The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano (2 page)

B
ang.

The heat of the sun smacked my face the second I stepped out onto the street. I untucked my shirt and rolled up my skirt at least an inch. Mami thought I was too young to wear miniskirts, and Pops didn't think it was right for any girl to wear them. Who cared what they thought.

The daily sweats were about to begin. But the heat wasn't as bad as what hit my senses next — the
El Barrio
fart smell of garbage. With the hot sun beating down, food rotted even faster. The smells of spoiled fish, melons, and beans blended together into one big, funky mess that stunk like everybody had decided to cut loose some gas at the same
time. I tried to walk with my nose up in the air so I wouldn't have to smell the
El Barrio
fart. But the only way to avoid it would've been to fly.

The stench didn't seem to bother two little kids who were doing a good job cooling off by throwing water balloons at each other. The fire hydrants weren't open all the way like they would be later in the day, but they trickled enough water so that the kids could fill up their balloons. I couldn't blame them. Water-balloon fights were as close as those kids were going to get to water sports this summer.

Almost holding my breath, I walked around the corner to Lexington and looked around at the usual scene of old men playing dominos; the guy who sold
bacalaítos fritos
— codfish fritters — from his pushcart; old ladies who spent the day leaning on windowsill pillows, looking out the windows onto bunches of kids whose only way of enjoying the great outdoors was to hang out on the fire escapes and stoops.

At the end of the day when I got home from work, I was going to see the same people doing the same things. Nothing changes in
El Barrio
.

As I walked down Lexington, there was that kid Angel Santiago — the biggest pain in the world — coming up the street. I pretended not to see him, but he saw me.

“Well, whaddaya know. If it isn't Rosa María Evelyn del Carmen Serrano.”

He should talk about names. He had the stupidest name of all time. Angel. What was he, a spirit? Besides, there was nothing angelic about him.

He ran up alongside me.

I kept walking.

“Hey.” He was trying to keep up with my steps.

“I'm busy, Angel. I'm going to work.”

“Well,
excuse
me.”

I kept moving.

He looked a little desperate. “Can I walk you?”

“No, I can walk myself, and another thing — my name is Evelyn.”

“That's right, I forgot. It's just that I been calling you Rosa for the longest time.”

That was true. Angel and I have known each other forever. I lived on 110th Street, near Lexington. He lived on 107th, near Park. I couldn't remember a time Angel wasn't around. Just like I couldn't remember a time he wasn't skinny and annoying.

Sometimes my mother let Angel come upstairs to our apartment to eat. That's why he thought he was my friend.

Angel lived alone with his father, who sold frozen ices,
piraguas
, from a pushcart. There was something funny
about Angel's father. Not “funny ha-ha” but “funny weird.” Sometimes he acted like he knew you and sometimes he acted like he didn't. And he could be really mean. Like last month he punished Angel for going on the roof to try and watch the Fourth of July fireworks. To discipline Angel, his father made him kneel on raw rice while holding a pot of boiling water over his head. It was stuff like that that made Angel always look like somebody was going to hit him between the eyes. He wore such a pained expression all the time. The only thing that helped Angel not look so sad was his long eyelashes. At least they gave him a cute face.

But that kid still had hurt going on. He always bit his nails and chewed on the skin around them until they turned all red and raggedy.

Angel had been left back one year at school. And when he
came
to school, he was in what they called the “remedial class.”

Now he was working extra hard to keep with my steps.

“Angel, I have to go, so see you.” I kept walking toward Third Avenue to the five-and-dime, leaving him behind.

Like always, I counted my steps in my head —
one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

On
eight
, a water balloon smacked me in the back. I was
going to start my first day of work with a wet blouse. When I turned around to see who'd thrown the balloon, another one came at my face.

“I'm gonna get you for that, Angel!” Now my bangs were dripping wet. He ran up to me, all grinning and silly looking.

“Got you!” He was laughing.

I pushed him as hard as I could. He fell back, hit the ground, and stayed there with a hurt look on his face.

“Hey, it was just a joke. You gonna get dry in a minute, it's so hot out here.”

Angel was right. But now my bangs were frizzy, and I was mad. People started slowing down as they passed Angel on the ground and me standing over him. Then they looked at me like
I
was the one who'd done something wrong.

I left Angel where he was and started to walk off how mad I felt. Counting while walking always calmed me down.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
…

I made my way toward Third Avenue.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
… I could've made a left on up to 116th Street but decided to take a longer way over to First Avenue.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight
… I finally took a left and walked past Thomas Jefferson Park up to 116th, where the five-and-dime was between First and Second.

I must've counted to eight about a million times between Angel and the store where I was going to be working. That's how many steps it took me to get un-mad.

I tried to pat my bangs. They felt like a bush. I looked in the side-view mirror of a parked car to check them out. It was what I'd expected — they were all frizzy. Finger combing them to the side didn't help. Stupid Angel.

I tried to be calm when I got to the store and found Mr. Simpson, the manager, in the back office.

Mr. Simpson was chubby, with dark hair that came to below his ears. He was trying to wear his hair as long as he dared, but knew that he couldn't be too way out or he wouldn't have a job. My boss was trying to be a hippie. Sort of. Someday I'd tell Pops that the man I worked for had hippie hair.

“Evelyn,” he said.

“Hi.”

“Let's go right out and I'll show you what you have to do.”

He came from behind his desk, and I noticed the buttons on his shirt were almost popping.

“First thing you do when you come to work is punch in,” he explained, leading me to a big clock. “You take this card with your name on it and push it down this slot when you get here and then again when you leave. That way we can keep track of exactly how many hours you work every day. Since you're just starting, your hours will change on a daily basis, but by punching in, we'll be able to keep track.”

I took the card and slipped it in the slot. It made a
ching-bang
sound and marked the time on the card. I liked this way of keeping track of things. Mr. Simpson and I walked out into the store and past the lunch counter, which had a row of saggy balloons hanging over it. I read the sign stuck onto the mirror behind the counter:

 

TAKE A CHANCE ON A BANANA SPLIT.

ONE CENT TO SEVENTY-NINE CENTS.

 

The balloons were stuffed with price tags ranging from a penny to seventy-nine cents, and depending on which balloon you picked, you paid from one penny to seventy-nine cents. This was the store's tricky way of selling banana splits.

We walked toward the candy counter, and I kind of hoped Mr. Simpson would put me there, with the cases of
lollipops, licorice twists, peppermints, Raisinets, chocolate-covered marshmallows, and my favorite, French creams.

I never stole, but if Mr. Simpson had put me on the candy counter, I'd steal a French cream or two. Or maybe not steal, but “liberate” as I'd heard some older boys in my neighborhood call it.

We walked right past the candy counter and the hardware counter, and went up to the makeup counter. No “liberating” French creams for me.

I guess Mr. Simpson figured that since I didn't wear a ton of Cleopatra eyeliner like everybody else in
El Barrio
, I wouldn't steal any. A lady stood behind the counter.

Mr. Simpson introduced us. “Lydia, this is Evelyn Serrano. I'm going to start Evelyn on this counter first.”

I was surprised he called the makeup lady Lydia. I mean — she was as old as my mother. I had to call people
that
old
don
or
doña
— or risk getting a dirty look from my mother for showing disrespect.

“Now, Evelyn, it'll be your job to stock the shelves when they start to get empty. You don't have to go to the stock room — one of the guys will bring the stuff up — you just have to refill the counters with the items.”

I looked around. There were counters with eye shadows, lipsticks, and makeup pencils of all colors. I liked the way the eye shadows went from dull to bright, and the lipsticks
from beige to purple-black. There was even a variety of black pencils with names like midnight, coal, and ebony. They looked like little soldiers standing at attention.

“Evelyn, let me see how you do at the cash register,” said Mr. Simpson.

I already knew how the cash register worked from spending time in my parents'
bodega
, but I guess Mr. Simpson wanted to make sure. An old lady came up with a bottle of wrinkle cream she wanted to pay for. Lydia and Mr. Simpson watched me ring up the cream. At that same moment, I noticed three girls I knew from the neighborhood, Awilda, Dora, and Migdalia, come in and sit at the lunch counter. Migdalia used to be my best friend but was starting to hang out with Awilda and Dora.

I missed visiting Migdalia, her mother, and her older brother, Wilfredo. They lived on welfare, and if that wasn't embarrassing enough for Migdalia, they hardly had any furniture. I mean — they had a sofa, and beds, and chairs. But Migdalia's family didn't have any little stuff, like a toaster, or a coffeemaker, or a TV, thanks to Wilfredo, who sold the stuff the minute their mother bought it.

Their place always looked like they had just moved in or were getting ready to move out.

Migdalia's father wasn't around. She and her mother were always worried sick about Wilfredo, like he was the
most important person in the world. It made me happy I was an only child. Still, I have to admit Wilfredo was gorgeous looking — even with his troubles and all.

Migdalia thought we should hang out more with Awilda and Dora. She said she wanted to have more friends. What was wrong with having just one friend? I didn't need any more. Besides, Awilda was a bigmouth. Always talking louder than she really had to so that people would notice her.

From all the way over by the lunch counter, I heard her say, “Let's try for a cheap banana split.” Then she picked a red balloon.

Meanwhile, Wrinkle Face gave me a five-dollar bill for the cream that cost one dollar and eighty-nine cents, plus tax. I figured out the change in my head even before the cash register told me what to give her back, so I was able to keep track of what was happening at the lunch counter.

The waitress popped the balloon and gave Awilda the bad news. She had picked a balloon with a seventy-nine-cent price tag in it.

“I can't believe it,” said Dora. “How come we never get the thirty-nine-cent, or the forty-five-cent, or even the fifty-cent banana split?”

I gave Wrinkle Face her change and put her cream in a bag. I couldn't believe how dumb Awilda and Dora were. It didn't take a genius to figure out that all those balloons had prices of seventy-nine cents in them. Migdalia should've known better. But Awilda and Dora wouldn't have listened to her. She was the new friend, the one always going along. Mr. Simpson and Lydia were so busy watching me they didn't notice what was happening at the lunch counter.

“Very good, Evelyn,” said Mr. Simpson. “You stay here. Lydia will help you if you run into any trouble. I'll be in my office if you need me.”

Dora and Migdalia came over to the makeup counter. Dora started looking at the nail polish.

Lydia said, “I'm going to the bathroom.”

And just as Lydia stepped down from behind the counter I saw Dora slip a bottle of polish into her bag. Migdalia made believe she didn't see it. I didn't say anything.

“Hey, Evelyn,” Migdalia said.

“Hey, Migdalia.”

That was as far as our conversation went.

Mr. Simpson came over. Awilda, Dora, and Migdalia knew enough to disappear.

“Where's Lydia?”

“Bathroom.”

“Evelyn, the store's going to get really busy with people who shop on their lunch hour, and I want to move all this old Fourth of July merchandise. As soon as Lydia gets back, go over to the paper goods counter and help Dolores.”

Dolores was black. Ever since Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated last year, I seemed to notice black people more. Especially darker-skinned people like Dolores. When Lydia came back, I went to paper goods. Dolores looked older than me. Maybe she was sixteen.

“Hi, I'm Evelyn. Mr. Simpson wants me to help you.”

A line was beginning to form at the paper goods register, getting longer and longer.

“I'm Dolores, and I can sure use help.”

Dolores's skin was the color of Hershey's chocolate. She had two-tone lips. Her upper lip was darker than her lower one, and her teeth were as white as the inside of a coconut. Dolores had pretty eyes that slanted up at the corners. The only thing that messed up her style was her hair. It was straightened into a flip, but because it was stiff, one side flipped out more than the other.