This Side of Providence (14 page)

I check on Cristo and Luz just once during the night, peeking my head into the room to make sure they're still there. They sleep in two straight lines, not touching each other, with the covers folded down at their waists, as if they don't want to mess up the bed or take full advantage of the heat that the blankets have to offer.

The weekend is surprisingly warm, so I decide to take them to the beach. Not to Narragansett, where lots of city employees go, but all the way down to Galilee, where we're less likely to run into anyone we know. I don't let myself think about it, but I'm breaking the law by keeping them; I'm harboring runaways. On the other hand, it seems absurd that there could be anything wrong with what I'm doing, which feels like the most simple and correct thing I've done all summer. I don't think of myself as a risk-taker, but on a scale of one to ten I'd say I'm right at thirteen—my lucky number.

As is my tradition, we eat clam cakes and chowder from Iggy's and watch the ferries come in from Block Island. Luz stands on the breakers and waves at each passing boat for so long her arm must be sore afterwards. We got here late so the beach is mostly empty. Cristo stays in the water all afternoon, but he runs up to me occasionally, dripping cold salt water from his goose-pimpled body, and asks me if I saw him ride to the shore on a big wave, do a handstand in the shallow water, or hold that dead fish by the tail and toss it out to sea. I say, “Yes, of course,” even if I missed the entire thing, and he beams with pride, like he has created every wonder in the ocean all by himself.

When he gets out to warm up we talk about everything but school. He asks questions about my childhood, my parents, and why I have no siblings. He wants to know how many countries I've been to, and why the Puerto Rican flag and the Cuban flag look so much alike. He wants to know about my favorite musician, the best meal I've ever had, who I dated in college, the name of my first pet, when I was the most scared in my life, how I knew I wanted to be a grammar school teacher, my birth date, my middle name, and how come I don't wear any jewelry. He also wants to know who I love most in the world.

I do my best to be honest, but many of the answers are things I don't want to admit to myself, let alone to one of my students. I turn the questions around and he tells me he's never had a pet, has only been to Puerto Rico and the States, loves hip-hop, wants to be a DJ when he grows up, and gets scared anytime it's too quiet.

When I ask him about starting school on Tuesday and going
into the fifth grade, his face falls and his mood changes dramatically.

“I don't want to go back, Teacher.”

“Come on, it's not that bad. That's how everyone feels in September.”

He sits down next to me, soaking the edge of my towel. “Why do I have to change teachers every year?”

“Because you get smarter every year and you need more challenges. You wouldn't want to be fourteen and in the fourth grade would you?”

He runs his hand over the sand, smoothing out the peaks and valleys.

“But why does changing grades have to mean a new teacher? Why can't you move with us?”

“My job is to teach the fourth grade. If I moved up to fifth, what would Mrs. Reed do?”

“You could switch with her.”

I adjust myself on the towel, bumping into his body. His skin still holds the temperature of the ocean, which cools my leg like an ice pack.

“And what about when you get to junior high, would you want me to change schools?”

He shrugs. “You could.” He smiles. “You're smart, they'd hire you over there, too.”

“You're crazy, little boy.” I push him gently. When his body separates from my leg I feel the loss instantly.

“I just like your class, Teacher.”

“You'll like other classes, too. You just have to get used to it. Remember how you hated my class last fall, how you wanted to go back to third grade with Mr. Clauser?”

He digs into the sand with his foot. “Yeah.”

“Just give it time.”

“But it's going to be different this year. With Marco in Regular Ed and César…”

“You'll still see Marco, his classroom is right next door to yours. And César will be back, as soon as the doctors say he's ready.”

The hole he digs is big enough for both his feet, and he
buries them together in the sand.

“What if he's never ready? If his headaches never go away and his eyes stay messed up and he has to wear that stupid helmet for the rest of his life? Then what?”

“He's a tough kid. He survived a gunshot to the head—don't you think he can handle fifth grade?”

He places a chunk of driftwood in the sand above his feet like a gravestone. “They're going to tease him. When he wears that helmet to school.”

“Not if you explain it to them.”

He looks up. “He's got a bullet in his head, it's not that hard to get.”

I put my arm around him and pull him to me, breaking his body out of the burial ground. His bony shoulders are warm from the sun. An older lady walks by and smiles at us. I smile back, knowing that she thinks I'm with my son.

“He'll be okay, Cristo. You'll both be okay.”

He goes back in the water after that, and when Luz joins him later they play catch with a tennis ball. As I watch them I let myself imagine that they are mine, that I will bring them here again and again over the years, watching their bodies grow into teenagers, then adults. I know right now that I want to take him, and I would take Luz, too, but what he needs is a temporary solution, a temporary mother, and I'm looking for something real. Something permanent. All they need is someone to help for a few more months, until his mother gets out of prison, and that person can't be me. I know that for certain. If I get any more involved, I'm going to get my heart broken.

After a while they call my name and wave for me to come into the water. I shake my head and yell that I'm too tired, but when they threaten to come get me I finally give in. I finish the doughboy I'm eating and wipe my sugary fingers on the towel, scanning the near-empty beach. An old man watching birds, a family napping under an umbrella, teenagers holding hands. It is safe, I decide; no one will notice me. Then I undress down to my swimsuit, fighting the desire to keep my T-shirt on. The sun feels good on my skin and for a second I don't think about my body. I walk into the water slowly, wincing at the shock of
cold, and wait to go numb.

They are splashing in the surf and laughing like the waves are telling jokes, and even though I'm smiling at them I suddenly start to cry. The tears feel cold on my suntanned cheeks. I lean over the water and splash my face as the tears fall, trying to wash them away. I walk blindly into the surf and when I'm covered up to my thighs, I dive in and swim out to meet them. I keep my face in the water and repeat the same phrase over and over again as I pull my body through the choppy waves. Something I first heard in graduate school, and what the principal tells us every year in the opening assembly. What my mother says when I tell her too many stories about my class.

These are not your children
.

Luz

D
uring César's first week back at school, Cristo gets into three fights. Each one starts when someone teases César about the plastic helmet he has to wear. Each one ends with Cristo being pulled off the kid and dragged down to the principal's office. After the third incident, he gets an in-school suspension for two weeks and has his lunch periods taken away. While the rest of the fifth grade has lunch in the cafeteria, he has to sit on a bench outside the principal's office, eating breakfast leftovers with the secretary. Rumors around school say they wanted to kick him out but a teacher fought for him to stay. No mystery who that could be.

On the last day of his suspension I see him in the principal's office with Mrs. Reed. Since I'm the president of my class I have to deliver the attendance sheets from my teacher to the office every Friday. I usually give it to the secretary but last year she taught me how to copy the sheets myself and file them in the class folder in case she was ever gone. Today she's out on a D'Angelo's run when I get there, so I walk around her desk without needing permission and start to make the copies. I can tell something's going on in the principal's office, since the door is mostly shut and the voices inside sound low and serious. When I peek around the corner, I see a slice of the principal's desk, the edge of Mrs. Reed's red skirt, and Cristo's legs hanging down from his seat, his big old sneakers swaying in sync with the flash of the copy machine.

The principal, Dr. Hoover, comes out from behind the
desk to talk to Cristo. He's wearing a dark gray suit that makes him look like the mayor.

“We're only three weeks into school, Mr. Perez. If this is what you're doing now I can't imagine what we have to look forward to as the semester unfolds.”

“I don't think it's that bad,” Mrs. Reed cuts in. “Not yet. I'm expecting things to settle down as he gets more comfortable in my class. This has been a hard transition for him. Understandably so…”

“All our students come from…challenging homes. I don't think we can use that as an excuse.” Dr. Hoover sits on the edge of his desk.

“I'm not saying it's an excuse. I think it's an explanation.”

“And last year, when his mother
was
home, what was the explanation then?”

Mrs. Reed fixes the hem on her skirt. She doesn't have an answer. Nobody talks for a while and even though I'm finished, I stand at the copier and pretend to collect my sheets. I watch Dr. Hoover pull out the attendance log for Mrs. Reed's class.

“According to these sheets you've been late to school every day. What's the problem here?”

“He just moved,” Mrs. Reed cuts in. “He and his sister, they have a new guardian. Your uncle, right?”

“Cousin,” Cristo says. “My cousin Chino.”

“So they're no longer on the bus route—”

“How do you get to school?” Dr. Hoover asks.

“I walk,” Cristo says.

“From where?”

“Mount Pleasant.”

“That's a pretty far walk.”

Cristo shrugs. “It's cool.” He plays with his sneakers, slipping the heels on and off. They look big enough to fit a man.

“Well, I can overlook the tardiness for a while. But the behavior issues will not be tolerated.” Dr. Hoover points at Cristo with a ruler. “The bottom line is this: you follow the rules at this school or you'll be asked to leave. Is that understood?”

I see Cristo cross his feet at the ankles. “Yeah.”

Dr. Hoover leans forward. “I'm sorry, did you say
something?”

Cristo clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Dr. Hoover stands. “Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to speak with Mrs. Reed alone for a few minutes.”

Cristo leaves the room, closing the door behind him. He keeps his head down and goes right back to his spot on the bench. For a few seconds I stare at him without him seeing me, but he seems so sad I end up looking away.

“You spying on me now?” His voice shoots like an arrow across the room.

“No. I had to copy the attendance sheets for my teacher.” I lift up the folder to show him. “Besides, I didn't hear anything.”

He makes a face at me. “Whatever.” He can always tell when I'm lying.

“You all right?” I hesitate before eventually walking toward him. “You get in more trouble?”

He shrugs. “They can't do anything to me.”

“They can expel you.”

“So what? There's always another school.” He leans back, tapping his head softly against the wall.

“Not one with Bilingual. Not one with Miss Valentín.” I push his lunch tray over to make room for myself on the bench. He picks up a piece of leftover waffle, inspecting it.

“They think this is punishment, eating up here all alone. Who cares?” Cristo pops the waffle into his mouth. “Shit, it's the only quiet part of my day.”

“I'm pretty sure the food is better up here,” I tell him. “We had meatloaf.”

He takes another bite and talks with his mouth full. “They think it's bad because it's cold and dry, but they don't know bad.” He drops the fork, which falls loudly onto his tray. “Try no food.”

I want to say something funny, but what I come up with makes no sense.

“I think it's better to eat breakfast in the middle of the day,” I finally say. “Then it stays with you longer.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Seriously, Luz, where do you get this stuff?”

“Books, mostly.” I feel my cheeks get hot so I try to hide my face behind the folder. Isn't that where everybody learns things?

“Course you'd say that.”

The bell rings and I stand up automatically, heading for the door. Cristo doesn't move.

“Aren't you coming?”

“I gotta wait.” He points toward the closed door.

“Why didn't you tell them about César? How you were sticking up for him and not just starting fights for no reason?”

“They don't care about the truth, Luz. It only matters what they see.”

“But that's stupid. They can't see everything.”

He looks at me but doesn't say anything else. The room starts to fill up with people—teachers checking their boxes, kids turning in permission slips—and soon I can't see him clearly anymore. Within seconds he's lost in the chaos of the crowd.

I don't care what anybody says, this place isn't my home. I wake up here, I eat dinner here, I watch TV here, I read books here—I even shower here—but I don't live here. Chino does, and Kim, and Sammy, and their parrot, Lucas, but not me. Not Cristo. We're here because we don't have anyplace else to go.

I wanted to stay with Miss Valentín, but turns out she didn't want us. We were there for a weekend, but by the time school started she had us packed up and shipped over here like we had never set foot in her house. It was fun over there, too, watching baseball games and doing 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzles, eating popcorn out of the bowl with no hands. Leaving her place was a lot harder than leaving our house on Sophia Street. I asked my mother once what the difference was between a house and a home and she said you can move in and out of a house, but once you have a home you never leave it.

We're supposed to feel at home here, since Chino's our
family and we've known Kim and Sammy since Trini was born, but I still feel weird hanging around in my pajamas or walking in the front door without knocking. I don't even open the fridge without asking first. And forget about the TV—I won't even turn it on by myself, or hold onto the clicker for more than a couple of seconds. Especially if Sammy's around. It's hard to believe he's an only child since that kid fights for things like he's competing for an Olympic medal. He's supposed to be sharing his bedroom with Cristo but he won't even give him a drawer for his clothes or a pillow to sleep on, even though he's got three big ones that are taller than me. Every night Cristo pretends to go to bed in there, but after Kim goes into her room he sneaks out to the living room where I'm sleeping on the pull-out couch and climbs in with me. Then, since Chino gets up early to open the garage, he sneaks back into Sammy's bedroom before the sun rises and gets dressed in the dark.

Their house is bigger than our old apartment, but it feels cheap, like you could easily put your hand right through the wall just by touching it. The same dull yellow carpet runs through every room, patchy and grayed in spots like an old stray dog, and the curtains are always closed, even on a sunny day. Their fridge is huge—the kind you see in a cafeteria—and it takes over most of the kitchen. The funny thing is, it's usually half empty. Kim never cooks, she either brings home takeout from the Chinese place next to the salon she works at, or just orders from the sub shop down the street. The TV is half the size of the fridge; if I stand in front of the middle of it and try to stretch out my hands to touch either side, I can't reach. Seriously, I don't know how they got it in the front door. I guess it's like a crib, how you buy it in a million pieces and have to build it inside the room. But nobody around here looks like they could build anything.

They live in Mount Pleasant, which is close enough to Olneyville that we can walk back to our old bus stop and catch the school bus in the mornings, but usually we're late and we have to walk the whole way. Which makes us even later. But in other ways it seems real far away. Like for one thing, the streets are completely empty at night. Which I think is kind of
spooky, but the old people say it's safer that way. I think it feels lonely, like going to the park on a holiday. People here have grass in their backyards and short fences around their front-yards, with flowerpots and miniature plastic animals stuck into the ground. Most of the people are Italian, like Kim, and I never hear anyone speaking Spanish on the streets. The worst part is, we can't speak it inside either because Kim says it's rude to say things that she and Sammy can't understand. Then she asks how would we like to be left out of conversations and made to feel stupid all the time. I don't bother saying that's how every kid in America feels, and every Puerto Rican who's ever moved to the United States. You'd think a grownup would have figured that out. At the beginning we kept slipping, but now Cristo never speaks to me in Spanish, even when Kim's not around. Next thing you know he'll stop eating rice and beans, and he'll record over all his salsa tapes and be just like any other American kid, eating pizza and Pop-Tarts and listening to rap music. In the future you might be able to be Puerto Rican and American at the same time, but I don't think it's happening anytime soon.

Kim has a bunch of other rules, too, like we have to stay inside after dinner and always tell her where we're going, even if it's just to the backyard. And she makes us do all the dishes, wash our own clothes, and take out the trash every day so the kitchen doesn't start to smell like a Chinese restaurant. I don't know why, but she runs this place like a detention center instead of a house. I try to follow her rules, not because I want to, but because it's easier to shut up and blend into the wallpaper. Cristo hates dealing with any adult who isn't his teacher or his boss, so he doesn't say anything when Kim tells him what to do, but when the time comes he just sneaks out and does what he wants anyway.

I always finish my homework right after school, while Cristo and Sammy play video games, so by the time dinner's over and we've done our chores there's not much to do. Sometimes we watch
Law & Order
reruns or old sitcoms from the '80s, but mostly I read books I find at the Laundromat or the flea market. While the rest of them watch wrestling or action
movies, I sit on the floor with my back to them, trying to shut out the sound of cars crashing and angry rich people having sex.

I miss having Trini around. Even though it was a lot of work to look after her, she was also fun to play with, and to hold and rock to sleep if she was scared. When I think of her now I see her wearing mismatched socks pulled up high to her knees like a soccer player, laughing at some stupid joke I'm telling her and feeding popcorn to the cat. We never had our own cat, but she used to do it to the neighbor's cat Gus all the time.

It's been a month since Scottie took her and we've only seen her one time. He promised we could see her whenever we wanted, but every time we try to meet them at the park he says she's not feeling too good and he needs to keep her home. We call her before bed some nights and she cries about missing us and her blankie and the way Cristo used to rock her crib in the night with his foot. “I want to come home,” she always says before hanging up, and then we have to tell her we don't have a home anymore.

Cristo never says he misses her but I know he does. He just doesn't like to talk about things he can't fix. I guess that's why we don't talk about our mother either. But it's different with her because part of her leaving was her own fault. Not when they took her out in handcuffs, but before, when she did all the bad things that got her into trouble. Maybe if she had thought about us more she wouldn't have done them in the first place and now we'd all be together in our old apartment watching old movies and eating
pasteles
and
mofongo
, wondering what to name our new cat.