CHAPTER 4

Lucy

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A PART OF ME knows I should probably stay away. I’m not stupid. Rosa isn’t the best influence, but we’ve been there for each other. She cried on my shoulder when her dad left five years ago. We took baths together as kids. In a way she’s like a sister. I trust her. Maybe this is just a phase, like hopscotch and bikes, or makeup and malls.

I decide to go with it. It’s the perfect balance of exciting and dangerous. Maybe it’s the rush of coming so close to the edge of what I’m capable of, but I have to admit, I’m having fun.

Every night for a week plays out in the parking lot under the same muted yellow light. The only difference is my resolve. I’m determined to hold my own, and I do. Eventually I get really good, and Toño tells everyone I’m ready.

“Wait, ready for what?” I ask as Ro ushers me out the door of her tin-sided trailer. My feet shuffle against the green plastic grass covering the small porch.

“You think I’m gonna tell you? It’s a test, Guera. Only thing I can say is you’re allowed to fight back. No face rules this time.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and leans in close to me. “Take ‘em out with everything you got.”

Toño, Angel and Leti are waiting at the corner for us to catch up. I follow them through the dark streets of San Jose, biting the inside of my cheek as we turn down alleyways. In this part of town, even the nice homes are still rundown single stories with peeling exterior paint and cracked cement driveways. Mostly it’s just trailer parks surrounded by more trailer parks, all squeezed between busy freeways and low-end strip malls.

“Where are we going?” I ask Ro. Despite the summer heat, goose bumps cover my bare arms and creep up the hem of my shorts.

“Don’t worry about it. They change it every time.”

When we turn the corner I hear the indistinguishable chatter of too many Spanish conversations spilling out of the open door of someone’s garage. Everything’s been cleared out except for a few fold-up tables and a section of carpet with motor oil stains protecting the cement floor. Ro, Leti, and I aren’t the only girls. Amidst the clustered groups of dark-skinned guys, I feel the female eyes on me. They follow me, like tigress eyes. Two sit atop the table in the back sharing a cigarette. I can see their lips moving as they whisper, their words carried into the air with each exhale of smoke. One with perfectly round cleavage and a Rose Tattoo on her exposed waist chews her gum a little too vigorously. At least three others hang on or around their boyfriends, claiming them as taken.

“Ton-io!” one of the guys barks, stretching out the word. The cluster of people move toward us and then away as Toño parts the crowd like the sea, walking without interruption into the center of the room.

“What up,” he nods, click clacking a fist-bump with a short meaty thug whose shirt is two sizes too big.

Toño’s gaze flickers my way. He bites his lip and lingers a fraction too long. It’s the first time he’s made eye contact with me really. My stomach feels like a bag of rocks.

“You ready for this, Guera?” he asks.

It’s a test, Guera. Only thing I can say is you’re allowed to fight back. Take ‘em out with everything you got.

I’d heard of people being jumped into a gang before, maybe it was Rosa who told me about it. As the girls start to descend from their spots around the room, slowly closing in like encircling wolves, I know what’s about to happen.

The realization takes hold in my chest, a quick plunge of the heart into an icy lake of fear. I back away slowly out of instinct, ready to run, but there’s nowhere to go. The sound of their skittering feet is the first thing I hear before they come at me. Me against all of them. Me against Rose Tattoo and Cigarette Twins. Me against the jealous novias. Ten sets of eyes glinting with the thrill of a fight. I flinch and turn my back to avoid the fists, but they’re all around me. One of them catches me by the shoulders, holding me in place as the other girls hit the back of my skull. My head flies forward, chin to chest.

At first I don’t know whether to swing or cover. I reach up to protect myself, but there are too many points of contact. The rush of adrenaline is intense. It blocks the pain, but there is a fiery need in me to get away. I try and kick or punch, feeling one or two connect, but the girls are everywhere. An elbow slams against my temple. My head splits and my ears ring. I go down.

Every infinite minute of being the enemy feels like it’ll never end.

Someone’s shoe stomps my thigh. Others strike my ribs. I heave and gag until I can’t breathe. But that kind of terror turns me into a resilient kind of crazy. The kind of rabid-mad that is born of desperation. I scrape and flail until I’m on my feet, pulling hair and swinging my fists, making contact with whatever I can. I don’t realize I’m screaming until Toño calls them to a stop.

It ceases the moment the girls hear his voice, and I’m left there shaking and crazed, my breath dragging in and out of my lungs in a feverish effort to return to its normal rhythm. I pant and cry, as softly as I can, but it’s hard to deny my body the relief of all-out sobbing. My head hurts. My brain smashes against my skull with the pulse of too much pressure. I taste blood in my mouth, though no one has touched my face. Now that it’s over, the pain of it all rushes to the surface and makes me want to vomit. I feel like I could die.

Why am I here? Why am I doing this?

“She’s in,” Toño says, and the cheers of the group shock my senses and make me tense up.

They all rush me, and at first I’m terrified it’s about to start again, but instead they hug me and pat me on the shoulder all at once. Each hand on my back or squeeze around the shoulders rocks me with pain, but they’re so happy. Their laughter and cheering is contagious, it flows into me, filling me with a strange sense of pride and belonging. I can’t help my smile when I see their encouraging faces. I even start to laugh.

“You good. You good.”

“You’ll only be fucked up for a week,” another says.

It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move my head. The slightest brush of my hair makes me flinch. But somehow in their buzzing embrace it feels like an accomplishment, like maybe it was worth it.

“Check it. This chick’s crazy, Rona,” Rose Tattoo says as she re-ties her messy bun. Her half-smile makes me think that’s a good thing.

Rona is one of the cigarette twins. The one with movie-star red lips and pinup-girl black locks that curl in perfect ringlets. Her makeup has been smeared by the brawl, but her hair only looks more beautiful in its wild state.

“Fuck man.” She runs a finger along the edge of her mouth, cleaning up her lip gloss. “Got yous in the ribs real good, but you’re a feisty motherfucker. Fuckin’ ripped my hair out.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, suddenly afraid. My whole body is trembling, and all I can think about is I hope they can’t tell. Then I shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though I’m pretty sure my legs have shoe print bruises on them and my ears are so swollen I can’t hear right.

“Don’t be sorry, Guera,” one of the novias says in a voice that seems too nice. I can tell by the way she moves she’s of a higher rank. She purses her lips into a duck pout and slides in real close. She smells sweet, like candy. Her hair is a streaky blonde, but her skin is beach-tan brown and sparkles with glitter lotion in the light. She rests her arm on my shoulder and examines the egg-sized welt on my temple. “You one of us now.”

She squeezes my cheeks together like an angry parent would a small child. For a moment I expect her to push me down, but she kisses me. Right on the mouth.

The girls around us laugh and the mood lightens. Angel woots from the sidelines. “That’s my girl,” and the crowd mills together, returning to their Spanish conversations.

“You did goooood, Guera,” Ro screams, sweeping me into a hug. By now the fear is gone. I don’t know why I feel so proud, so welcome, but I like it.

“Thanks,” I laugh as Angel hands me an open bottle of tequila.

“Time to celebrate, my little mama.”

I take the bottle, feeling cool as I hold it. If I can handle a fight like that, I can handle a few drinks. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m so high on the moment. I’m Muhammad Ali. The main event.

I tip back the bottle and almost die, it burns so much, but I keep my eyes on Angel and his warm brown skin. He keeps his eyes on me, too.

That night I get to know all the girls in a drunken haze. Cynthia is the friendliest. She’s Filipina and child-sized. She says she’s not much of a fighter and seems new to the group. Lorena is the big girl, not much taller than me but almost three times as wide. Veronica is the one who kissed me. I was right. She’s “the queen,” as they say. Best fighter in the group. The cigarette twins are Rona and Kim. Then there’s rose-tattoo. Her name is CJ. She’s funny as shit.

We all laugh and get drunk. The novias kiss their boyfriends with too much tongue and blow smoke into each other’s mouths. Leti sticks close to Angel, but he’s no longer being subtle about his interest in me. He keeps a hand on my bare thigh or an arm over my shoulders.

I feel amazing.

A group of us cluster in the corner passing the bottle of tequila around while telling stories, and Angel rubs my leg with his warm hand most of the night. He inches far too close to the hem of my shorts, but I let it happen.

The bottle comes my way. I take another swig, too numb to be fazed by the burn anymore, and text my mom.

Staying at Ro’s tonight. Getting pizza for dinner. Love you! Xoxo

That’s the last thing I remember.