The Almost Murder and Other Stories Read online

  The Almost Murder

  AND OTHER STORIES

  The Almost Murder

  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

  [Fic]—dc21

  2008016140

  CIP

  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

  Dedication

  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.

  Acknowledgments

  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.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Reel Red

  Scars

  The Almost Murder

  Be So Pretty If …

  Dear Maureen

  Reel Red

  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.

  I put soup in a bowl and threw an ice cube in so she wouldn’t burn her tongue. Wanda laughed at my ice trick, but slurped it down fast, happy as can be. She eats good food or garbage with equal joy. When she finished eating, I led her by Pops. As we passed, Wanda said, “Shh, Tío’s sleeping.” I nodded. Nice that little kids are so innocent.

  I ran Wanda a bubble bath. She peed while singing “Old McDonald.” Moms came to the door, holding up her dress-up suit. It’s royal blue and looks new since she barely wears it. I told her it was just right, so she smiled and left the room.

  I swung Wanda into the tub with my old bath toys we keep for her and our little cousins. She loves the rubber ducky and letters she sticks on the side of the tub, even though “M,” “Q” and “D” are long gone. She made up words like “RFL” and “YPSK” while I scrubbed her squirmy self. I toweled her dry while she had giggle fits, then squeezed her into the too-tight pajamas she’d brought.

  We played Go Fish in my room. Wanda was so sugar-wired, I had to read her five stories before she fell asleep in my bed. Her mom has our key and lets herself in real late, scoops up Wanda and carries her home next door. The kid never wakes up.

  I took a shower and whipped through math. We didn’t have much, thanks to the field trip. Moms came in, smiling. First, she kissed Wanda and then me. I still feel like a little girl when Moms cuddles me.

  “Big day for you tomorrow, mija, I know it,” she said, stroking my hair.

  “Say your prayers, talk to Dios,” Moms said, and left me with Wanda.

  I did pray, hard, to Jesus and my namesake, Saint Ann. I asked them to help with the dude, the show, my life. I cuddled up to Wanda, who smelled like baby shampoo and grape candy, even after brushing her teeth. She breathed steady as a little motor.

  I tried to fall asleep but couldn’t turn off my brain; it swam with thoughts. It was after two when I finally went out. I never even heard Wanda’s mom get her. When my alarm rang at 6:30, I sat up, remembering it all. Then, my gut clenched—what if I’d been dreaming?

  Moms came in, still in a robe. She leaned down, whispering a plan for us to meet at school and ride to the city later. It was real. Real! I took a deep, happy breath. Moms didn’t want Pops to know a thing, so she slid the dude’s card into my hand.

  “Whatchu two whisperin’ about, huh?” Pops growled, sticking his hung-over blowfish of a face into the room. His hair, kinky like mine but brown, stuck out in all directions. If he wasn’t so surly, he’d be a funny sight. Moms stuck a slice of toast in his mouth to shut him up.

  I wore my cleanest sneakers and newest jeans, with a hoodie, but put my best sweater, hot pink with rhinestones, into my backpack. My plan was to change after last period. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a sweet roll and a juice box, plus the lunch Moms packed. Then I kissed her and left, wanting to be gone before Pops left the shower.

  I jog-walked to the bus stop and found Nellie and Miguel. We got on the Third Avenue local and sat in back. Nellie asked if I’d called the dude and what happened.

  “What do you think, Nellie?” I said, with a look like, “I’m no dumb gringa.”

  “Good move,” Nellie said, nodding. She isn’t very adventurous and would never call a stranger from the subway. Miguel wasn’t listening. Cap over his eyes, he’d leaned on the window for a nap. Nellie and I unzipped our backpacks and compared math answers; ten were different. One of us had a lot wrong; I hoped it wasn’t me.

  I had a gut full of butterflies I always get when something big is about to happen. Homeroom was nothing but a blur. I took down notes on Parent’s Night like a robot. Then, I walked to math with Nellie. Once we handed in our work, I barely stayed awake for Mr. Drew’s explanation of the next problem set before we hit the cafeteria for lunch.

  Moms had made my favorite, a swiss and turkey on wheat. I took a few bites, but couldn’t eat anymore—too nerved-up. Nellie raised her brows: I’m not one to miss a meal.

  “Save that, girl!” Nellie urged, s
o I put it into my backpack. When the bell rang, we headed to Language Arts, but I snuck out the sandwich and tossed it. Wasting food’s no good, but I didn’t want the cheese smell to get on my good sweater.

  I tried not to think about the dude or his show, but it was hopeless. I was real spacy. When Mrs. Grey asked me to read a sonnet, I couldn’t find my place. She was surprised, since I’m top of the class, but asked Lee the Pothead, who stumbled through it.

  The bell rang for study hall. I went to my desk and pulled out David’s card. I wanted to kiss it for luck but didn’t. I pulled out a book, pretending to read, but daydreaming. I looked up at the class clock, down at my Timex. Up/down. Up/down.

  Thankfully, art class was last. Nellie took music, not art, and had Glee Club after. It was the one day we didn’t ride home together. I wouldn’t have to explain why Moms was meeting me, or where we were going.

  We’re on Abstract Art, so I swirled paint around, careful not to get any on my jeans. This was soothing, mixing colors, watching them blend.

  At three, the old bell finally rang. I jumped up so fast I tilted my easel and spilled water all over. I grabbed some stiff brown paper towels to sop it up. Miss Woo tried to talk to me about joining Art Club, but I said I had a family issue and would talk to her tomorrow. I thanked her for asking, and hustled away.

  I flew down the stairs to a first-floor girls room. Once I opened the heavy door, the smell of reefer was strong, like always. I tried to breathe real shallow while I was in there; I didn’t want a contact buzz making my head foggy.

  I went into the only empty, not out-of-service, stall. I zipped off my hoodie and stuck it in my bag. Then, I took out the sweater, glad it wasn’t wrinkled. I pulled it on, so sweaty from nerves that wooly hairs stuck to my under-arms. Ugh. I put on some deodorant I carry for gym, hoping to smell fresh, not like a sweat-bag.

  The girls in the stall to my right were laughing like hyenas, high for sure. One of them, my friend Lydia’s sister, Tai, poked her head under the opening between stalls.