‘If my parents only knew what would happen when they sent me away,’ Diane says, shaking her head. ‘They thought they were going to make me better, but they just made me worse. At least in their eyes.’
‘That’s something we have in common,’ Connie answers, her voice rueful. ‘We both got sent away. You to that place in Dallas and then here, and me to the state school.’
‘Bad girls get sent away, I guess,’ says Diane with a shrug of cold acceptance.
‘To hell with that,’ says Connie, throwing her head back and laughing a loud Connie laugh before looking Diane in the eye, giving her respect. ‘Maybe we do get sent away. But you know what else is true about us? Bad girls never give in. And bad girls never say die.’
The five of us smoke and talk for a little while longer – going over the possibility that Johnny will be released soon, saying it enough that it’s like we’re willing it to come true with our words – before we figure we might as well head home even though school isn’t out yet. We leave through the back door of the abandoned house, promising to meet up at our tree in front of the school tomorrow. And to keep our eyes peeled and our ears open for any news about Johnny’s arrest.
‘Are you all right getting back to your aunt’s place?’ I ask Diane as Connie and Sunny split off toward their houses.
‘I’ll be all right,’ says Diane. ‘I’d like some time to think anyway. Just by myself.’
‘I get it,’ I answer. Diane gives us a wave, her auburn hair bouncing as she turns to leave. I overhear her start whisper-singing some song to herself while she walks away. I imagine briefly what I’d think of her if I’d never met her before. A priss. A nasty tea sipper. A rich, spoiled brat. But Diane isn’t any of those things. I know that now.
Juanita and I walk together. We head through the neighborhood in silence until at last Juanita breaks it.
‘I’m still sort of in shock,’ she says.
‘I know. So am I,’ I respond. ‘It didn’t feel any less strange hearing Diane’s story the second time, I’ll tell you that much.’
‘I’ll bet,’ says Juanita. ‘You know what? I like her, though. I like Diane. I know she’s sort of supposed to be my sworn enemy from the other side of town, but she seems pretty tuff.’
I laugh. ‘I know. I feel the same way. I think maybe even Connie likes her after today.’ Something about this realization makes me happy. And maybe a little proud that I was the one brave enough to stand up for Diane and bring her into our circle.
‘I remember being new and meeting Connie for the first time,’ says Juanita, smiling at some private memory. ‘Back in junior high. I’d moved here from Clayton Homes. I’d never gone to school with so many white girls, and I sure had never met one like Connie before.’
Clayton Homes was public housing a few miles away on Navigation Boulevard and close to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, where the Barajas family go to church sometimes. (But not often enough, according to Grandma, even if it is a Catholic church.) I remember being in grade school when Juanita and her family moved in next door and peering through a window, anxious to get a good look at the new neighbors and thinking Juanita struck me as pretty and tuff. Before I approached her that day, she’d offered me a friendly smile from her yard sometimes, but I’d always been too intimidated to talk to her.
‘What happened when you met Connie?’ I ask, curious.
Juanita laughs. ‘Well, all my teachers at Anson Jones Elementary had been white ladies, so I was used to that. I had one nasty teacher who made kids sit in their own mess if they didn’t ask to go to the bathroom in English.’
I wince at this story. ‘That’s awful, Juanita.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘But it happened. And when I moved here, you know, the teachers were white ladies, too, and some white men. But it was weird to have white kids in class with me also. Anyway, this one teacher over at the junior high, on the first day of seventh grade she kept on insisting that she wanted to call me Janie instead of Juana, which is my real first name, you know, because Janie was easier for her to say. And I kept fighting her on it. I told her to call me Juanita because it was what I liked to be called.’
I nod, thinking of some of the Mexican kids I’ve had in class with me over the years. How lots of times on the first day of school Jorge becomes George and Lupe becomes Lucy. And no one ever says anything. It’s like it’s just normal. But I know it’s not right. After all, no teacher has ever given me a hard time when I ask to be called Evie instead of Evelyn. They just call me whatever I ask for.
‘Anyway,’ Juanita continues, ‘I keep protesting that my name is Juanita, like really fighting back, and this witch comes over to me with her wooden ruler, and she grabs my hand and starts swatting it.’ Juanita scowls at the memory. ‘You know, palm up so it will really hurt.’
I ball my fists up protectively, thinking about how much it must have stung. ‘That’s terrible,’ I say.
‘It was,’ Juanita agrees, ‘but then you know what happened?’
‘No, what?’ I ask, eager to find out.
‘I grabbed that ruler and snapped it in half and went over and threw it out the window!’ Juanita says, her face lit up by the memory.
I howl in appreciation, imagining a smaller, younger version of Juanita rebelling like that. ‘I wish I could have seen it,’ I say.
‘Well, that wasn’t all,’ Juanita says. ‘Right after I toss the ruler out, I hear this noise from the back of the room. I turn back to look, and it was Connie. This was before she started dyeing her hair blond, by the way. I just see this tiny blur of brown hair and skinny arms and legs jump up from her desk as fast as gossip.’
‘What did she do?’ I ask. With Connie, I know anything is a possibility.
‘She stood up and started cheering and applauding!’ A big grin spreads over Juanita’s face as she gets to this part of the story.
The two of us giggle at this, and Juanita’s face holds her smile for a few more beats as she stays lost in the memory.
‘I’ve had Connie on my side ever since,’ she says. ‘I know she can be scary sometimes, but I’m glad she’s with me.’
I nod, agreeing, but I ask a question I’ve been considering since we left the abandoned house. ‘Do you think she’s with Diane?’
Juanita pauses before she answers. ‘I think so,’ she says slowly. ‘I think the fact that Diane got sent up to Dallas like that? Connie gets that. But …’ She stops, frowning a bit. ‘I have to say, I feel like there’s something else going on. Something Diane isn’t telling us. I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say. We’re almost home. Grandma is sure to wonder what I’m doing back in the middle of the school day, and I’ll have to make up some story about being sick. She’ll take my temperature and know I’m lying, and then she’ll have one more piece of evidence to add to the list proving my lack of good-girl behavior.
‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ continues Juanita. ‘But my gut’s telling me she’s keeping something a secret.’