Bad memories spill out from the back of your head, starch your neck muscles, and poison your whole day. Good memories sneak around your ears and tug the corners of your mouth into a smile. Angry memories can drive you crazy for a lifetime.
Mrs. Emily Thatcher and Mrs. Helen Mendoza supervised the students rearranging the chairs in the cafeteria. “I don’t think we’ll need more than twenty-five chairs or so. What do you think, Helen?”
Helen Mendoza surveyed the room and chuckled. “Maybe a few more, just in case.”
Tonight the school board would rule on whether the runner-up, Debbie Whitting, would represent the school at San Antonio’s All-Star Spelling Contest since Luz Ríos had been accused of stealing the list of words used at the competition. Helen observed Emily setting up one more row of chairs and thought, you don’t know Mexicans much.
Helen knew, without a doubt, that not only Luz’s family would be there tonight, but so would every relative and friend within the school district. She dreaded the outcome. Somehow calamities were always made worse by the dramatics of Latinos. She sighed. She was intent on remaining divorced from their antics.
Emily counted rows of chairs as she walked towards Helen. Emily was a painter’s chart of yellows with lemon-colored hair shagged down past her shoulders; a mustard linen suit, a white blouse with a huge, limp bow at her throat. Helen organized her wardrobe with precision—light brown hair combed in a smooth pageboy, deep blue blazer with a matching straight skirt tailored to fit, white blouse, beige stockings, and matching blue pumps. She had absorbed every dress-for-success book, magazine and manual there was.
“There. That should be enough. This is not a regular meeting, so we shouldn’t expect a big turnout.” Mrs. Thatcher smiled a Sunday-school-teacher smile.
Several hours later, Mrs. Thatcher was running amok. She corraled the young children who were attending the PTA meeting with their parents to assist in setting up more chairs. Over fifty people were in the room and more were streaming in.
At the left of the table where the school board sat, Helen positioned herself with a bird’s-eye view of the front row. Luz’s parents, Rubén and Rosaura, sat next to the middle aisle. Rosaura was pale but somber, dark eyes darker, short black hair combed smoothly, looking every bit like royalty in a fuchsia sheath dress, fitted to reveal a slim figure. Helen envied her luxury of never having to worry about weight. Luz sat next to them, appearing frightened but holding her head high.
Behind Luz sat Justina and their friends, Sofia Cuellar, Diana Ortiz, and her own daughter, Sally Jane. She had asked Sally Jane to sit with Tiffany and her mother, Mrs. Thatcher and Mrs. Whitting. But of course, that girl had a mind of her own. When Sally Jane had asked why, Helen had expressed her fears and sure enough, there she was, sitting in the same row as Luz and her parents.
Mrs. Manela Cuellar and Mrs. Marieta Ortiz and their husbands, Ramon and Vicente, nodded and waved to several people in the audience as they took their seats. Manela was in full regalia—hair whipped on top of her head with curls falling around her face, huge gold loop earrings, face masked in model-beautiful make-up, wraparound dress sticking to the parts that stuck out, fingernails long and red. Marieta had come prepared for battle—black hair coiffured in executive style, black suit, with a simple gold brooch pinned to her jacket. Her nails were also long and red. Helen figured Manela and Marieta had gone to the same nail shop together.
She remembered a time when the four of them, Manela, Rosaura, Marieta and herself, had hung together in grade school. Those had been fun times. Occasionally, she missed their talks. The other three had accused them of being foolish. But while Manela and Marieta talked about revolution and Rosaura covered herself with paint from her artwork, Helen had learned early how the system worked and who the system benefitted. Taught well by her mother, Helen acknowledged the advantages of being light-skinned. If any of them had been as light-skinned as she, they would have been motivated to surpass their surroundings, too.
Marieta waved at her. Helen turned to hear what Devonne, the board president, had to say as he hit the gavel on the table. “I wasn’t expecting such a crowd. We have gathered here to discuss a simple matter.”
Manela said loud enough for many to hear, “Not as simple as you.”
Rosaura and Marieta took one of her hands and held it. Manela slumped back in her seat, subdued.
Helen didn’t look in their direction, but paid close attention to the recitation of rules that had been violated and the justified consequences. Helen gripped the edge of the table when Rosaura stood and walked to the center of the middle aisle. “I wish to be heard.”
There was a buzz of commotion as Mrs. Thatcher found the stand for a microphone. The mike was positioned in front of the table where the school board members sat. The president cleared his throat. “We’ll have open mike for comments before we vote.” He nodded at Rosaura.
Rosaura stretched on tiptoes to speak into the mike. “Who accuses my daughter? Why don’t they show their faces?”
“The person who reported seeing your daughter with the list of words before the competition is a student. We don’t want the vindictiveness of others to cause undue suffering for the child.”
“How far did you investigate this accusation?”
“We investigated as much as we deemed vital to our decision.”
With those words, twenty people rose and formed a line behind Rosaura. Marieta and Manela were sixth and seventh in line.
“Sir, are you keeping the identity a secret because this student is white?”
“The student who stood up for honesty was a very responsible Hispanic.”
A loud murmur rumbled through the audience. Her earrings swinging, Manela shook her head with her hands on her hips. “No way. Just no way.”
Helen felt frustrated. She knew this was going to happen. None of these people knew enough to let the authorities just do their jobs. They had to turn everything into some kind of racial incident.
Manela stepped out of the line. “Elena, do something. Tell them they can’t do this. We voted you on the school board to represent us.”
The president leaned over to the gray-haired man sitting next to him and asked, “Who is this Elena she’s speaking to?”
The gray-haired man pointed down the table. “Helen Mendoza. It’s how they say her name in their language.”
Helen wanted to crawl under the table. She stared at the president with a smile glued to her face. He said, “All questions must be directed to the podium.”
Manela glared at Helen. Marieta tugged her back into line, whispering into her ear. Manela shook her head and pointed a fist at Helen. Helen felt relief when Mrs. Thatcher motioned to her from the back of the room.
Agitated, Mrs. Thatcher whispered, “A little one is lost.” Helen followed Mrs. Thatcher into the hallway.
Mrs. Thatcher fanned herself with an open hand. “By God, these people have so many children they keep losing them.”
Helen hated the “they” word. She hated being lumped into a pigeonhole. “Tell me what happened.”
“This young girl,” Mrs. Thatcher pointed at an eight-year-old standing alongside of the wall, twisting her skirt around her fingers, “was supposed to be watching her baby brother. Instead she was distracted by her playmates and now they want to go racing through the building hunting for him.”
Helen smiled at the young girl, then to Mrs. Thatcher she said, “You go down this hallway and I’ll go the other way. A toddler wouldn’t have gone far.”
Helen walked down the hallway, trying all the doors. Finding one door unlocked, she stepped into the room. The smell of chalk filled her memory.
Helen remembered her mother pin-curling her hair every night so she would go to grade school with bouncing curls just like the other girls. Her new uniform was always pressed neatly. Young relatives, who didn’t have as much as they did, received her faded uniforms.
Reaching for a piece of chalk, Helen observed she was standing in the science lab. School projects had been a family affair. A topographical map of the United States had developed into a major production with plaster-of-Paris landscapes and food-colored plains and mountain ranges. Telegraph keys with shiny nails and wire that ran across the length of the room earned her the teacher’s approval.
“Mrs. Mendoza, we found the child. He wandered back to his mother. Isn’t that funny?” Helen nodded. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Helen jiggled the piece of chalk in her hand like dice while she reminisced about her straight-A report cards through grade school and her honor-roll status in high school. Yet all of that had not been enough to spare her. After all her effort and the efforts of her parents, she was still one of those “they.”
She remembered herself at twelve with her three girlfriends, Manela, Rosaura, and Marieta, and how they had commiserated with each other over every paramount life event or titanic tragedy. Nothing happened to one that the other three didn’t hear about in detail.
On one spring Thursday, where only in San Antonio can the sun shine into closed eyelids, they had been excited about getting out of school. The school’s baseball team was playing a game against the team from Alamo Heights. They had beaten them once before and ill feelings hovered on the breeze. The girls boasted of ripping the hair off the prissy cheerleaders from the Heights if they tried to get near their guys.
After lunch, their teacher, Sister Georgina, called the class to attention. She read off a list of names and asked those students to go to the nurse’s station. Helen, her three amigas, and all the Chicanas in the class marched in twos and threes past the principal’s office and into the reception area of the health clinic.
The nurse ordered them to sit alongside of the wall. The girls crowded around the three chairs. One by one, they were summoned into the inner office. And each girl left carrying a piece of paper, eyes on the floor, as she returned to the classroom.
Marieta and Manela squeezed her hands when her own name was called.
Helen swallowed hard as the nurse told her to get up on the examining table. She hid her hands under her skirt. She jerked her head away when the nurse attempted to slide a black plastic comb through Helen’s hair.
“Be still. I have to check.” The nurse grabbed a chunk of Helen’s hair. “Hygiene is a value one should be taught at home. It’s a miracle this doesn’t happen more often.” The nurse pulled the hair away from her scalp.
Helen grimaced.
The nurse peered for about three seconds and murmured, “Mm-huh.”
As the nurse dropped the comb in a pan of alcohol, she said, while wiping her hands, “You are excused from school. Take this note home. Tell your mother to wash your hair in this Pine Tar shampoo. Then she’ll have to pick the lice out one by one. You’re not allowed back in school until I’ve had a chance to check your head. You understand?” She finally looked at Helen.
Helen nodded, her head arched high.
The nurse frowned and shouted, “Your parents. Can they read English? Talk it?”
Helen didn’t answer.
“Will they be able to carry out these instructions? You know it’s very important they do this right. If not, another epidemic will happen.”
Helen reached out to take the note from the nurse.
The nurse pulled the piece of paper back from her. “You understanding me? You do talkie English, no?”
Helen snatched the note from the nurse’s hand and stomped out. She passed her girlfriends without looking at them and walked back to her classroom.
As she gathered her books, the students whispered and giggled as one Chicana after another left the room. As Helen reached the door, she heard Sister Georgina announce, “There will be no school tomorrow. Your parents will be notified and we’re asking them to make an appointment with your doctors. There is no need for alarm, as I’m sure this incident is confined to a select few. But since you all have been in the same room, it won’t hurt to check.” Sister Georgina smiled at all the seated girls.
The special shampoo had been a purple gook that had smelled badly and stained her skin and took a week to wash out the odor. Her mother had checked. She found none. Not a single one.
The chalk in Helen’s hand broke in half. She picked up the small pieces from the floor and threw them into the wastebasket. She slapped one hand against the other and the chalk dust made her nose tingle. She drew a hanky from her skirt pocket and put it to her face when she heard, “We did it for Luz.” She smothered her sneeze.
She sneaked to the open door, put her hand on the doorknob, and stole a glimpse through the slit between the door and the wall.
“Olga, this has gotten out of hand. You got to go tell them.”
“You gone ballistic, girl. There’s no way I’m going out in front of that crowd and tell them I made up this whole thing. You think I got a death wish or something?”
“Mira, this doesn’t feel right. Luz did her best. She’s one of us. We shouldn’t be trying to mess it up for her.”
Olga answered, “They would have shot her down anyway.”
“Man, she’s my friend. She wouldn’t listen to us at the party when we told her not to do it. I just don’t want her getting hurt.”
Olga nodded, remembering the conversation.
Then Olga said, “Besides, everybody’s treating her like she’s César Chávez or something.”
“I know. I know.”
“¡Órale! Besides, you know what Debbie and her gang would do to Luz if she won. You were worried about her, too.”
“Sí, ¿comó no?” Ana nodded vigorously.
“So I had to tell the principal that Luz had cheated. You thought it was a good idea too. Don’t tell me different.”
“¡Híjole! Don’t get me in this. I didn’t have anything to do with you telling. That’s your claim, not mine.”
Helen stepped through the doorway. The girls jumped. “Looks to me like you girls have some talking to do. We better hurry before they turn off the mike.”
Ana cast her green eyes down the hallway searching for a possible escape route; her black hair was tied back with a green ribbon. Olga’s brown eyes were wide with shock. She brushed her cheek with long, rhinestone-studded fingernails, the curls from her hairdo bouncing as she said, “Mrs. Mendoza, we have to go check on my baby brother.” She wheeled in the opposite direction.
Mrs. Mendoza seized her arm. “Not so fast, chiquita. We’ve got some things to clear up first.”
Olga yanked away and ran down the hallway. Helen raced after her and, sliding on the wax floor, banged into Olga, pinning her against the lockers. Ana covered her mouth in surprise as she watched Mrs. Mendoza take hold of Olga’s arm.
“Do I drag you in, or are you going to walk in on your own?” Helen said.
Ana tiptoed away from the struggle.
“Stop.” Ana took another step. “Don’t make me come after you,” threatened Helen.
Stunned, Ana spun around and moved closer to them.
They trudged down the hallway, Helen bringing up the rear. At the door of the cafeteria, Ana and Olga turned around. “Mrs. Mendoza, we didn’t mean anything…”
Helen pointed to the door.
Olga, not one for giving in easily, pleaded, “But I was…”
Helen’s face darkened and she squeezed into them; their shoulders squared against the door. Their faces were gray with anxiety. “Go in. Now,” Mrs. Mendoza said softly.
Mrs. Whitting was at the mike, tears running down her face, saying, “This whole situation has been very traumatic for my daughter.”
Manela, Rosaura, and Marieta stood to the side. Luz watched, poised and steady. People were mostly standing. Comments were shooting across the room: “Your girl’s happy about it.” “She’s the one that probably caused all this.”
Manela approached Mrs. Whitting. “Can you prove your daughter wasn’t the one that told these lies about Luz?”
“My daughter doesn’t lie.” Mrs. Whitting’s hand shook.
“Your daughter never wanted Luz to go.” Manela was a storm brewing.
Helen recognized the danger signals as did Rosaura and Marieta. But to everyone’s amazement, Rosaura stepped ahead of Manela. “I call for a run-off. Let your daughter and mine go at it again with new words.” Rosaura covered the mike with her hand.
Helen could see Rosaura’s mouth move, then Mrs. Whitting paled and swayed and reached behind her for someone to hold her up. Helen gripped both girls by their arms and forced them through the crowd in the aisle. “I have someone that has something to say,” she yelled, but no one heard her.
The board president pounded the gavel, but the sound was absorbed by the shouting.
Helen drove the girls closer to the front of the room, using them to move the crowd out of the way. She shouted again. “I have a speaker here.”
Slowly, the girls attempted to slide back, but the tension behind them propelled them forward.
Mrs. Fuentes and Mrs. Tijerina gasped as they saw their granddaughters being marched to the front of the room. Luz’s abuelita patted the two women’s heavily-veined hands when Helen broke through the crowd.
“If you will be quiet for just a moment…” No one paid any attention to her. Manela was moving in on Mrs. Whitting, her hands raised in fists. Her husband reached for her to hold her back.
Marieta caught Helen’s frantic look. Helen winked at her and mouthed words. Marieta put her index fingers in her mouth and whistled an ear-splitting sound that silenced all but the hard-of-hearing.
Into the silence, Helen announced, “I have someone who would like to say something.”
The president stood, staring at Mrs. Mendoza. Manela scowled at her old homegirl. Rosaura’s mouth dropped open as she viewed the polished and sophisticated woman who was standing with her blouse hanging out of her skirt, her hair sticking out in tufts, and the brightest grin on her face.
Olga felt the heat from Mrs. Mendoza’s breath on her neck and slowly moved up to the mike. “I, uh, I…”
Helen shoved Ana beside her. “You shouldn’t be alone. Homegirls stick together.” Helen winked at Manela. Manela gawked at her old friend.
The president leaned forward. “You don’t have to speak here. You can see me privately in my office tomorrow.”
Olga nodded and stepped back, bumping into Mrs. Mendoza. “I, uh, I want to speak now.”
The room had grown quiet; even babies weren’t crying. Children had stopped playing, watching their parents for a signal. All eyes were on the young girls in the front of the room.
When nothing else happened, the president said, “This is too delicate a matter to be aired in the open like this. I insist that I see you in the morning.”
Luz stared at her friends, puzzled. Olga looked past Ana and caught Luz’s eyes for a second, then switched her gaze onto the floor.
Mrs. Mendoza spoke over the girls’ heads. “As a board member, voted to represent my constituency,” she nodded at Manela, “I insist that we hear what this young woman has to say now. Do we need to take a vote on it?”
The six board members sitting at the table looked to the president for direction. The president swallowed. “I believe that this matter will be served better if dealt with in the clear light of the morning. I want the girl to have the chance to know what trouble she may be getting herself into. I wouldn’t want anyone being railroaded into anything.” The president cast a stern look upon Helen.
Rosaura spoke out. “You’re worried about harming this young woman, but it’s okay to damage my daughter?”
The murmurs in the audience increased in volume.
Devonne pounded the gavel. “Silence. No one is attempting to maltreat anybody. The purpose of this meeting is to uncover any evidence that will absolve your daughter of any misconduct.”
“Good,” said Helen. “This young woman would like to speak to that issue at this time.” She nudged Olga from behind.
With her head hanging, Olga said, “I just want to say that I made up the story I told you.”
The president leaned so far forward that he appeared to be falling over the table. “Child, I couldn’t hear you. Let’s talk in the morning when you’re feeling better.”
Olga looked up, took a deep breath, and said clearly, “I made up the story I told you.”
The president bounced back, ramrod-straight. “You mean Luz Ríos didn’t steal the list of words before the competition as you said?”
“No, sir.” Olga sneaked a glimpse at her grandmother over her shoulder. Mrs. Tijerina was running the beads of her rosary through her fingers, her lips moving in prayer.
Mrs. Whitting gasped, one hand covering her mouth, the other hand reaching for her daughter. “Oh, no.”
The three comadres shifted their gaze upon Olga, changing from puzzlement to astonishment to anger and back to curiosity.
The president glared. “Did anyone put you up to this, child?”
Olga shook her head.
The president repeated his words with a deeper intensity, throwing a glare at Helen. “Are you sure?”
Olga’s chin dropped to her chest. “Yes, sir, I’m sure.”
The president banged the table with his gavel. “The charges against Luz Ríos are now dismissed and this meeting is adjourned.”
Mrs. Whitting escorted her weeping daughter out of the room. Mrs. Thatcher followed Mrs. Whitting, clucking after them, but looked back just enough to smile at Helen. Ana’s and Olga’s grandmothers, with their granddaughters in tow, walked straight-backed and proud out of the room; everyone parted for them to pass.
The room filled with shouts, laughter and tears. Uncles said, “We knew it all along.” Aunts, “Luz would never do such a thing.” Cousins, “Andale, about time one of us got a break.” And friends, “We never lost faith in that girl.” They hugged Luz and each other. Children clapped their hands, looking around for the reason their parents were so happy. Babies cried; toddlers jumped up and down. Little boys ran and slid across the shiny floor while mothers looked the other way. Little girls grinned and hung arms over each other’s shoulders. Friends invited each other to their homes for a victory celebration.
Aura touched the rosary beads to her lips then slipped them into her pocket as her son-in-law approached. Rubén ushered Rosaura’s mother to the front of the room. Aura kissed her granddaughter on the forehead then hugged Helen. “You do good. Both of you.” Aura tolerated being escorted out of the jostling, cheering crowd.
The four old school chums squared off. Rosaura squeezed Helen’s arm. “I’m so glad. Thank you.”
“Didn’t think you had it in you,” said Manela.
“I knew you’d always come through in a pinch,” put in Marieta, attempting to take the sting out of Manela’s words.
“Not too bad for a homegirl, eh?” Helen grinned, feeling the best she had in a long time.
“Not too bad for a coconut,” sneered Manela.
“Andale, watch what you call me, or I’ll be taking you outside.” With one hand on her left hip, Helen pitched it forward, the other hand in the air, finger pointed at her friend.
Sally Jane stood, eyes as big as the earring loops Manela wore, hands limp at her side, mouth open. Sofia, Diana, and Justina looked from Sally Jane to her mother and back to Sally Jane.
Manela grinned. “Aw right, homegirl.” They slapped palms in mid-air.
Helen turned to Rosaura. “What did you say that turned poor Mrs. Whitting so pale?”
“Nothing, really.” She smiled sweetly, holding one hand on top of the other at her waist.
Helen looked at Manela and Marieta for the answer. “We didn’t hear anything. We were too far back.”
Luz stepped into the middle of the group. “I heard.” Tilting her head back and swinging it around to see everyone, she said, “Mamá told the lady that if she ruined my life, Mamá was going to ruin her face.” Luz’s grin stretched her face shiny.
The women leaned on each other laughing so hard. Holding her side, Manela said, “Girlfriend, if she only knew how much of a wimp you really are. Almost as much of a wimp as this one.” She pointed at Helen.
Helen shrugged and spread her hands in front of her. “Ay. One of the few times the stereotype worked for us.”