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By Root 2050 0

be around us viejos all day, Abuela says. I have mixed feelings about the school. For one thing, it’s improved my Spanish a lot. The — Academy is a private school, a Carol Morgan wannabe filled with people my do Carlos Moya calls los hijos de mami y papi. And then there’s me. If you think it was tough being a goth in Paterson, try being a Dominican York in one of those private schools back in DR. You will never meet bitchier girls in your whole life. They whisper about me to death. Someone else would have a nervous breakdown, but after Wildwood I’m not so brittle. I don’t let it get to me. And the irony of all ironies? I’m on our school’s track team. I joined because my friend Rosio, the scholarship girl from Los Mina, told me I could win a spot on the team on the length of my legs alone. Those are the pins of a winner, she prophesied. Well, she must have known something I didn’t because I’m now our school’s top runner in the 400 meters and under. That I have talent at this simple thing never ceases to amaze me. Karen would pass out if she could see me running sprints out behind my school while Coach Cortes screams at us, first in Spanish and then in Catalan. Breathe, breathe, breathe! I’ve got like no fat left on me, and the musculature of my legs impresses everyone, even me. I can’t wear shorts anymore without causing traffic jams and the other day when my abuela locked us out of the house she turned to me in frustration and said, Hija, just kick the door open. That pushed a laugh out of both of us.

So much has changed these last months, in my head, my heart. Rosio has me dressing up like a ‘real Dominican girl’. She’s the one who fixed my hair and who helps me with my makeup, and sometimes when I see myself in mirrors I don’t even know who I am anymore. Not that I’m unhappy or anything. Even if I found a hot-air balloon that would whisk me straight to Uz’s house, I’m not sure I would take it. (I’m still not talking to my traitor brother, though.) The truth is I’m even thinking of staying one more year. Abuela doesn’t want me to ever leave — I’ll miss you, she says so simply it can’t be anything but true, and my mom has told me I can stay if I want to but that I would be welcome at home too. Tía Rubelka tells me she’s hanging tough, my mother, that she’s back to two jobs. They send me a picture of the whole family and Abuela frames it and I can’t look at them without misting up. My mother’s not wearing her fakies in it; she looks so thin I don’t even recognize her.

Just know that I would die for you, she told me the last time we talked. And before I could say anything she hung up.

But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. It’s about that crazy feeling that started this whole mess, the bruja feeling that comes singing out of my bones, that takes hold of me the way blood seizes cotton. The feeling that tells me that everything in my life is about to change. It’s come back. Just the other day I woke up from all these dreams and it was there, pulsing inside of me. I imagine this is what it feels like to have a child in you. At first I was scared because I thought it was telling me to run away again, but every time I looked around our house, every time I saw my abuela, the feeling got stronger so I knew this was something different. I was dating a boy by then, a sweet morenito by the name of Max Sanchez, whom I had met in Los Mina while visiting Rosio. He’s short but his smile and his snappy dressing make up for a lot. Because I’m from Nueba Yol he talks about how rich he’s going to become and I try to explain to him that I don’t care about that but he looks at me like I’m crazy. I’m going to get a white Mercedes-Benz, he says. Tü veras. But it’s the job he has that I love best, that got me and him started. In Santo Domingo two or three theaters often share the same set of reels for a movie, so when the first theater finishes with the first reel they put it in Max’s hands and he rides his motorcycle like crazy to make it to the second theater and then he drives back, waits, picks up the second reel, and so on. If he’s held