Teri takes my arm as we walk out of school after last period. She squeezes through the puff of my coat.
I haven’t told anyone. They all think the baby’s gone. But he’s inside me, growing. Having a little secret is manso. It’s like just the two of us against the world. Well, three of us. Doc’s in on it, too. Only he don’t know it’s a secret.
Two black chicks by the water fountain see us and look away. They whisper. Look back with those frown-smiles that are supposed to tell me they know what I’m feeling and they be sorry. As if they know anything.
At least it’s getting better. Fewer glances and tongues wagging. In class. During lunch. Outside the bodega. It’s like everyone in school and out is talking about me. Only this time it’s not about bruises and cut-up knuckles. A girl getting preggo is not news. A girl getting an abortion, not news. But a girl getting un aborto because her baby is messed up . . . That be news. All a sudden, all these people—folks I never knew or didn’t like—be coming up to me. Telling me about how their grandma or cousin lost a baby, too. Even Manuel, that pariguayo who wanted in Yaz’s pants, the one I beat the crap out of, texted me a sad face with a tear. Like a coño maldito bugarrón.
Bet it was Yaz who told them all. She’s the boca de suape. Big fuckin’ mouth.
I grind my teeth together and remind myself to look depressed. But what I want is to hug my belly. Hug Angelo. He’s keeping me together. Making me stay cool instead of yelling at those putas to drop the pity acts.
There’s a shout. The bodies filling the hall split as a short, skinny chan shoots through. It’s Saulo Reyes. His fists pump. He’s clutching something. A crushed baseball cap. Not navy blue like Bertie’s. This one’s a pinstripe. Belongs to Alex De La Cruz, who isn’t far behind, and who bellows like a bull. But he’s teeth-clenched grinning as he charges after his friend. They’re both part of Skinner’s pack.
I pull Teri toward the door. I don’t want to run into Bertie.
“You seen Yaz today?” Teri tucks her flat-ironed straight hair behind her ear. It’s as if she knows I’m thinking about people I don’t want to run into.
I did see Yaz. At her locker. Using that tiny mirror to reapply makeup to red-crusted eyes. Don’t know why she been crying. Like she’s got any right to be sad. What’d she think was gonna happen when she brought those folks to my doctor?
Teri and Heavenly are trying to patch things up between Yaz and me. Trying to make it better. Make me not hate her so much. Make me give her another chance. But that’s not coming anytime soon.
“Who’s Yaz?” I say. I fish an apple out of my pocket and chomp it real loud.
Teri squeezes my arm again. Makes me want to yank her hand off me. But right then, little Angelo kicks. I smile and take another apple bite.
Up ahead, Heavenly’s leaning against a Camaro, her long skinny-jeaned legs out in front of her. Jo-jo’s new ride. That’s what you get when you have a real-life sugar daddy—Jo-jo’s papi’s known as El Rey de la Caña in the DR. ’Course Jo-jo works for his papi. That car is so red it’s like one of those raspberry Ring Pop candies. Jo-jo and Hev have been giving me lifts, which I don’t mind. All this pity be good for something.
Heavenly don’t see us yet. She looks up from her phone, turns her head to someone calling. Yaz. They hug. Jo-jo sticks his arm out the driver’s window, pulls Yaz down for cheek kisses.
I stop before we get any closer. Shrug myself out of Teri’s arm.
I could care less if they want to stay friends with Yaz. Can’t say I won’t judge them for it, but I won’t say nothing.
“See ya.” I head for the 1 train. The subway’s faster anyway.
I don’t even get to the end of the block before someone’s peeling off the side of a building, walking toward me. My fingers tighten around the pen I keep in my pocket for just this reason. I don’t look at him head-on. But I recognize the side-to-side amble, the chest and shoulders that hang back as if still interested in what’s behind, the feet and knees angled so they reach you first.
I let go of the pen in my pocket. I don’t want to see Bertie. But I’m not going to hurt him.
He falls into stride next to me. He’s done this a few times over the past weeks. Found me between school and home. Walked with me, not saying nothing. ’Cause really, what’s there to say? As far as he knows, I ain’t pregnant no more. As far as he knows, I got rid of the baby inside me. Because he wanted me to.
We’re at the subway station. I start down the stairs. His footsteps follow me.
I stop. Turn around. I grip the cold metal railing with my bare hand. I’m not going to slip. “What do you want?”
He stops. Too close. I put some heat into my glare. He lifts his foot, rises up one step. Then another. His eyes are red. Even with the sky lit up behind him I see that. But it’s not from crying. It’s not from not sleeping either. My fingers clench the bar. I try to make them touch. To make a circle. But the handrail’s too fat. What are you doing, Bertie?
He shrugs. For a moment, I think I’ve asked him that out loud. But he’s answering my first question.
He licks his lips. He looks down. His hand is in his pocket, moving.
“You need anything?” That hand comes out of his pocket. It’s holding a huge wad of cash.
I hiss at him, take a step closer while looking over my shoulder. What’s he doing with all of that? What’s he doing with all of that here?
But I already know.
Some lady with one of those portable shopping baskets is coming down behind us. Since we don’t move, she has to go around. The wheels of her cart slam onto each step, rattling the metal cage of the basket. It’s empty. Don’t know why she don’t collapse it and carry it down. She’s not that old. She’s muttering to herself, shaking her head. I can’t hear if it’s about us. I’m staring at her, waiting for her to look at me so I can give her one of my don’t-mess-with-me scowls. But she don’t look. She just goes right on past.
Bertie’s still got the money out, offering it to me. When I look at him, I expect to find his eyes begging me to take it. But they’re just red. And gray. The green in them is gone. His face looks like the blood’s gone out of it. He looks like he might start muttering to himself. Like that crazy shopping-cart lady.
I go to put my hand on my belly. I put my hand on my hip instead. He’s got to be pretty smoked if he thinks I be taking that money. I know where that money’s from. Even if it wasn’t Skinner’s money, I wouldn’t take it. Who does Bertie think he is to try to buy me off like that? Trying to pay off his guilt?
I turn and head down the stairs. Bertie doesn’t follow. I almost yell back at him to stay away from those pushing tecatos. Like I told him before, they’re not good for him.
On the platform, where there’s no one who knows me, I press my fingers to my baby mound. Maybe I should tell Bertie. He is Angelo’s father. But I’m still too burning mad. The mad part of me’s glad Bertie feels guilty. ’Cause he should. ’Cause he deserves it.