The Almost Murder and Other Stories Read online

  “Hiiiiiii, want a hit?” Tai asked. She’s fourteen, and looks twelve.

  “No, but thanks,” I said, and left the stall.

  At the sink, I noticed my hands were covered in paint. I scrubbed hard, with that nasty yellow liquid soap. Tai and her girls were laughing louder. I counted four pairs of legs while a smoke cloud drifted from under their stall.

  I looked in the mirror. Not bad, but something was missing. I pulled out my makeup bag, painted on eyeliner and added pink lip gloss. I bent over and shook out my hair. Then, I left, sniffing my own arms to be sure I didn’t smell like pot.

  A group of four idiot freshman boys howled and wolf-whistled like they’d never seen boobs in a sweater before. Revolting! They’d seen me sniff my arms.

  “Don’t worry, baby, you smell sweet as candy,” one of them said. Ugh.

  Moms was just outside the door. We hugged and walked down the cement stairway. At the bottom, Moms showed me a cloth hanky, with her gold cross necklace folded inside. She wanted to put it on me, for luck, in the subway.

  We walked three blocks to the train station, arm in arm, and down the grimy pee-smelling stairs. Yuck. Moms got a two-way ticket; I used my metro-card. The express train came right away and we found a double seat together.

  Moms looked good in her suit, with a white top underneath. In place of the cross, she had on fake pearls that looked real. Moms slid out the hanky, held up the crucifix and chain, and had me swivel around. I held my hair aside, while she clipped it onto my neck in one try, with those nimble seamstress fingers of hers.

  We got off at 57th and went to the nearest building. The number was close to the dude’s office address, so we were early. I told Moms we should stall for time.

  You know Moms thinks no good Latina should drink any Starbucks, but as we headed east up 57th it was the only place around, so we went in. Moms treated us to a mocha frappuccino. Just one: a venti. We got two straws and slurped it down. I let her have more than me.

  “Ha!,” she said, “it was ‘almost’ worth the four bucks it cost.”

  We went to the restroom in back, took turns going in, then hit the street, heading east. With nearly every step, the area got fancier. Jewelry stores, Lincoln town cars, men in suits, elegant ladies. A world away from Brooklyn.

  We found 25 East 57th and walked into a lobby with modern art all over. A Latino abuelo-type with wavy white hair and a snappy uniform sat behind a desk. He looked Moms up and down with a smile. When I showed him my Reel TV card, he pointed to a turnstile, like they have down in the subway, but cleaner, and buzzed us in.

  As we went through, he winked, saying, “Buena suerte,” to me. I guessed he’d seen other girls go in and out. This made my heart speed up; I hadn’t thought about competition for my role before then. OMG! What if there were hundreds of them?

  Before we got on the elevator, I checked out the long list of businesses in the building. Most of them had something to do with acting or modeling: agents, casting directors and production companies. Then, there it was: “Reel TV.”

  Moms said a Hail Mary on the way up, and brushed imaginary crumbs off my sweater. We found the office. I took a big breath outside, expecting a sea of Latina teens, all redheads, all with their Moms, ready to take my part in the show away.

  Instead, the room was empty, except for a receptionist behind an oval glass desk. Everything was bright, tasteful, fancy, like a TV talk show. The girl, who had blue eyes and a sleek light-brown pageboy, chirped, “I’m Charlotte, call me Charlie.” She was beanpole-thin and had on some Lucky jeans with a fuschia silk blouse.

  “Red?” she asked. When I nodded, she smiled at Moms and said, “You must be Mrs. Rodríguez.” Moms said, “Yes,” and Charlie pointed at some red suede chairs. We sat down. Ohhh, it was like sitting on clouds. Charlie asked if we wanted coffee, tea or soda. I said, “A Coke, please,” but Moms elbowed me and told her we were fine. She never wants to accept a favor.

  The room was half-glass, with a view like a Manhattan picture postcard. What could the place rent for? Five grand? Ten? On a transparent table were trendy magazines. I flipped one over; the thing cost twenty-five dollars! Moms said more Hail Marys.

  My nerves were shredding and my pulse speedy when David walked in. He had on a Hugo Boss blazer, the funky kind actors in People magazine wear. He looked good! David walked over to us, and I introduced him to Moms.

  “Please call me David. May I call you Margarita?” he asked, taking Moms’ hand, looking at her like she was a goddess.

  “Now I see where your daughter gets her beauty, and that wonderful smile. You two look like sisters.” The dude had her giggling.

  He nodded at the door and gestured for us to follow him. We walked down a long corridor with framed movie posters from the olden days. At the end of the hall was an oak door with David’s name on it. Inside was his fancy, HUGE, rectangular office, with wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows.

  David had us sit in cushy black leather chairs. We sank into our seats. There were eleven [I counted] Polaroids of teenagers on a cork board. Every size, shape, color. Names were magic-markered under every face.

  David caught us staring and said, “Those are our Brooklyn kids—so far.” I wanted my face to be stuck up there with all the others more than anything.

  David asked Moms if he could tape an interview with me. She nodded “Yes.” He smiled, took papers from his desk and had Moms sign a release form. Next, he led me over to a director’s chair, the tall kind. It had “Reel TV” written on the back of it. From the wall behind me, David pulled down a blue shade background, then switched a light on under an umbrella thing. Finally, he picked up—Yes!—a Polaroid camera and asked me to smile.

  David snapped three Polaroids, lined them up on his desk, and said, “Adorable.” Then, he got behind a camera on a tripod. He asked me to say my name, age and telephone number at the start, then began to shoot. I gave him my digits, and then he just talked to me: about life, school, family, plans. Typical questions adults ask.

  You know I like to be creative, and I was. I’ve had practice, Cuz. Nelly has a camcorder we play with all the time. Usually, she shoots and I talk or clown around. We do make-believe screen tests and job interviews. Nellie can’t stand to watch herself, but I like to, not because I’m vain, but it’s cool seeing how I come off to others.

  Shooting with David wasn’t much different than my goofing around with Nelly, so I wasn’t nervous. Not even a little. Moms calls me “Blabbermouth,” since I talk so much. So, I was fine. Ten minutes later, I was still going. David winked at me, turned off the camera and asked if he could bring his “associates” in. Moms and I nodded it was okay. So off he went.

  What a rush! I loved that camera! Moms and I screeched, “Eeeeeeeeeek,” at each other like we always do when something exciting happens. We stifled ourselves, hands over our mouths. I felt like a movie star.

  Soon David came back. With him was a tall, pretty, fortyish lady with high cheekbones. She wore a chic black knit dress, with white-blonde hair swept back into a French twist and she had the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. At her throat was a diamond choker.

  A tiny leprechaun-looking man with puppy-dog eyes peeked out from behind her. David introduced me and Moms to him first as, “Mr. Oliver.”

  The little guy smiled, bowed and said “I’ve heard so much about you, Red.”

  “Umm-thanks.” I stammered.

  Now, David presented the lady to us as if she was the Queen of England.

  “Red, Margarita, this is Agatha Lane, our executive producer.”

  Agatha stared into me with her bright cat eyes (maybe contact lenses, but they looked real.) There was a long silence while Agatha inspected me. I couldn’t tell if she liked or hated what she saw. Sweat slid down my neck.

  “She’s perfect. Just perfect,” she finally announced. I hadn’t said or done a thing.

  David told me Agatha wanted to interview me on camera, too. I headed for my director’s chair again
and David shot while Agatha stood nearby, relaxed and cool. Her questions were different: like whether I was closer to my dad or mom, what I’d want to change about my life if I could and whether I’d ever experienced prejudice. I told Agatha the truth, like I was used to being interviewed by a total stranger—Not!

  I admitted that my dad drinks too much, but we love him anyway, at least when he’s sober. I described Moms as the rock of our family, and you as the sister I never had. Agatha asked me what role I played in our “household.”

  “I’m the bigmouth comic relief of the family,” I blurted. Moms nodded in agreement. I told her that you’d escaped to college, the first Rodríguez to do so, and that I want to go to NYU, just like you.

  I even told Agatha that my brother, mistaken by a cop for a gang member, was shot in the leg. I heard Moms gasp, but it felt right to say. I explained that he’d survived, gotten a settlement from NYPD and moved with his wife and baby to Florida. He felt it had happened for a reason: to get his family down south, where he’s become a church deacon, bought a home and opened a small restaurant that’s always packed.

  Agatha and David were elbowing each other. Mr. Oliver nodded and grinned, which made him look even more like an elf. All three acted like they’d just discovered the new America Ferrara [but you know I’m prettier, and skinnier, even with my big butt].

  Moms’ cell rang—loud. She apologized and shut it off, but giggled from nerves. That made me crack up, so we had one of our laughing fits, and I nearly fell off that high chair. David kept the camera rolling and asked if he could shoot Moms and me together.

  Agatha suggested we sit side by side on a small, tan sofa. We settled in, and David turned on the camera. He asked us about each other and our relationship. Agatha watched intently. After a while, she said, “They’re the Hispanic Gilmore girls! Oh, and the hair! Two Latina redheads, perfect, just perfect.”

  Agatha said that she had kids, so Moms warmed up to her. They traded mother stories. Next, Agatha asked if I’d like to be a mother like my own Moms.

  I said, “Yes,” and went on and on about what an adorable creature Moms is—the best on earth.

  Charlie, the receptionist, brought in mini sandwiches. This time, when asked if we wanted drinks, Moms asked for coffee and I ordered a Coke. Charlie was back in a flash, my Coke in a fancy wine glass, Moms’ coffee on good china.

  Agatha and David asked questions while we munched our sandwiches. They were delicious but so small they’d barely fill a cavity. By then, we were calmer and hungry. Charlie put fancy Italian cookies on a table by me. As we finished, Agatha nodded at David, who shut off the camera. He asked us to excuse them and all three left. Sticky-fingers Moms slid the last two cookies into her purse.

  Agatha and David came back, saying Mr. Oliver had sent his goodbyes, since he had to “make his curtain.” Maybe he sews costumes—I don’t know. Agatha handed Moms TWO contracts, saying we can sign right there and then, or take them home to show “Red’s father.” A joke since Pops is usually too drunk to decide on anything.

  David and Agatha took turns giving us details: that the show starts shooting in two weeks, we’d meet the rest of the cast at “an event” before it started and the set would be “family-friendly.” Since I’m a minor, and the other Brooklyn teens are, too, there’d be a social worker and teacher on the set all day.

  Moms asked if both my parents had to give permission for me to do the show and Agatha said, “No, unless you’re divorced.” Big relief. Since they ARE married, Moms could legally sign for me without even asking Pops—thank God.

  David said all they wanted me to do for twelve weeks is be myself and let the company film me—at home, in school, hanging out, babysitting—whatever. It’s all legit. It’ll air on cable this summer.

  Then, Agatha said my paycheck would be a thousand dollars a week. Real money! Moms will get three hundred dollars any day she’s in it.

  Moms asked if they could shoot without Pops being on camera. He and Agatha went to a corner of the room together and had a whispered mini-conference.

  They came back, and Agatha reassured Moms, saying, “Either way is fine, Margarita. If your husband is willing, we’ll include him—drunk or sober. If he’d rather not, we won’t, but the audience may come to know he’s a drinker even if he stays off camera. People’s reaction could inspire him to get sober.”

  Moms looked doubtful.

  David sat by Moms and said he’d be extra sensitive to the situation because he’s a recovering alcoholic himself, with three years sobriety in AA. This made her feel better. She thanked him for being so open about his private business.

  Moms and I thanked him. Agatha, who looks like an ice queen but isn’t, hugged us. She wrote down our contact information and said if we did the show the company would get permits and releases from my school and other places or people “involved in my storyline.” MY storyline! Girl, can you believe this? It’s not a scam either, it’s real!

  When they walked us to the door, Agatha asked Moms for a hint as to what her answer would be and Moms said, “I am thinking Yes, but can’t promise. I have to pray on it to get the real answer. And ask my niece.” Everyone knew she meant it.

  The receptionist had me fill out a form with my sizes, foods I like and other silly stuff. Then, Moms and me were out of fairy-land, back on cement. We went to Starbucks again.

  Side by side, we read the whole contract over, between sips of a second frappuccino. Then Moms asked me to call you. I did, but got voicemail.

  Moms said it was great, but also serious. She asked if the library was still open, so we could email you. I told her it was, so we left for the subway.

  We found seats together, so I leaned on Moms’ shoulder and was quiet most of the ride. I felt weary, yet buzzed. Moms was praying.

  Moms nudged me before our station, and out we went. On our way here, Moms reminded me that, as her sister’s daughter and the lone Rodríguez in college, only you can advise us on this. She wanted you to have every detail. So now you do!

  ¡Ay! I have five minutes to finish up.

  Moms is leaning toward saying yes, especially since Pops doesn’t have to give permission. Moms’ been going to Al-Anon and is not ashamed of Pops’ drinking; it’s his issue. She just said to tell you—again!—that David Appel used to be a drinker and, if Pops making an idiot of himself all drunk on TV can help even one person to quit, she’d feel good with it.

  We’d put every dime we make in the bank for college. Moms thinks the show could lead to a scholarship. She’s still praying, talking to God and to her big sister.

  A minute ago she said, “I feel like Dios approves. But I have a question.”

  Peeking around to be sure the librarian wasn’t watching, Moms called David up and whispered, “If I sign this contract, my daughter won’t be seen drinking or doing anything out of character, will she?”

  David said all they’ll shoot is me being me. Since I’m not a partier, I won’t be one on TV, although another kid on the show might be. Moms felt better and said she’d let him know tomorrow. I got scared they’d dump me and use a girl with a less protective Moms, but nah … She’s part of why they want me.

  We finally got cable, so I see Laguna Beach and The Real World. The people act so foolish, but that’s because of what they do; they’d be at it anyhow without a camera in their faces. I have a straight-up life except for my drunk dad.

  All I know is I want OUT of Brooklyn. I love the spotlight, and it’d be cool being on TV. You KNOW we need money. There’s college applications, tuition and Moms wants to spend some on an SAT prep course for me, just like those white kids take.

  Can you believe people would recognize me!!!!—especially with this hair of mine. Soooooo red! It even says in my contract I can’t color or change it! I Could Be Famous! And I want you to be in the show, too.

  What do you think, Cuz? PLEASE, pleeeeeeeeez get in touch with us the minute you read this and pleeeeeeeeez say “Yes.” For sure, Moms won’t
sign the contract—even though I know she wants to—until we hear from you.

  Please, pleeeeeeeeez call.

  Love,

  Tu prima

  Red

  Scars

  I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to have a normal body, one without scars snaking around practically every inch of it, but there’s no way to forget completely. Often, in my dreams, I’m back in my original, all-in-one-piece skin. Then, I wake up to reality.

  Before the crash, I took my body for granted—its silken smoothness, its seamless expanses. Now, years after the accident, I am still disfigured—a young woman scarred for life.

  My physical alteration isn’t, in truth, a surprise. After sailing headfirst through our family Volvo’s windshield, and being cut to shreds by shards of glass, I couldn’t have escaped unscathed.

  Altogether, I have twenty-seven scars of various shapes and sizes. On my face, there’s a huge one. It starts above my left eyebrow, slants diagonally across the bridge of my nose, and swerves over my right cheekbone. Then, it comes to a screeching halt at the bottom of my jaw. There’s a T-shaped one on my forehead, and a curved scar on my chin.

  My neck, too, is marred by zigzag gouges. Even now, they’re still an angry shade of purple. Though deep, each is only an inch or two long.

  The scars on my face and neck are the ones people see first. I wear a heavy make-up base to tone down their redness. They are keloids; ropy, raised scars, with texture and bulk, which can’t be completely concealed.

  My neck and face aren’t alone when it comes to graphic reminders of the crash. In fact, my entire body is one big scar festival. Here, there, everywhere, the scars slink and slither, serpentine, ineradicable. The rips, tears and slashes scattered all over my being are the brutal, ever-present proof of the frailty of human flesh. My flesh.

  Clothing covers most of the other scars. When I use a locker room, or try on clothes at a mall, strangers stare and whisper. I’m used to it. The scars are part of me.