Model Ricans

The Flagpole

The flagpole is flanked by the three boys we saw in the Rican Hallway. They are bouncing a basketball around each other. The one with the juicy lips pauses mid-bounce when me and Marga sit on the steps.

He leans forward, shakes our hands, and announces his name is Manuel. "If you're wondering why I'm so good looking it's because I'm exactly Half Black, a Quarter Mexican and a Quarter Rican."

I definitely don't disagree with him, he is definitely good looking, but he doesn't have to know so I laugh and whisper to Marga, "I guess they're teaching fractions in remedial math?"

She looks at me with the most disgusted twist in her face, then inches away from me like I'm the biggest asshole who ever walked the earth.

What is with her, geez? She used to take a joke.

The second boy who calls himself Georgie comes to my rescue without knowing it. "I'm 100% Rican, from the island."

Marga looks at me, and then down at her feet, shaking her head. Her reaction to me and these boys is weird to me but before I can ask her what the heck is wrong, Sky Bowman says, "I'm Zero Rican," then grabs the basketball out of his friend's hands, and boom — the attention is back on the ball.

As much as I don't want to admit it, I do not want Sky Bowman to ignore me so I jump up and grab the ball when it's close to me and sit next to Marga on the steps nursing the ball. I smile to myself, but I don't dare look at Sky Bowman.

Without hesitation, Manuel and Georgie sit on each side of us. We are all so close, it's like we are too many books shoved together on a shelf.

Marga is noticeably perturbed, and pops off the metaphorical shelf. "You guys are so immature."

            "No te agüites," says Manuel with a Mexican accent.

            Marga puts her hands on her hips. "What does that mean?"

            Manuel copies her. "It means 'don't worry' — I thought you speak Spanish?"

            Marga turns to look at the cars coming up the street toward the school. "I don't speak Mexican."

            "She speaks Puerto Rican like me," says Georgie, jumping up and standing next to Marga, insisting on getting closer to her. "We got different slangs."

Manuel looks skeptical. "Pft. Like what? You don't speak Spanish, either, pocho."

"I do so speak Spanish. With my grandparents, cabron."

While the others banter, Sky Bowman stares at me and the basketball on my lap. I have remained completely silent, even though Sky Bowman is burning a hole through my face.

I look down at my feet, waiting until the subject changes to something that doesn't make me feel like a total poser. But then Georgie blows my cover. "Desiree is Puerto Rican, too."

"Yeah, but she doesn't speak Spanish," says Marga. Her tone is harsh. She sounds like my aunts and cousins. Marga must be mad at me. My only friend. I want to completely implode and disappear into a million bits, but Sky Bowman finally breaks his silence.

"You don't look Puerto Rican," he says, grabbing the ball out of my lap. "But your butt? It's so big and juicy, it's definitely from Puerto Rico."

"Shut up, Sky," I say, startled at the sound of my own voice. I look up, slightly pissed off, but slightly excited because Sky Bowman is so hot. I guess he was looking at my butt when we walked past him earlier today, which is weird and gross, but I think that might mean he likes me. He leans in so close to my face, I think he's going to kiss me and then he whispers, "Don't say anything or even look at Georgie. Just watch what I do."

I'm like, "OK, whatever."

Sky Bowman bounces the basketball to the right, then to the left, and like a shadow, Georgie follows. Then Sky Bowman backs up, turns the other way and Georgie follows him again. I try not to laugh but as soon as they are running in circles, I'm bursting into giggles.

Marga stares at me and then at them. "What's so funny?"

"Sky! Everywhere he goes, Georgie follows like a little leach."

"Why is that so funny?"

"I don't know, it just makes me laugh."

Marga stares at them for a while, her arms across her chest, a big wrinkle between her eyes. "You're either crying at everything or laughing at everything, or being mean. No wonder you got that Miss Drama Queen award."

I look at Marga sideways, remembering that she was the one who reminded me I could laugh at myself when we were in the bathroom that day I leaked my period, and my emotions, all over my shorts. "Why are you being such a snot?"

Marga looks at me, trying to think of what to say. "Everything is always about you, Desiree. You never ask me how I am."

My mouth drops open. "I do so!"

"Really? You've never asked me one question about my life in Vieques before I moved here. All we ever talk about is New York, how much you miss your friends, blah, blah, blah. It's boring. I'm sick of it."

I am about to protest and swear I know one thing about Marga, but Sky Bowman is watching our interaction intently in a way that keeps my mouth shut. It's true. I know nothing about Marga's life before she moved to Orlando. So then I say to her in a snotty way, "Why do I have to ask you about it? Why don't you just tell me?"

And then Marga's mom pulls up in her sporty purple convertible that matches her sporty purple hair. There is another woman in the passenger side. Marga looks surprised. She doesn't even say goodbye. She just leaves me here by myself to fend off these horny boys. I brace myself as if it's chilly even though we're in the middle of the gross humid Orlando summer.

Knowing Marga is mad at me, it's easy to enjoy Sky Bowman sitting next to me, his basketball oin one arm and the other circling around my waist. I love it so much, but I can't stand for him to know I like him, that I need his affection so badly, so I pull away from him. He grabs my hand and puts it around his waist. Oh my God, I want to leave it there, but my conscience keeps nagging at me so I remove my hand and chuck the basketball to the side. "Why are you paying attention to me?"

Sky Bowman leans in and whispers in my ear. "Because you're gorgeous."

The closeness of his face warms me in a way I've only felt intermittently in my short, emotional life. It feels like peace. Like warm coconut oil in my belly.

"If you give me your phone number, I'll call you tonight," he says. I laugh in embarrassment, and shake my head like a little kid refusing to wear the clothes Mom set out for me.

"C'mon, I wanna get to know you better," he says.

"No way, my Dad would kill me if a boy called my house."

"I'll disguise my voice to be a girl's. I'll say I'm your friend, what was her name?"

"Marga." I sit thinking about it. But not for too long. "OK, fine." I write my phone number on a piece of paper right before Georgie announces their ride has arrived at the same time I see Dad pulling up in our big brown station wagon. "Oh shit, my dad!"I jump up quickly, hoping Dad did not see me sitting so close to Sky Bowman.