms wrote down the address in her girly cursive, said, “Thanks, see you tomorrow,” and hung up. She gave me a kiss on top of my head, a big loud smack. We looked over at Pops; he hadn't budged. I asked Moms to call you right away, but she said not to bug you until AFTER we saw the dude. I agreed. So here I am, emailing you 24 hours later.

“I have a good feeling,
mija
,” Moms said, crossing herself. OMG—right from the start, Moms felt it just like me: that this was for real. She was excited about going into the city, too. Last time she went was years ago for Alma's
quinceañera
. I said I was cool with waiting to talk to you, but my fingers still itched to dial the phone.

Moms suddenly screeched, “What'll I wear,
mija? No tengo nada
.”

I said I'd help her pick something, but before we could, Wanda's fists pounded on the door. She popped it open with her foot and ran down the hall, launching herself into my arms. Only four, but what a tugboat. Her mom, Lilli, waved from the door and rushed off to work, late as usual.

The kid was a mess, purple stains all over her face and hands. At the kitchen sink, I scrubbed at her. She'd just eaten four cheap straws of dyed sugar—not what she needs with diabetes in her family.