Though most of the students at my school are black and Hispanic, most of the staff is white. There’s not a lot of exciting stuff in this neighborhood: McDonald’s, libraries, delis, little men in yarmulkes muttering in Yiddish on street corners. Best of all, it’s a change from Flatbush, where sirens and gunfire keep me up late at night worrying. Worrying that one of my friends will get shot. Worrying that my dad isn’t going to get home safe.
THE DANCE
Friday night. Me and my girls, Q, Marie, Vicky, and Melisha, arrived at the dance twenty minutes after it started. Screw being fashionably late—we wanted to go through security as fast as possible so we could hit the dance floor.
Or, as Marie said, we wanted first pick of the ass.
We’d been a group since junior high, when the five of us ended up in the same class. Q, Melisha, and me already knew one another. Vicky and Marie were newbies from other schools and sticking together. It actually started with a school yard beef; word got to Marie that Q had made fun of her hairstyle in front of some guys. Instead of letting my best friend get jumped, which I heard was the plan, I went to Marie and Vicky to plead Q’s innocence. They not only believed me, they gave me props for going up to them and went over to meet Q and Melisha. We’d all been tight ever since. To this day, Q says she never said that about Marie’s hair, but knowing Q’s views on the importance of good hair, I never believed her.
It’s amazing how we all stuck like glue, especially considering Marie was a member of the Real Live Bitches. She got recruited in freshman year, when the RLB was scrambling to counter floods of Crips coming in. They’d tried to recruit all of us that year, but we made them back off by playing innocent and weak, qualities the RLB hated. Marie was the one who got up in their faces, and after fighting some members, she decided to stop resisting her destiny and become a Bitch herself.
Unlike most of the RLB, Marie still hung out with nonmembers whenever she felt like it. In fact, she told me once that the main reason she joined was for a shot at some hot guys. You see, she was mad horny.
To my surprise, the gym was crowded when we walked in. Probably with freshmen, but I didn’t care. At least there were people on the dance floor. We hit it immediately, cheesy colorful lights flashing around us.
The music wasn’t half bad for a school-hired DJ, though we only heard the clean versions of songs, like Akon’s ode to strippers, “I Wanna Love You.” We sang along using the real lyrics and had a good laugh dancing with imaginary stripper poles.
Within an hour the gym filled to the max, and I couldn’t help scanning for Eric, cute dean’s office guy. I’d promised myself that if he showed up, I’d make a point of talking to him, if only to prove to Q that I wasn’t a punk.
I didn’t see him. What I saw instead was a bunch of kids displaying gang colors, mostly flags and bandannas they’d smuggled in. I looked at my watch, wondering how much dancing we’d get in before trouble started.
When the DJ got on the mike to do shout-outs, I walked off the dance floor to take a breather and a drink at the fountain. As soon as I caught my breath and reapplied my lip gloss, I’d go back to my friends.
“Hey, I know you,” someone shouted in my ear.
He materialized at my elbow, like out of nowhere. He seemed bigger than I remembered, maybe because he wasn’t hunched in a chair. Six feet tall at least, with broad shoulders filling out his Pistons jersey. True Religion jeans hung loosely around his legs, held up by a belt with a silver buckle.
I felt a smile coming, but I kept it subtle—no way I was going to let on that I’d been hoping to see him here.
“I know you too . . .,” I said as if I didn’t remember his name.
“It’s Eric Valienté.”
“Julia DiVino.”
He leaned closer. “Di-what?”
“DiVino. It’s Italian. But I’m Puerto Rican on my mom’s side.”
He smiled. “I didn’t know I was messing with no Puerto Rican.” He rolled his Rs like he spoke Spanish. Sexy.
I could hear my heartbeat, separate from the music, pounding in my ears. Eric Valienté was giving me sensory overload. We had to stand really close to talk over the loud music, and it was messing with my hormones.
“I’m a mutt too,” he said. “Dad’s Dominican, Mom’s Mexican.”
“Nice mix.”
“They didn’t think so. They got divorced.”
That could be a conversation killer if I didn’t keep the ball rolling. “I never heard how you ended up in Brooklyn.”
“Got into some trouble in Detroit. Nothing big, but my mom thought I should come here for a fresh start. So I’m living with my dad now. How’s that for an answer?”
“Okay, except you didn’t say what the trouble was.”
“Right, I didn’t.” He winked, then turned his attention to the dance floor.
Shit. Had I said the wrong thing? Did he think I wasn’t good-looking from up close? My dad hadn’t thought one crooked eyetooth justified the cost of braces. Probably true, but I cursed him for it anyway. Plus, my skin was giving me problems. I’d dropped ten bucks on oil-free cover-up, and I hoped it was working.
“Are all the teachers here crazy like that one?” he asked.
I spotted Ms. Carter doing some disco moves in the middle of a group of kids. The moves actually went well with the Usher song playing. “Ah, she’s just having fun. She’s the least crazy teacher you’ll find here.”
“You playing?”
“I don’t play.”
He smiled. Yeah, we were feeling each other. I wondered what he’d do if I leaned over and kissed him. Of course, I wouldn’t do that. Not unless I were drunk, which I wasn’t, unfortunately.
Then somebody grabbed my sleeve.
“Who is he?” It was my friend Melisha, her eyelids sparkling with silver glitter.
“I’ll tell you later. Now bounce, okay?”
“Fine, but I hope he got friends for the rest of us!”
I turned back to Eric. He was scanning the room. “Lot of people rocking colors,” he said.
I sighed. “Yeah. It’s mostly a Blood school, but we’ve got more and more Crips here now. When they closed down Tilson, lots of them came here.”
He nudged his chin toward the Crips. “You see what they’re doing?”
I saw. There was a group of Crips by the speakers. Two of them were doing the CripWalk—a little dance meant to piss off the Bloods.
“Can’t they keep that shit out of here?” I looked around, spotting the security guards. They weren’t paying any attention. They were flirting with some girls.
“I think something’s gonna start,” he said. “We better—”
I stopped listening. I watched a guy in a red do-rag walk up to one of the Crip dancers and snuff him right in the face.
Chaos broke out.
I felt Eric grab my arm and drag me through the crowd. Half the people in the gym were running toward the fight, and half were running away from it to the main doors. I covered my face against the long nails and elbows as Eric yanked me through the mess of people.
I felt him push me against the wall. But it wasn’t a wall. It was a door. It must’ve been a fire exit. I found myself in the parking lot behind the school. A bunch of kids rushed out after us.
“What the hell is happening?” I tried to catch my breath.
“They’re trying to kill each other,” he said. “Nothing new. I gotta go.”
“Don’t!” I grabbed his arm, but he pulled away and disappeared back inside.
Why the hell did he go back in? What was he thinking?
“God, Julia!” Q threw her arms around me. “I was worried you were caught in the middle of that! Somebody got stabbed. Did you see what happened?”
“Bloods and Crips,” I said. “That’s what happened.”
ALL TALK
Julia’s got beef with gangs,” Melisha said, stuffing a forkful of chicken soo guy into her mouth. Skinny, leggy, five eleven, that girl could eat anythi
ng, and did. “Damn gangs stopped her from getting some action with that guy.”
We’d snagged a table in the window of a Chinese takeout halfway between the school and the subway station. The place and surrounding sidewalk were packed with kids from the dance who weren’t ready to call it a night after the drama. We were all here but Marie, who’d ditched us for her RLB friends.
“His name is Eric Valienté.” I couldn’t help but emphasize the sexy last name. “And I doubt there would’ve been any action.”
Q scoffed. “He was practically all over you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wish.
“Don’t be all guy-cynical,” Melisha said. “Forget about Joe. He didn’t know what he had.”
“Thanks, but I really don’t need a pep talk.”
“I think you do, Julia. We need to get you a new boyfriend so we can have access to his crew. Joe never lived up to his promise to hook the rest of us up, that bastard. Did Eric have friends with him?”
“Not that I saw,” I said.
“He’s new. Maybe he doesn’t have friends yet,” Vicky said. She was a short, chubby redhead—the Irish version of Marie—but much less mouthy. “I wonder what gang he’ll join.”
“Maybe he won’t join a gang,” I said. “Maybe that kind of drama doesn’t turn him on.”
“I hear that.” Q slapped me five.
“Well, we can all say good-bye to dances for the rest of the year,” Vicky told us. “Ms. Miklovic said if we had another incident, she’d cancel them all.”
“That’s bullshit,” Q said. “It’s not our fault. They should kick out the gangbangers.”
“That would mean half the school,” Vicky said.
“What about prom next year?” Melisha looked horrified. “You don’t think they’ll cancel it, do you?”
“There’s a first for everything,” I said.
* * *
I came home to the sounds of dance music and chatter. The place was empty, of course, but I usually left the radio and living room light on, because I hated coming home to a quiet, dark apartment—and because the only thing worse than an empty apartment was one with a burglar in it.
Dad spent most Friday and Saturday nights at Gina’s place in Bensonhurst. This weekend he’d taken her to Atlantic City. He said he liked it because of the fancy but affordable hotel rooms, the shows, and of course, the gambling. I thought he liked it because, since I wasn’t old enough to gamble, he had an excuse not to take me along.
Not that I wanted to spend a weekend with him and Gina, but still.
I changed into my pj’s, a soft, worn tee and cotton shorts, and settled on the couch, flicking channels. I caught the tail end of a show with two middle-aged British ladies exploring a haunted house and urging the spirits on to the light. It was cool. I’m sure they, unlike my sociology class, would have appreciated my research paper.
I thought of Eric Valienté and wondered what he would think. Whether he agreed with me or not, it would be cool if he at least had an opinion. Maybe that should be my way of figuring out guys from now on—ask them a tough question and see what they say.
If I’d asked Joe his view on religion, he probably would have said that he liked the idea of multiple wives. Maybe that would have woken me up in time.
I’d met Joe in the crush of people on the Fourth of July. Somehow he and his group latched on to me and my friends, and by the end of the night, I’d let him kiss me and tuck his hand into the ass pocket of my jeans.
An Italian jock, Joe was a senior at Jamaica High School. We’d dated for a month and I ended up, stupidly, giving up my virginity a few days before he dropped me. He claimed it was obvious the whole time that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. Bullshit. Joe had done everything he could to reel me in. And I’d walked right into that player’s cage.
I hadn’t told Q or the girls what really happened between us. Way too humiliating. Even now, the thought of him made my stomach turn.
Thank God Joe lived in Queens, where I didn’t have to see his dumb “What’d I do?” face.
Screw him. It was way past time to forget about that loser.
I wondered if I’d get a chance to talk to Eric again. Would he really have asked for my number? Too many guys were all talk, no follow-through. They’ll ask for your number at a party and never call.
All I knew was, I was damned bitter that the gang members at my school had ruined my chance to talk to him more. It wasn’t every day a new hottie showed up at South Bay—at least, not one who wasn’t already owned by a gang.
Truth was, it was mad rare.
THE TRUTH ABOUT MY TEACHERS
Third week of school, junior year. By then I had my teachers figured out.
Ms. Howard, Sociology/Anthropology: Uptight because she didn’t have a sex life.
Mr. Finklestein, Economics: Probably tried to be a stand-up comic when he was young, but got booed off the stage. Now he punished future generations by forcing us to listen to his stupid jokes.
Ms. Russo, Modern Dance: Wild twenty-something who refused to grow up. She got bitchy when she was hungover from clubbing with her friends.
Mr. McLennan, Math: Miserable teacher who’d been hoping his whole life to switch to the phys ed department. Fat chance, with his gut.
Mr. Greenwood, Earth Science: Teaching was good—he could be back on Long Island by 2:30 p.m. and on the golf course by 3 p.m.
And then there was Ms. Ivey, American History: New to Brooklyn and fresh out of college, she was young and eager, and I liked that. I knew early on that she’d be my fave this year, if only because I felt sorry for her. Everybody was already giving her a hard time. She was just too priss for us to take seriously.
Poor Ms. Ivey. I’d lay concrete in a heat wave before I’d become a teacher.
At least cops got danger pay.
I was mad surprised when Eric Valienté ended up in Ms. Ivey’s period 6 class. He walked in after the late bell, showed her his program, and chose the free seat right behind me.
“Hi, Julia.” He gave my shoulder a little squeeze and slid into his seat.
“Hey.”
Of all the free seats to choose! (I hoped my hair looked okay from the back.) I couldn’t help smiling. But I wiped it away as soon as I felt the glares of the Real Live Bitches—they had obviously noticed the new guy.
Well, he was fair game. And they’d find out soon that he wasn’t going to join the Real Live Niggaz. I didn’t know it for sure, but my instincts told me that Eric was too smart for that.
He tapped my shoulder. “Got any paper?”
“Sure.”
Damn, he looked amazing in ice-blue Rocawear.
I turned my attention to Ms. Ivey, who was starting the lesson. I took some notes.
I felt a tap on my arm, and a small, folded note appeared over my shoulder. I took it and read it.
I thought my school back in Detroit was wack but this school is WILDIN’ OUT. Peeps are smoking weed in the stairwell!
I wrote back: This school is messed up, no doubt. I’m just trying to get my credits so I can get the hell out of here. How are your classes?
He wrote: They already changed my schedule twice. Does Ivey give a lot of homework?
I wrote: No. Just come to class and be nice and you’ll be fine.
He wrote: What does being nice got to do with it?
I wrote: Because lots of people are disrespecting her. If you don’t, she’ll love you and pass you. Trust me.
He wrote: Then that’s what I’ll do.
I wrote: I knew you were a smart guy. Then I drew a little happy face.
AFTER SCHOOL AT THE SHARK TANK
Me and my girls decided to stick around after school to join the crowd watching the football tryouts. Every year the South Bay Sharks were getting closer and closer to making the city finals. And, according to our stats, the players were getting hotter and hotter.
“Who is dat?” Marie exclaimed, pointing to a six-footer on the defensive line. “Does h
e pad his ass or what?”
Marie loved a good butt. Her own was round and wide, and she swung it in just the right way to get a guy’s attention.
Beside her, Melisha gulped her drink. “That ain’t padding, that’s some real man-ass. There’s enough of that to share.”
“If he’s dishing it out, I’ll have a slice,” Vicky said.
We nodded in agreement as we checked out the other players. Then we all groaned when a group of cheerleaders jogged onto the field. They put on a boom box and started practicing their stepping.
“They don’t know how to move!” Marie jumped up and started swinging her butt around as we clapped to the beat of Chris Brown’s latest. “C’mon!”
We stood up on the bleachers and started dancing, following Marie’s lead. I wasn’t embarrassed—everyone on the bleachers was saying or doing something stupid anyway.
I stopped dancing when I caught sight of a familiar figure walking below the bleachers. The warm sun glistened off his short, slightly curly black hair.
God, he was fine, with his slow, sexy stride and dark, handsome features.
Eric saw me too. He waved for me to come down to talk to him.
I told the girls, “I’ll be back in a sec,” and walked down the bleachers.
“Hey,” I said. “What up?”
“On my way to play some ball. What about you—trying out to be a cheerleader or something?”
“We were just having fun.”
“I could see that,” he said, restraining a smile.
“So, how’s your first week been? Your teachers okay?”
“All teachers are weird. I don’t get why anybody would spend their days in front of thirty kids who don’t wanna be there.”
“It’s a power thing. You can’t be the leader of your own country, so you get your own classroom. Mr. Greenwood always says, ‘You can’t join this nation’s democracy until you’re eighteen. Until then, I’m your dictator.’ ”