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A pit-bull barks at me, straining its chain to the breaking point. I ignore it, concentrating on the houses, trying to find the right one. They all look the same. Shabby lawns with more weeds than proper plants and grass, mildewed front steps, sagging window shutters and peeling paint. I don’t remember it looking like this ten years ago. Maybe it didn’t, but I guess it doesn’t take too long for a neighborhood to go to the dogs.
A chill trickles down my spine. I shake it off and look up and down the street. There’s no one outside. I tell myself someone is watching me from behind one of the many windows. But I know that’s not the reason for my jumpiness. I’ve been like this since my failed meditation, seeing shadows in every corner, paranoid that something will come out of nowhere to snatch me away.
At school, at home, in the very sanctuary of my bedroom, I feel threatened, helpless, with nowhere to hide. I had to do something, so I turned my fear and weakness into anger, an anger I plan to unleash on Mrs. Contreras, if she turns out to be responsible for infecting me.
I’ve passed ten houses and I really haven’t the faintest idea which one’s the right one. I’m about to start looking in the opposite direction when I notice someone leaving one of the houses across the street. I jog to the other sidewalk and approach the woman.
“Hi,” I say, staying several paces away. My face feels like a mask of fury, and I don’t want to scare her.
The woman stops and gives me a hard glare. She looks to be in her late twenties. She says nothing.
“Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me where Mrs. Contreras lives?”
She frowns and stares me up and down. “I’m Ms. Contreras. And you are?” She keeps walking toward a blue Sentra, her black heels clicking against the sidewalk in quick succession. She seems to be in a hurry. The skirt she wears is so tight around her shapely thighs and knees that each step is only a few inches apart.
“Well, the Mrs. Contreras I’m looking for would be a lot older than you. She used to babysit me when I was four or five.”
The woman relaxes a bit and searches my face with curiosity. “Did she?” She touches the corner of a red, glittery mouth with her tongue, squinting at me, then her eyes grow wide. “Marcela Guerrero, right?” she asks, but it’s more a statement than a question.
“Yeah,” I say in surprise.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
I shrug one shoulder, feeling guarded.
She puts her hands out demonstratively. “I’m Consuelo.”
I examine her face. “Chello?” I ask, remembering the pimply seventeen-year-old that used to help Mrs. Contreras when there were too many of us to handle. This woman looks nothing like that girl. Her curvaceous figure holds no trace of the chubby playmate that once gave me piggy-back rides. Her black hair cascades around a pretty face with flawless skin.
“The one and only,” she responds. “I thought you meant me when you said Mrs. Contreras, but only my students call me that. All that babysitting was good for something,” she continues with a smile. “I’m an elementary school teacher now.”
“Oh, that’s great.” My tone is flat.
“What brings you around looking for my mama? You didn’t win the lottery and want to repay all the wonderful life lessons you learned under her care, did you?” Her eyes glint with mischief.
Threatening to wash my mouth with soap and giving me nightmares about red-eyed monsters hardly count as wonderful life lessons.
“No, I haven’t,” I respond.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
“I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by and say hello.”
Chello unlocks the passenger door of her car and throws her purse inside. “Sorry to disappoint, chica. But my mother passed away three years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, suddenly interested in a patch of weeds.
I thought your mom might be an Eklyptor and she bothered to babysit kids just so she could infect them with disgusting parasites. That’s what I want to say, but the whole idea seems ludicrous now. Chello is normal. My head isn’t droning in her presence. If Mrs. Contreras was an Eklyptor her daughter would be one as well, wouldn’t she?
“Nothing to feel sorry about. She was old and she’s with Jesus now. Probably happier than you and I put together.” She gives me a genuine smile. “Well, it was good seeing you, kid. You’re still just as pretty as you were when you were five. I have to get going now. I have a date.” She wiggles one eyebrow and walks around to the driver seat.
Before she gets in, she says, “Hey, do you remember Mickey Ricky?”
I think about it until the cute face of a blond boy pops in my head. “Yeah, I remember him,” I say, feeling a bit lighter at the memory.
“You had such a crush on him. Remember you used to chase him and give him kisses?” She laughs, throwing her head back.
“I did?”
“Yep. He hated it. It was the cutest thing. Anyway, he works at the convenience store, one mile down that way. In case you want to ... finally catch up with him. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t run now.” Laughing at her own joke, Chello gets in the car and drives away.
I walked back to where I parked my bike, staring at the ground and shaking my head about Chello’s bubbly personality. How would it be to feel that light-hearted? I always feel weighed down by so many things that ever being that way seems impossible.
Looking back the way she left, I start wondering if perhaps Mrs. Contreras’s Eklyptor had a conscience and didn’t dare infect her own daughter. But what if she did infect Mickey Ricky and the rest of us? Maybe I should visit him just to make sure he’s not infected. Hell, for all I know, it was him who gave me this hellish case of the cooties.
I straddle the bike and drive to the convenience store. I’ve no idea if it’s Mickey Ricky’s shift, but it’s worth a try. I wonder at the silly name and can’t remember how it came about. I doubt he goes by that still. Mike or Rick are more likely names.
My hands are sweating by the time I reach the store. I park my bike next to one of the pumps and lower the kickstand. Maybe I shouldn’t go inside. What if my kindergarten crush is one of those mutated humans by now and he attacks me or something?
I come away from the bike, dismissing my ridiculous fear. Before I knew what the buzzing in my head was, I ran into many Eklyptors. They gave me knowing glances that I didn’t understand, but they never attacked me. It should be harmless to go in and out of the store. He’s probably not even in there anyway.
I move forward. My steps aren’t as firm as I’d like to pretend. My thoughts jump.
Twinkies. Yellow Skittles.
And cherry sodas.
I swallow hard.
Accompanied by an electronic ding-dong, I enter the store and step right up to the counter.
“Five bucks on pump three,” I say, holding out a ten-dollar bill. The kid manning the register is blond. I look down at his name tag. It reads “Michael R. Buckley.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking my change.
“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks, pointing at me and holding his head at an angle. His forehead is sprinkled with acne and his nose is a red knob.
“I don’t think so.” I walk outside.
Two things I know, Mickey Ricky is not cute anymore and he’s not an Eklyptor. I’m oddly relieved by the discovery, but now a gnawing uncertainty builds inside me. If neither Mrs. Contreras nor this guy turned me into a monster, then who did?