Free Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass by Meg Medina Page B

kittens as I take in the smell of his dirty hair. He moves his hands over my bottom until I’m twitchy with need. I don’t know how long we lie there kissing, but when he finally starts to slide his chilly hands inside the back of my pants, I push him and sit up, afraid. My mouth is still tingling; I’m dizzy.
    The dryer has stopped, and the cellar is silent and cold as a tomb. I slide off his jacket, but he doesn’t reach for it. Joey turns on his side and stares at the sleeping kittens as I head for the basement door.
    “I have to go,” I mumble.
    Joey doesn’t say good-bye.

“I’m sick, Ma.”
    Lying here in bed, I feel broken into a million pieces. My head is a brick, and my legs don’t want to take me to school. I hold the covers around my chin as Ma frowns and feels my forehead. I can still feel Yaqui’s friends smacking the back of my head.
    “That’s what happens when you go out at night, desabrigada with no coat,” she says. “It’s a miracle you didn’t get pneumonia.”
    I don’t say anything. Who wants to fight again?
    According to her palm, I might have a small fever. Ma hurries off to the kitchen and comes back with a cup of tea, aspirin, and a jar of Vicks VapoRub that she sets on the floor by my bed. I’m too old for her to take a sick day for me. Besides, she never takes a day off unless it’s an emergency — like when I had to have my appendix out. And now it’s getting close to the holidays, and the back room at Attronica is becoming a maze of boxes, floor to ceiling, in preparation for the season.
    “I’ll call you at lunch. Stay in bed.” She pulls on a jacket. “Lila’s home if you need something,” she adds before she heads out the door.
    Relief washes over me as she leaves for the bus stop. Staying home means Yaqui doesn’t have to exist today. I don’t have to disappoint my teachers. I don’t have worry about my shaky ass or anything at all today. I close my eyes and turn over, nestling deep inside my covers for a rest, when I hear the bus pull away from the curb. I’m already drifting off.
I am beautiful, riding on the neck of a huge, jeweled elephant. She’s massive and graceful, and her skin is the mottled green of jade. She trumpets and flaps her ears to warn onlookers to stay back. I can feel people’s fear and respect as we go by. They marvel at my long hair, which trails down my back, at my legs, my balance, my total control .
I ride down Parsons Boulevard; there are no cars. No one bothers me out here. Crowds stare and applaud. Joey Halper calls out my name. Agustín Sanchez plays a piano on the rooftop just for me. He hits a high C on the keyboard again, and again, and again . . .
    Someone is leaning on the doorbell.
    My clock says eleven thirty; I’ve been asleep for three hours. I crawl across my bed to the window and peek out through the blinds. Lila is staring at me from below. When she spots me, she waves a white paper bag above her head.
    “Let me in!” Her voice is muffled through the glass. “I’m freezing to death!”
    I wrap the comforter around me and ring her in. A minute later, Lila steps into the apartment, shivering.
    “ Cristo , it feels like December out there.” She hands me a greasy Dunkin’ Donuts bag. “Lunch: special delivery.”
    Inside is a Boston cream doughnut, my favorite.
    “Oh, I love you.”
    “Didn’t you hear me ringing? I was about to knock on the old lady’s door to let me in.” She tosses her jacket on the coatrack and rubs her hands together to warm them. I can see her new nail polish, a navy blue.
    “I fell asleep,” I say. “And, anyway, Mrs. Boika wouldn’t have let you in. I don’t know what her problem is. She hasn’t said two words to us since we moved here.”
    “Racist old bat,” Lila mutters, and starts for the kitchen, where I settle in at the table, the bulky comforter around me like a cocoon. When I sink my teeth into the doughnut, cream squirts down my chin. Lila makes a face.
    “Don’t