Chapter Two
First Step Completo√ »Homegirls or Amigas?
The bus stop is on the corner at the end of our street. I walk past the brightly colored houses that line up after our apartment complex. I like ‘em. I like the bright colors because they contrast with the dismal grey concrete of everything else. And you sure as heck won’t find vivid and vibrant colors on the rich, white side of town. The rich white side has their own flavor of dismal concrete, only cleaner looking . . . and well, white.
The girls are already there at the bus stop, chatting. I pull myself together and grit my teeth against the pain in my side and in my ankle. At the same time, I remember to paste on my “face” and concentrate on trying to hide my limp.
“¿Q-Vo, Blanca? Hermana, this is un-bee-leev-a-bull! Girl, I did not expect to see you here today! You are one tough chola, bay-beee!”
Has Cookie always had such an ear-splitting, piercing voice? Or is it just my throbbing head that makes her sound worse than a fire alarm going off right in my ear. I have already decided that when we get to school, I am so going to have to pop some aspirin when no one is looking. We’re not allowed to bring “drugs” to school without some kind of pre-authorization. Not even aspirin. Ha! If they only knew what some of these guys really bring through those hallowed doors!
Cookie is dressed in her uniform. Hip-hugging, baggie chinos with a way-too-tight, practically booby-showing, white baby-tee. The Tee doesn’t quite reach her belly button even, so that she can show off her new playgirl studded piercing. This, of course, is all stretched over a black lace bra.
She is also sporting some gold, wire hoops on her ears that are so big I could prolly put my whole foot through them. If I could even lift my foot right now, that is. An image of her black Nike Cortez shoes slamming into my side last night flashes in my head like a lightning bolt. It almost makes me flinch again; but I cover it with slanted grin and give her a nod-up in greeting.
Just then, I hear a second high-pitched, baby-doll voice to my right and turn to face it, already knowing who it is.
“Oooooh, Blanca! You are really lookin’ good, chica!”
It’s Shortie. Like for cake, you know. As in, like, strawberry shortcake? And she’s short. Well, um…. Yeah. I never claimed to understand the logic behind it. And any ways, go figure this, they get the cute names. Cookie and Shortie. How fair is that? Not! Unfortunately, as I found out last night, they ain’t as cute as their nicknames make them out to be.
Shortie keeps talking to me as if I’m really listening to her. Her bright, red lips are in a permanent kewpie-doll pout, almost as permanent looking as her highly arched, penned-in-with-black eyebrows. I still have my eyebrows thank-you-very-much, I can’t go that far. Her skintight, black jeans could have been painted on for all anyone knew. To complement that classy choice, she’s wearing a half-size-too-small, pink baby-tee, with a bright-red picture of . . . wanna’ guess? Why, a juicy-looking strawberry, of course, that covers the whole front of her boobs. She balances this fashion choice all out on some rainbow colored wedges with a two-inch platform heel. But, even with those monster shoes on, she still only manages to barely make it to a little more than five feet tall. Ya know, I don’t think I could walk in those clunkers even if I wanted to. Today especially.
