Just because an accusation stung didn’t mean it was wrong.
I took a seat and waited for my food, wishing the brightly-colored furniture was dark like my mood. Even the high school girls at the orange table in front of me couldn’t compete with their cheerfully-painted red and aqua chairs.
Well, one of them could.
The other shrank in on herself as if she didn’t deserve to be seen.
The oddness of their pairing went beyond the obvious differences of age, ethnicity, and presentation—the older black girl wore a slinky top and sexy capri pants while the younger Latina girl could have been dressed for church. It was in their body language. The older girl leaned back in her chair, with her head cocked at an imperious angle, while the younger girl slouched, occasionally glancing up from her folded hands to flash an appreciative smile. The tableau suggested a disturbing imbalance of power.
The older girl wiped her hands with a napkin and dropped it on the remnants of beans, rice, and sauce. “You been here before?”
The younger girl gave a slight shake of her head and nibbled on the edge of a soft taco. “I don’t eat out much. When I do, it’s mostly Guatemalan food. You know, with my parents?”
The older girl tossed back her sleek hair, highlighted with hints of red and gold. “I come here all the time. I’m surprised your friends don’t bring you.”
“Friends?” The girl slumped lower in her seat. “Mexican girls at school don’t welcome Guatemalans into their circles, especially ones whose parents…” She shook her head and left it at that.
“That sucks.”
The younger girl shrugged. “I’m surprised you invited me.”
“Why? Because I’m black?”
She nodded.
“Well, we got reason, right? Jefferson High used to be all black, or close enough. A lot of famous people came out of our school—Alvin Ailey, Barry White, Etta James—a bunch of jazz singers and musicians, athletes, even judges and politicians. We had a proud community back then, or so Granny tells me. Mama tells a different story. She says the Latinos came in and turned Jeff into little Mexico. The black kids revolted. Brown kids pushed back. You heard about that?”
The girl nodded again.
“That shit doesn’t happen now that so many of us moved away. You guys took over the whole neighborhood.”
“I’m not Mexican.”
“Close enough.”
The girl steeled herself with a deep breath. “Why am I here?” she asked, timidly. “You hate me.”
The older girl swiped the air with blue-polished nails. “Not me. Dolla gets along with everyone. Life’s too short to be hating. Besides, a person can always use more friends. Am I right?”
As if to make a point, Dolla leaned forward, braced her weight on beautifully sculpted arms, and held out an open palm. “Are you my friend, Ana Lucía?”
The young girl looked so happy and grateful, I wanted to cry. It broke my heart to think such a sweet, beautiful girl could be that lonely.
She took Dolla’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Of course I’m your friend. You are the nicest person I’ve ever met.”
Dolla chuckled. “Yeah? Wait till you meet my friends. You’ll never be lonely again.
I sat back in my chair. Why would a girl like Dolla befriend a meek nobody like Ana Lucía? It didn’t make sense.
When the girls packed up their bags—a sling purse for Dolla and a Jefferson High backpack for Ana Lucía—I asked Paco to wrap my food to go.
“I’ll be back to pick it up. There’s something I need to check.”
Chapter Three
The girls were standing at the curb. I grabbed the bells before I opened the screen door and snuck out as quietly as I could. They had been sitting in profile to me in the restaurant, and I doubted either had made note of my appearance. I wanted to keep it that way.
I vaulted over the porch railing onto the walkway that ran along the side of the building, ducked behind the recycling bin, and unlocked my bike. Since this was a high-risk neighborhood, I had secured it with both a U-lock and a cable. It had taken two years of red-envelope money to buy the high-performance Merida. I wasn’t taking any chances.
In the fifteen seconds it took, a gunmetal-gray Camaro coupe had pulled up to the curb. Rap music pounded from the car’s speakers in a throbbing, sultry rhythm. Then the volume dropped. Dolla leaned on passenger side door and poked her head through the open window. Ana Lucía hung a few feet back, clutching her backpack to her chest.
Dolla stood up and beckoned to Ana Lucía. “Come meet my friend. He’s as sweet as his ride.”
Ana Lucía paused, giving me hope that she might head back into Paco’s Tacos.
Dolla opened the front door wide. “Come on, girl. He won’t bite.”
After glancing up and down the street, Ana Lucía walked to the car.
I crept forward to get my own look at Dolla’s sweet, harmless friend, but Ana Lucía blocked my view.
Words were exchanged. From the way Ana Lucía’s knee turned in and her shoulder raised coquettishly to her ear, I could tell she was both embarrassed and pleased. Whoever this friend was, he was turning on the charm.
“You girls want a ride?” he asked, at a volume loud enough to hear but not to identify any characteristics beyond a smooth tone and a baritone pitch.
Dolla clapped her hands. “That’d be great. We were just heading home. Isn’t that right, Ana Lucía?” Dolla tipped the front seat forward and gestured for the girl to get in the back. When she didn’t move, Dolla bumped her hip playfully. “Go on, girl. We get to ride in style.”
Don’t do it, I thought. Don’t get in that car.
But she did. And when Dolla flipped back the seat, sat, and closed the door, she trapped Ana Lucía as securely as if she had locked her in a cell.
Nothing criminal had taken place, and yet, every nerve in my body screamed danger.
I hopped on my bike and pedaled hard to catch up to the Camaro. On a straightaway, I wouldn’t have stood a chance, but in traffic, a bike was often faster than a car, especially when the driver of that car wanted to turn left. I dodged through oncoming traffic and crossed the street before reaching the Camaro. With luck, I could zip up the next road and catch him on the new street. Sure enough, the Camaro crossed in front of me. I leaned into the turn and raced to follow, but it was too late. He made another turn and vanished.
I circled back to check the side streets, in case he had let out the girls. No such luck. I checked the cars parked on either side of a dead end. No Camaro. But as I turned my bike to leave, a matte-black Dodge Charger sped in and screeched to a stop. Doors opened, blocking my exit—the three baggy-shorts good Samaritans from Exposition Park.
I should have checked my horoscope and stayed at home: Clearly, this was an inauspicious day for Water Roosters.
Busted Nose and Smashed Testicles came out the front, while the linebacker, whose knee I had kicked, hobbled out of the back.