My Favorite "Meet Cute"

I won't say what online dating site we met on because that's a part of my life I'd rather not relive, but we "met" on an online dating site. We were supposed to meet for coffee on a cold January afternoon and I chickened out. Chats and emails followed, maybe some texts, too, but we wouldn't lock eyes for the first time until Cinco de mayo, the night I also happen to be reuniting with Lani after not seeing her in forever.

We were at Puck Fair: me, Lani and Lani's then-boyfriend, Matt. We fell back into our friendship as if nothing had changed, except now we were legally allowed to drink alcohol out in public together. I'd started the night by getting drunk with Irene at Gonzalez y Gonzalez, so by the time I'd met up with Lani, it was a wrap. "D" and I had agreed to meet for a drink; I told him to come to Puck Fair (in case he turned out to be a CRAZY Lani would know what to tell the cops).

Standing by the bar, contemplating some Buffalo wings, light buzz in my head, laughing and talking with Lani and Matt, I feel an arm rest itself around my waist. I was nervous; this was all new. I was happy to be free of my marriage shackles but I'd been out of the game for nearly 13 years. What the fuck did I know about dating?

I turned to face him and looked into the same soft, brown eyes from the picture he'd sent. He smiled at me and his eyes said "thank god you look like your picture, too." I felt relief, relaxed, attraction. The rest of the night is a blur. I think we all hung out for a bit more before parting ways. He'd driven to Puck Fair (Say what, now? Who drives in Manhattan? People from Queens, that's who!) and offered me a ride home. The rest is history, or rather, none of your business.

We didn't survive the summer. The point is the Meet Cute; the butterflies, turning slowly to face him, his soft brown eyes, and a shared smile. I haven't had a story like that in forever. Since D.

Guess I'll just have to write one.

*smooches...inspired by a writing prompt and an awesome Spotify playlist*
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the best part of being a writer is writing your own happy ending, regardless of the crappy reality before you. imagination is everything.

Voy A Reir, Voy A Gozar

So listen. This writing life gets more frustrating by the minute. I keep thinking I'm doing something amazing, and then the support is not there.

I just re-read that line and it sounds like a refrain I've sang before. I have sung this song before! I must be crazy thinking, "This time will be different. This time I will get them to come out and support. THIS TIME FOR REAL."

And then nothing.

I don't even know what I'm doing wrong. Except maybe expecting too much from the same group of people that have already proven to not give a rat's ass for what I do. I need a new song.



That said, I truly appreciate those who do make an effort to support me. I see you! I barely remember what I had for dinner last night but I will always remember who was there for me and who wasn't.

And this isn't me putting a gypsy curse on anyone, this is just me speaking my truth.

*smooches...dancing my troubles away*
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I wish it was last year and I was at Wolf Trap with Mari waiting for Marc Anthony to take the stage. that concert was everything!

Another Friendly Reminder

Today is the release celebration of my reading series' anthology at La Casa Azul Bookstore in East Harlem.

I'd love it if you could all join me!

*smooches...still unsure of what to wear*
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nothing fits and this weather is booty. don't be shocked if I show up in pajamas.

Dance Break!

Ever met someone who actually likes their job? I mean, putting aside the fact that they make me wear non-pajamas and leave my house in order to earn a paycheck, this gig I have, well, dare I say, I care about what I do? How many people can say this? I realized I felt this way, just now, and it made me want to dance.



There are a lot of things not-quite-right with me at the moment, but I'm working on not dwelling on that. Not saying it's going well--you know how I love a good woe-is-me session--but I'm working on it. So for now I'm going to focus on the fact that I love my job.

In September, I will have been here FOUR YEARS, copywriting and editing the shit out of things and getting paid for it. That's the longest I've worked anywhere. Look at me, being a grown up!

What's your favorite "happy dance" song?

*smooches...white-girl dancing all over your computer*
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I don't drink anymore, but if I did, I'd demand this song at a dive bar tonight while throwing back a few cold ones!

Another Day, Another Published Book

Hey SUCKAS! Guess what I just got? THE PROOF TO MY READING SERIES' ANTHOLOGY!

And listen, it's not as hefty as I wanted it to be--people just weren't submitting stuff--I love it. The cover is so snazzy (thanks, Marcin!) and the stories and poems within were hand-picked by ME, so you know it's awesome!

I'm having a book release party on Tuesday, April 29, at La Casa Azul Bookstore in East Harlem.

You should be there for the following reasons:
1. I'm awesome and you love and support me and everything I do.
2. There will be wine.
3. Some truly talented people contributed to this book.
4. There will be cupcakes.
5. You're going to want to take a picture with me + my red-red lipsticked self.
6. There will be wine + cupcakes.
7. My autograph will be worth MILLIONS soon; get it now for free (with the purchase of a book).
8. You can get drunk + eat cupcakes for two hours.
9. My short, "Erasing Cedrick," will rock your socks off.
10. Alcohol + Sugar already RSVPd.

So, see you there?

*smooches...gearing up for bigger things*
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I'm like a shark; if I stop moving I die!

I Swear I Wrote This BEFORE I Saw "The Matrix"

Cover art where my baby dwells

As my part of my now-defunct thesis (let's just call a spade a spade- I don't give two shits about finishing that shit), I wrote a short-short, "On a Blue Day," about a girl and her penchant for uppers and downers who moves back home to attend a funeral. It was just a small experimental piece that was part of an assignment I had at FDU where I had to mimic the writing style of an author I can't remember right now.

But the gist of the assignment was repetition. There had to be an element of the story that kept repeating every few lines, if not every line. So there's a lot of mention of the red uppers and blue downers throughout the barely-two-thousand-word story.

On a deeper level, this story touches upon this girl's continuous habit of self-medication, which at the time was reflecting my own way of handling a crisis- that crisis, of course, being my grandmother's death, which was still painfully fresh in my mind in 2005.

Well this poor baby had been rejected from many a flash fiction contest. I would read it over and over and think What aren't people getting? This is a good fucking story! But alas, editors from here to LA didn't feel the same, until I met a young woman named Hannah Clayman who ran a zine for women in Brooklyn, You Should Be Here. She encouraged me to submit something and, with a few hours left until deadline, I sent off the story. I think she wrote me back the next day to say they "loved(!)" my story, and I was all FINALLY! SOMEONE GETS IT!

So now I can finally add another credit to my name: I've self-published a book on writing, I've been interviewed for a prominent Dominican news source online, and I've published two short stories--one online and one in print.

I say that deserves some fucking Shake Shack and Haagen Dazs this weekend!

*smooches...trying not to rest on my laurels*
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there's still so much I need to do, but I'm enjoying this journey so far.

We Will Always Share, Nuh Care How Meager The Meal

When I decided to become a writer, I knew that my life would not include traveling down the easy road. I knew that I would not be swimming in money. I knew that the arts is something you undertake for the sake of the arts. And I'm OK with all of that.

This life, however, can wear people out, especially for the unlucky ones who have to wonder where their next paycheck is coming from. And yes, it's PURE LUCK that a writing position opened in a marketing department at a non-profit I believe in and is very close to home so that my commute doesn't involve the annoying yuppies of Park Slope. So much luck was involved, especially because this job helps me grow as a writer AND allows me the freedom to still work on my personal projects on the side.

Around me, though, are those who haven't found that balance of a job that pays the bills and also nourishes them. I think this helps fuel me in my endeavors, though, because I know there are a slew of talented and amazing people that would be perfect additions to The Jaded Empire, now that I'm actively working toward making that dream a reality.

Please believe that those who've been down with me from jump have a home with me, and if not, I'm here to help you find your calling if you need me to. Because what fun will it be to live my dream if my homies are still mired in muck? No sir! As I lift myself up, I'm gonna work to keep y'all uplifted! I mean, y'all have to put in work, too, but this is war, son, and I don't leave anyone behind (unless, you know, it's PMS Week and you've pissed me off...).

Most importantly, get those positive vibes and energies flowing. Yesterday's mistakes are yesterday's mistakes. You wake up every day with the chance to make it right.



I hear the brighter side of life is just more fun and productive, you know?

*smooches...wishing you a life with no moss*
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now, go forth and prosper over the weekend!

I Read At Barnes & Noble Yesterday

There's really nothing else I want to tell you. If you missed it, you missed it.

How fitting... "The Natural"

But here's how cute I looked staring down at my "sheets of genius words" for dear life.

Yup, I'm a star...

...so I don't have to look at you

This time next year, y'all will be saying "I used to read this cute little blog that Raquel used to write...now she's too famous..."

*smooches...still on a high*
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I'm psyched, too, because these stories are really coming together beautifully!

Working On My Shit

Shortly after writing a small paragraph on how writer's block is nothing more than me seeking an excuse for my procrastination, I decided to keep procrastinating. On EVERYTHING. And it made me sick to my stomach.

I've been meeting with friends recently about plans for our future, stuff we want to accomplish, and let me tell you- it's not going to happen while watching "Orange Is the New Black" on Netflix until I pass out (although that show is really good and maybe you should check it out).

But I need to take advantage of this time: K is about to be out of the house, N is super busy with sports, music and Algebra. Now is when I should be plotting the next phase of my life in preparation for her departure in five years. And there are so many awesome things on my list, whittled down from a GINORMOUS tome that used to include Become A Health & Fitness Expert/Advocate (fuck the fatties!) and Have A Baby With My JHS Crush (my uterus said NO), and it's exciting.

I'm all about that hustle & grind right now: who can I connect with to get to that next level? Where else can I get a byline? Oh look- computers are for more than just watching twerk videos at three in the morning!

I shall be the Queen of Everything Literary, and you will all bow down to my word prowess like the peons that you are.



Or, you know, come visit and say hi.

Make sure you're using your time wisely, folks. Chase your dream everyday in every way. Act like the rent is due (which it is, on Thursday!) and you're still short by ALL OF IT. Light that fire under your ass and invest in yourself before you wreck yourself...

Did that make sense? Whatever, my brain is too busy planning moves. MOVES, SON!

*smooches...getting this work*
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yes, I'm currently obsessed with this song. and so is N. so what!

Tuesday's Random Thoughts

Fireflies still amaze me. Walking down the street, suddenly coming across a FLYING LIGHT, still takes my breath away. I want to catch them and have a private light show in my hands.

I am just a couple of really good freelance jobs away from financial calmness. That's what I call not being worried about making rent!

MY KID GRADUATES FROM HIGH SCHOOL ON FRIDAY. This can't be my life. Also... ONE DOWN, ONE TO GO!

Soca artists are so SCANDALOUS, and I'm here for all of it, every minute of every day! (watch clip until at least the 3:00min mark!)



There are so many cool, free events happening in NYC this summer that I'll probably only end up doing NONE of them.

I very rarely miss people who miss me, and that made me feel a little guilty yesterday...for about five minutes.

Hot sauce makes everything better.

Yelling makes everything worse.

There are so many stories in my head at once, and the only way to shut them up is to write or numb myself. That urgency to get them all down will kill me faster than my shady, pot-smoking neighbors!

I don't know why it surprises me that good things happen when I work hard for them. Must be all the acid I dropped in the 60s.

*smooches...letting my mind wander*
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I do this more times than I care to admit.

The Sun Is Out! A New Day Is Here!

The only way I can ever get stuff done is to make lists--on Post-It notes, in notebooks, via StickyNotes on the desktop computer--everywhere I can I keep a list. Besides all of the things I have written out that needs to be done at the office before I go on vacation:

In case you thought I did SHIT ALL during the day

I have some lofty goals moving into the summer, both wellness- and career-wise, and even a few "fun-itiatives" too, and I don't mind sharing some of them here with you today.

1- Develop a few new short stories. I've been stuck on the same set of tales that I wrote for my stupid non-finished thesis and frankly, all of those characters are getting on my last nerve. It's time to move on.

2- Go three entire months of regular training and workouts: yoga, Pilates, dance and MAYBE a week or two of bootcamp. My doctor's main bit of advice after giving me the herniated disc diagnosis was "build up your core strength to avoid further injury." So that's my new mission in life. After the three months it should be old hat, no? I'll just be in the habit of working out and not have to be told? RIGHT?

3- Get back on that freelance horse. So if you have any leads to PAYING gigs, let a sistah know.

4- Update my wardrobe. For too long now I've been rocking my same old fat clothes, even though I've lost the weight. That's right, I'm walking around town looking schleppy every damn day. I guess I've just gotten to the point where I actually care about looking put together. Not fancy or anything, but it would be nice if my clothes fit me properly.

5- Commit to a paleo/primal life. For real. I've been floundering and letting a few setbacks stop me from eating clean all the time. This needs to stop. This will stop. I like my doctor but I'm not fitna put her child through college with my co-pays!

On this beautiful ALMOST spring day, what is on your LIFE TO DO list?

*smooches...longing to frolic in the sun*
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I get like this every spring; LONG LIVE THE SUN!

Get Filled With The Holy Ghost Of Writing, ME!

I told y'all I was booked up this weekend!

Fresh off the heels of a kick-ass appearance at Sycamore Stories in Ditmas Park, I'm ready to lead the congregation this Sunday at the Church of Monika in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Photo (c) 2012 Marcin Kaliski

You know, there's something that happens to me when I finish speaking to a crowd, whether it be sharing a story or discussing my craft. It's like the buzz you get when you eat a slice of watermelon that's been sitting overnight in a tub of grain alcohol. You know the type of buzz that puts a smile on your face and everything your friends say is AWESOME, and everything the DJ plays is "MY JAM!" and your body moves in a way that makes you think you look like this:

but really, you look like this:

That's how good I feel after most, if not all, of my literary events.

I'm hoping this Sunday is equally satisfying, although it would be better if you all show up, too! And then you can take me to brunch.

*smooches...getting high off my own supply*
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I mean, it's here and so plentiful... why not?

Appearances On Wednesday & Sunday, Stalkers!

This Wednesday (WEDNESDAY WEDNESDAY) I will once again read a bit of magic to some drunk folks at Sycamore Bar in Ditmas Park. Why? Because why not? What else am I going to do on a Wednesday night- wait for someone to say something witty on The Twitter so I can respond and hope a dialogue gets started? I already did that last week. It wasn't all that. I'm ready to move on.

Anyway, if you're in Brooklyn and you like sipping on cheap drinks while listening to snooty wordsmiths tell you some stuff they made up while contemplating whether or not to buy more raisins or more prunes on their next shopping trip, then please, stop on by. I go on at around 9:30.

Then on Sunday (SUNDAY SUNDAY) I'm speaking at the Church of Monika at Open Source Gallery in Park Slope. It's a sort of town hall meeting where I'll discuss my craft and what I feel it brings to my life, my audience and the world. Or something like it.

Sunday, February 24, 11AM

Church of Monika

Open Source

306 17th Street

Brooklyn, NY 11215

I'd love to see you at one or both of these appearances; a lot of you OWE ME THAT MUCH.

*smooches...huss-a-lin erryday*
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If I can just keep busy I'll forget all the bad stuff running through my head

What Had Happened Was...:Catching Up With The Jaded Empire

Howdy folks! Just wanted to give a shout out to your patience given my impromptu blog vacation last week, but as always it was necessary. I'm in the middle of restructuring my priorities and trying to fit things into my life, and last week that meant blogging had to take a back seat. You understand.

Anyfucks, here's what's been going on:

1- I finally had my visit with an allergist (keep your mangy cats & dust mites FAR AWAY from me!) and the MRI of my lower back & spine. Child, first of all WHY ARE MRIs SO LOUD? YOU SEE HOW I'M TYPING? THAT'S HOW LOUD IT IS INSIDE THAT CREEPY COFFIN-LIKE CONTRAPTION. LOUD. AS FUCK. Second, I need the ENT folks to understand that I cannot fill my Rx for Flonase because I can't find my Rx card, and I keep calling the Union office for a replacement but their offices were damaged in the hurricane and they're currently milking that excuse dry and NOT answering phones. So no, Dr. Song, I've not taken the Flonase yet. Stop asking.

Finally, I cannot explain to you the torture that it is to sit in a chair with all of these concentrated droplets of allergens all up and down your arm for fifteen goddamn minutes while the doc waits for your skin to react. You know when my skin reacted? Right the fuck away. But I still had to sit for fifteen minutes and not move or scratch or anything. Added bonus? I got to walk around for the next couple of days with my arms all swollen and marked up. THANKS! His recommendation? Encase everything in my room to keep the dust mites away, steer clear of cats and, oh yeah, get a flu shot for the next zillion years of your life. Bitch, have several seats because NO on that last one.

2- My hair is still straight. I thought you'd want an update. I've been able to go over a month with it straight and my edges have hung in there for the duration. It helps that every week or so I add a little olive oil (yes, from my kitchen) into my strands, and that I pick it up every night and wear a scarf when I can (even though it comes off five minutes after I've gotten into bed. "S'okay. She'll be back..." I'm still trying to find a way to make my hair not smell so...natural O_o. I mean, after a month and a half of not washing it, the freshness is definitely gone. Luckily for me, there isn't anyone all up in my hair follicles anymore so I only marginally care.

But as of right now I'm trying to find ways of not mimicking my hipster nemeses and de-funk my hair until my next salon visit. And YES I know I could just go more often but TIME is MONEY and also MONEY is MONEY and well, that's even more scarce than my time.

3- There will be no Jaded Birthday festivities in NYC this year. Take a minute and let that soak in. I'm going to go away on a much-deserved trip to a place where the sun shines bright all day, every day, and I'm going to soak in all of that wonderful Vitamin D--probably while laying in a floaty in the ocean--and not think twice about it. There will be slinky bathing suits. There will be sexy dancing with hot and sexy men. I will give out fake names and phone numbers. And I will eat as if it's my last day on earth. All of these things are on deck because I deserve it and I'm worth it. IF you're super sad about me not having a birthday party, though, you could always just throw me a fabulous gala. I'll even promise to show up!

4- I am absolutely focused on my writing (so far) this year. Last year I was obsessed with my health and my fitness and whether or not Zoe was going to choose George or Wade, but I was really just hiding from my own work. I've started meeting with my writers group again to motivate each other and workshop our pieces, and I feel good about it. I'm going to clean up all of my unpublished pieces, send them out and find them a sweet literary home. I've been reworking a story into a format and voice that I believe works best and it's very exciting to see my word blobs become more and more coherent.

I've been mingling with other writers and event organizers and am making myself more visible. I still have to work on my social graces and actually TALK when I mingle but listen--Rome wasn't built in a day. I have to ease into this new social butterfly role, OK? DON'T RUSH ME! Also, expect more events from me. I'm just going to keep having them until you show up to one. YOU WILL EVENTUALLY HAVE TO SHOW UP TO ONE, DAMMIT.

5- I'm mentally and physically and logistically preparing for the shift taking place in my family real soon: K is going off to college in the fall and N is becoming more active in extracurricular activities. This means I'm either away from home more--chauffeuring Miss N all over Brooklyn--or I'm home more because there's no one to watch N anymore. It's not so terrible (so far) seeing as I don't go out as much as I used to, and nights when I have to because of networking events or readings, I'm confident she'll either be fine on her own or will just come with me. Fuck it- why not? It'll be like Take Your Daughter to Work Day only at night and in seedy bars...wait, let me rethink that...

So, hookers, what have YOU been doing?

*smooches...shocked that I had time to write this*
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actually, I stole the time from some other important shit that needed to get done. I'm still working on that prioritizing...

What Are You Doing Wednesday NIght?

Your answer SHOULD be: "Coming to hear you read in Ditmas Park, Raquel!"

I go on at about 10PM. I understand that this is mighty late on a school night, but it would be so amazing to see some friendly faces in the crowd. I'm not sure what I'm reading just yet, but me and my new fabulously straight-from-the-Dominican-salon hair will be there, reading our little hearts out.

I mean, you'd be there if you loved me. Just saying.

*smooches...gearing up for my first appearance of 2013*
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these hipsters ain't ready for the Great And Powerful Jaded One!

Where I'll Be Next Week

Tonight I went to a very tough but very awesome Pilates (machine) class in Gramercy Park. WOOOOO let me tell you, those movements spoke to my body! They were all, "Yes, rotate from the hip! Feel the burn! We love you! We're strengthening your core! WE LOVE YOU! ISN'T THAT STRETCH AWESOME?! NOW HOLD IT FOR A SIX-COUNT!" Oh yes, I enjoyed it so much I will be back in two weeks.

I would have signed up for the Wednesday class next week, but I'll be busy sharing one of my fabulous stories with a captive audience at Sycamore Bar in Ditmas Park. And you should definitely come out to support me and buy me a seltzer water (with lime!) and tell me my hair is pretty.

I'm going to attempt to read something new. If I can write it this weekend. So you should absolutely grab a seat in the front row and throw your panties at me. See you there!

*smooches...starting the year off pretty well*
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I have more things in the works so stay tuned!

Occupational Hazard

From the moment I rise until I begrudgingly pull away from social networking sites at 3AM, I'm in front of a computer typing articles for work or snarky Facebook statuses. It's all taking its toll on my brain (you read this blog, right?), back (I can barely drop it like it's lukewarm these days) and sadly, now my wrists.

See Exhibit A:

The writer's life

I guess it doesn't help that I also sleep ON my arm in the fetal position...

*smooches...fucking it up for myself*
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one day I'll get it right. allegedly.

Excerpt From "On A Blue Day"

She couldn’t remember if the red ones were the uppers or the downers. Only that she wanted one.

Today coffee was not enough.

Today she needed something other-worldly and fast acting to help her forget what she had to do and where she had to go.

Her black Nicole Miller hung on the back of her bedroom door. Fresh from the dry cleaners. The plastic bag thrown casually on the floor.

Maybe the blue ones were the uppers?

In the carved mahogany mirror, her reflection was someone unknown to her.

Oh my God! Is my hair red? Since when?

A stray strand of red curl twirled in the path of the fan on the vanity where she sat. An antique vanity she had flown in from a shop on Melrose Avenue during her last visit to LA. Lifestyle perks of a young, rich widow.

Red--the red ones for sure.

The curl continued its dance across her right (left?) brow. It seemed to plié at her reflection. Its leaps and turns graceful. New York City Ballet graceful. Better even.

The curl held her attention until the door opened and her dress floated out of sight.

“Tea, miss?”

The curl took a bow and froze in place. It became angry at the interruption.

“I said don’t bother ME!” How easily the fan crashed into several plastic chunks, leaving dust on her dress. Maybe now she wouldn’t have to wear it. Instead maybe they’d let her hide out in her room all afternoon. Just her and her pills and her dancing red curl. She’d already been to one funeral that year. Two was just unfair.

But when had she dyed her hair red?

And what day was today, anyway? Tuesday? Her reflection offered no explanations. Why didn’t anybody wake me up? Tell me what was going on?

Maybe it’s Wednesday. Wednesday is definitely a red pill day.

She swallowed three of them, dry.

*smooches...digging up a long forgotten tale*
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it was buried for a reason, though...



On A Blue Day by Raquel I. Penzo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

"I Sell My Soul But At The Highest Rates."

I could add a whole bunch of other words to introduce this video, and then follow-up with an comprehensive litany on the ins and outs of my life as a freelance writer and the mistakes I've made in knowing my own worth and that of my words, but dude right here (Harlan Ellison, writer; The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Babylon 5)? He got this.



*smooches...deciding today- no more freebies*
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I think I've earned the right to charge for services. EDITORIAL SERVICES, pervs! smh

Excerpt From "Enfermos: A Novel"

I fumble with my keys, looking behind me in terror. I’ve practiced this terrified look in the bathroom mirror many times. C’mon, c’mon, I whisper. The jingling of my keys will give me away if I don’t get this door…OPEN! I’ve used the wrong key, and the lock refuses to turn. I can feel Pop, the creepy guy from next door, peeping through the door at me. “You okay?” he says through the door. This heightens my anxiety. I have to get out of the stairwell. Pop may be one of the bad guys. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken those caramels from him last week?

This is Day 3 of practicing my serial-killer-victim, mad-dash-to-the-door. The keys are new. Yesterday, I banged on the door screaming, “Let me in, let me in,” but Nana didn’t appreciate it. “Niña,” she yelled. “¿Estas loca?” She had sweat dripping from her brow from the heat of the stove, and a crazed look in her eye. She hadn’t had time to put on her shades. Her brown eye glared at me in frustration. The green, bruised one was confused.

“Sorry, I was just playing,” I mumbled to myself.

“Play-ing?” she asked in her broken English, mocking me. “This no funny! Entra, ya, before they call police!” she whispered while pointing to Pop’s door.

So today I choose the classic horror movie key fumble. I thought for sure no one would hear, but I forgot about our nosy neighbors; they hear and see everything we do.

I finally get the door open, slam it behind me and lock it. I brace myself against the door taking quick victory breaths. Made it! “¡Niña, por Dios! ¡No estrayes la puerta! ¿Que te pasa?” She’s getting fed up with my entrances Tonight she will tell my mother. I feel it.

I walk down the hallway toward her, head down, whispering, “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just acting.” She puts her hand up to stop me.

“Oye, Yadira ees esleeping here, okay? So callate la boca.”

“What’s she doing here?” On a Thursday? Didn’t she go to school today?

“Esta enferma.”

I nod at my grandmother and tip-toe into the den. Yadira is laying on the full-sized bed, the one that used to be Elenita’s, the one that used to be in Nana’s bedroom before the bunkbeds took its place. She is on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow. Her orange-red hair is spread out across her back, just reaching her naked upper thigh.

Yadira is wearing Elenita’s “Ice Cream is Brain Food” night shirt. I recognize the lavender trim on the cap sleeves. This is going to be a problem later, for sure. If I know my cousin, she’s gonna catch a fit that Nana allowed Yadira to wear her clothes.

I follow Nana into the kitchen, putting my book bag on the little brown school-chair that is also Elenita’s. It occurs to me, suddenly, that nothing here is mine. "What’s wrong with her?” I whisper to my grandmother as she stirs the beans with one hand, and adds flour-coated eggplant slices to a pan of hot oil with the other.

“No te preocupes. Go do you homework,” she instructs.

This smells of a scandal. Whenever I “shouldn’t worry myself” over something, it means the grown-ups will discuss it later. I hear Nana curse under her breath in Spanish, something about ginger.

“Agarra aqui,” she says, calling me back and handing me the spatula. I despised fried eggplant, and now she wanted me to help her cook it? Nana wipes her brow on her housecoat, the white one with the blue flowers and the missing buttons. A few stray salt-n-pepper strands of her soft hair remain pasted to her forehead. “I go to the store” she declares, and leaves me in the kitchen.

“Going,” I call after her. “I’m going to the store.” She sucks her teeth, walking through the long hallway towards her bedroom to get dressed and go.

When she is gone, I transfer the eggplant to a plate covered with layers of paper towels and turn off the flame. The rice, beans and London Broil smell done, and I turn them off, too. Quietly, I inch over to the entryway of the den. Yadira is now lying on her side. Sections of redness have fallen over the side of the bed. I notice that she’s blinking, staring at the white molded ceiling of Nana and Papi’s third floor walk-up. Even her eyelashes are orange, seeming almost like they are not there. She is covered in red freckles all over her pink skin.

Yadira is curvy, with large breasts for her age. The first of us girl cousins to grow up. She is fifteen now, but had been this voluptuous for three years. Voluptuous. I learned that word last week. I liked the way it rolled off my tongue. I long to personify the definition. Personify was yesterday’s word. Elenita and I are still in training bras.

“Are you awake?” I ask her quietly. Wherever Nana is, her senses are telling her that I have awakened her patient.

“Yeah.” I walk over to the bed and sit next to her hair, gently running my hand over it. It feels rough, like straw.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“You’re too young to know,” Yadira doesn’t look at me. She stays fixed on the moldings. A tiny roach crawls up the wall next to the bed and we both follow it on its path up to the ceiling with our eyes. “Goddam this fucking house and the fucking roaches!” she complains. She covers her face with a pillow and sobs.

“Don’t cry, Nana will make you feel better. I think she went to get ginger for your tea.” It was her cure-all: ginger tea with orange peels.

“What the fuck do you know?” Yadira stops crying and grabs my arm. “You’re just a stupid kid with no problems!” She lets go of me and I yank at her hair.

“Well then fuck you, too” I yell. That is going to cost me three Hail Mary’s tomorrow. “And I’m not stupid, you are.”

“That’s right, you’re the smartest thing alive, no? You want to know what’s wrong, smarty pants? I just got kicked out of my house.”

“Why? What happened?” My anger for her leaves. What would cause Tia Frida to throw her only daughter out of the house?

“Because Sammy got me pregnant, and I got an abortion. There. Now you know everything.” She throws her face back into the pillow. “Now go get your brainiac dictionary and look it up. You know you want to.”

There is a thick pause between us. Instantly, I no longer crave her curves. I suddenly want nothing to do with breasts and hips and vaginas with pubic hair. I want voluptuous out of my memory bank. “I don’t have to, I know what it means.” I stare at my hands. Planned Parenthood ladies had already visited my fourth grade class to talk about our changing bodies and the consequences of those changes. The nuns added their own piece on treating our bodies as temples for Jesus. “You know you can go to hell for that, right?”

“Fuck you and your fucking priests! You think I believe in that shit?”

“It’s not shit!” Damn! Three more Hail Mary’s! I am letting her get me in trouble. Where is Nana already?

I turn away from Yadira towards the hallway to the living room. I don’t have to take this.

“Wait. I’m sorry Muñequita.” She looks up at me with puffy red eyes that almost match her hair. “Please sit with me till Nana gets back?” I sit at the edge of the bed and stares out the window at the head of the bed, while Yadira returns to her moldings. “I know I’m going to hell. You think I don’t know? I been going to hell. This abortion ain’t gonna make no bigger difference.” We sit in silence some more, neither one looking at the other, until she decides to change the subject and lighten the mood. “How’s the acting going? Elenita told me you got in trouble for dirtying your uniform?”

“Yeah. I’m practicing being chased by a killer. Day before last my throat was cut on the steps before I could even reach the door to bang on it. I had to crawl the rest of the way, gurgling for help.” She laughs at my recounting of Day 1 with this new study. “I managed to tap weakly on the bottom of the door, and then Nana opens it and says '¡Ay Dios Mio!' I do my best impression of my grandmother, throwing my hands up in the air, sending Yadira into full-on laughter. "'You’re getting all dirty!'" I use my best Nana-English, and Yadira is in hysterics. “Then she made me wash my uniform in the bathroom sink, by hand: jumper, knee socks, vest and shirt- the whole thing! Nana doesn’t understand modern cinema.”

“She understands, but you know that your mother would have beat your ass if your uniform had come home dirty on a Tuesday.” Yadira pauses to wipe tears of laughter from her eyes and stares at the ceiling again. “Nana understands a lot.”

“Yeah, I guess. She never told on me.” I look back out the window. For a second I think I see a shadow pass by the window across the alley from us, the window of the third floor of the abandoned building. I hate that window. “What does it feel like?”

“Sex? Or the abortion?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re too smart to end up like me. You’ll probably marry some great Catholic guy and it will be painless and perfect.”

“It hurts?”

“When you’re a girl, everything hurts.”

“Oh,” I said. I peek up at the moldings for a minute. I try to find what Yadira is looking for, help her out in the spirit of Jesus. Save her soul. Then I hear Nana’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, her key in the lock, her breathing in the doorway. I lean over the side of the bed and say “hey” to her as she shuffles towards the den. Her scowl sends me upright.

“You in trouble?”

“Yep. I better go do my homework.” I get up, grab my book bag from the chair in the kitchen and begin walking towards the living room, again. I keep my head down to avoid Nana’s glare.

“Muñequa,” Yadira calls after me as I pass the bathroom. “What’s your word today?”

“Ubiquitous.”

“Jesus Christ! What the hell does that mean?”

I walk back towards the den. “It’s an adjective. It means ‘being present everywhere at once’. Like God, you know, omnipresent.”

“You’re nuts! When are you ever going to use that word?”

I sit at the edge of the bed again, thinking. “I don’t know.”

Yadira laughs her hearty laugh that draws me into her. “Go do your homework.”

*smooches...offering you another taste of my genius*
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this is actually a rare glimpse of the first few pages of my novel-in-progress; hope you like!



Enfermos by Raquel I. Penzo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.