“His name ain’t Dr. Love. Coño. You’re messing with me, right?”
Yaz smacks me in the shoulder. She’s doubled over, fingers clamping her mouth shut. Her purple silver-studded nails press dimples into her cheek. She’s trying not to laugh.
“What?” I ask her. My cell slips as I shrug my shoulders. “They expect me to believe this guy’s name is Dr. Love? A heart doctor? How stupid do they think I am?” I squat and snatch the phone. I wedge it back in the crook of my neck. “Like if Toto called for a penis doctor and was told the guy’s name was Dr. Weiner he would believe them?”
Toto is Abuela’s boyfriend. That’s not his real name. It’s just what my girls call him. Because his hairline’s low. And he’s bulky. Like one of them fighting dogs. And he’s got these small hands and feet.
Yaz is gasping, cherry lollipop–colored lips pressed almost outta sight. Teri is giggling, fingers smoothing down long strands of inky hair. Heavenly’s screen is three inches from her nose. She’s probably browsing posts from her favorite designers.
She doesn’t respond to my joke. But she thinks it’s funny. I can tell.
“Your appointment with Dr. Love is scheduled for nine thirty on Thursday, September eleventh.” The lady on the phone can’t wait to get rid of me.
“Nine eleven? No way, José. Give me another date.”
Yaz kicks me in the thigh.
“Hey!” I circle an arm around my belly, my finger pointed, already wagging. “Watch the baby!” I catch my phone as it tries to fall again.
“Like she was anywhere near your uterus.” Heavenly rolls her eyes. Thick clumps of mascaraed lashes make everyone else look like a clown doll. On Heavenly, it looks good.
Phone Lady gives me a different appointment.
I hold the phone away from my face and turn to my girls. “Does Monday, September fifteenth, at ten work for youz guys?” I fix each of them with my you-better-be-there glare.
“Whatever you think, Mari.” Teri’s smiling like I just told her I won some money off those scratch cards at the bodega and I’m takin’ them all on vacay. “I’ll come,” she says, as if her expression ain’t enough. We was all excited when I found out about the baby. But Teri was the one who went out and got a book. And read it. Teri was the one who told me when it was time for my first doctor’s appointment. Found the clinic I should go to.
“Weez guys will be ready.” Yaz strikes the air above her with her fist, like Dazzler from the X-Men. She been doing that same dumbass pose since we chased Ricky Lopez down 173rd Street all the way to Broadway for her backpack. That was in the third grade. We been besties ever since.
Heavenly’s acrylics tap-tap-tap on the face of her phone. It’s the second one Jo-jo’s bought her. As long as it texts and is in the pocket of jeans that show off the curves of her nalgas, Heavenly don’t care what logo it has or when it came out. But Jo-jo does. Only the best for his girl. I don’t mind, seeing as I got to keep her old one. She’s promised Yaz this one once it goes outta style. Heavenly’s bottom lip slides out like she’s gonna apply more pinta. But her eyes, they be smiling. “Ten on Monday? Perfect. I hate Mr. Sansone’s English class.”
Phone Lady’s still talking. I can hear her squawks even with the phone a foot off my ear. I press it back into the space between my shoulder and cheek and catch the end of what she’s sayin’. “And please arrive twenty minutes early to fill out all the necessary paperwork.”
Twenty minutes? For paperwork? You gotta be kidding me. “Coño. Listen,” I say, trying to be nice seein’ as Yaz knows what I’m thinking and is giving me those lizard eyes. Like my swearin’ is some bug she’s fixin’ to eat with that long tongue of hers. “I was just there yesterday seeing my baby doctor. She told me I had to make this appointment. Don’t you have all my info in some system?” I know they do, ’cause every time I go I have to stand there and wait for them to pull it up.
Silence. Then, “You have our number if you need to reschedule. Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss Pujols?”
Miss Pujols. I’ve gotten over the way white folks say my last name—Poo-joe-ells. It’s actually better than how it sounds in Spanish—Poo-holes. Yeah, I won the instant scratch-off lottery with that one. But what I hate most is that they always call me “miss.” I know I look young. But we’re on the phone. She can’t see me. And I’m making a pregnant-lady appointment. Shouldn’t that make me a Ms. or a Mrs.?
“No.” I wanna say something else. But Yaz, with that sharp lizard tongue of hers, is staring at me hard. My upper lip itches. I scrub at it. I need a nap.
Yaz mouths something at me, pointing to her dimples. “Oh . . . And, uh, thanks.”
I hang up.