Another D for DeeDee Read online

  ALSO BY BIBI BELFORD:

  Canned and Crushed

  Crossing the Line

  Copyright © 2018 by Bibi Belford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

  www.BibiBelford.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Sammy Yuen

  Cover photographs: iStockphoto

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-3726-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2407-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to Dreamers everywhere.

  Those who dream to belong.

  Those who dream to be accepted.

  And those who make dreams come true.

  CHAPTER ONE

  D IS FOR DARE

  “Come on, DeeDee. Choose already. Truth or dare?” says my bossy big sister Danita with her Passion-Pink-lip-gloss lips. Hope you don’t have one. A bossy sister, I mean, not a Passion Pink lip gloss.

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” I say. And I am. I’m thinking I hate this game. Danita loves it. So does Andrea, my sister’s new friend, maybe even her new best friend. “Okay, truth.”

  “So, which boy would you pick to k—” Andrea starts.

  “No, I changed my mind. I meant DARE,” I scream in her face.

  “Oh-Em-Gee DeeDee, that’s not how you play. You can’t change your mind.”

  “Give me the dare.”

  “Okay. We dare you to swallow the drink of death.” Danita goes to the kitchen, and I hear a spoon clinking around in a glass.

  “What is it?” I ask when she gives me the drink. I smell coffee and something else—vinegar, maybe. Or pickle juice. It’s very muddy looking.

  Danita whispers something in Andrea’s ear and they giggle. They think their you-know-whats don’t stink, just because they’re in eighth grade.

  Danita’s so lucky. She met Andrea last week, on the day we moved into our new apartment. And it just so happens that Andrea goes to Joyner Middle School, where Danita will be starting tomorrow. Joyner sounds nice, doesn’t it? Like a place to join right in. I’m in fourth grade. And I’m starting at Robert Frost. Now, how does that sound? Robert Frost? Brrrr. Chilly. Especially since I don’t know one single person at my new school.

  I hate being the little sister. I pinch my nose and take a sip of the drink of death. The powdered coffee isn’t even dissolved. Gross. And something gooey is sticking the coffee specks to my tongue so I can’t swallow them. I may barf. But Danita and Andrea are laughing at the face I’m making. I chug the rest down, stick out my tongue with the coffee grounds on it, and yell all the way to the bathroom to rinse my mouth. I stop up the drain and fill the sink so I can stick my face all the way in.

  “Gordita.” Mami is at the door. “Gordita. Too much noise. Time for bed.”

  “You’re home!” I rush over to hug her. She smells delicious. Like pizza. Guess why? She makes the dough at Papa Giapino’s Pizza. And since Papi went to Mexico to take care of his sick grandmother, my bisabuelita, Danita babysits me when Mami works late. Like I’m a baby or something.

  “The water, Gordita, the water.”

  Whoops, the sink is overflowing. I turn off the water and sop it up off the floor.

  “I bring pizza for you. Eat fast.”

  When I get to the living room, I see only three pieces of pizza, and a half liter of soda.

  “Oh My Gatos, you pigs.” I shove myself in between Danita and Andrea and grab the three pieces. I don’t mean to knock the box on the floor. It just happens.

  “Mami, tell her to stop!” yells Danita.

  “The box was half empty to start,” Andrea tells me.

  “You dork.” Danita jabs me with her bony elbow, making me spill the soda I’m guzzling. “You better learn some manners. You don’t have much time before my quinceañera.”

  I spray a little soda from my mouth in Danita’s direction. “Your birthday isn’t till May and it’s only January. Nobody wants to go to your stupid quinceañera, anyway!”

  Danita pinches me and Andrea holds in a laugh.

  “Dinora, te portas bien,” Mami says from the door.

  Dinora is my real name, By The Way. Which I hate, By The Way. And why is she telling me to behave? What about Danita?

  Mami’s in her fuzzy robe already.

  “I speak English. ENGLISH!” I have not spoken one word of Spanish since Thanksgiving when Papi didn’t come back from Mexico like Mami said he would. Not one word. I do not believe Papi went to Mexico to take care of my bisabuelita. Not anymore. Nobody goes to Mexico and forgets to come home for Thanksgiving. NOBODY. Everybody from our old trailer park knew we were at the shelter. EVERYBODY. And if Papi did come home after we moved SOMEBODY would tell him. But now? Now that Mami made us move to this apartment? Now, I don’t know. And I do not answer to Dinora. BY THE WAY.

  I get ready for bed. Still mad. And still thirsty. With the awful taste of coffee in my mouth. Gross. I drank that soda so fast that I keep burping the coffee taste up. Double gross.

  To tell the truth, I get ready for couch and not bed. Our trailer park caught on fire the week before winter break. The Red Cross helped us relocate to this apartment and get new stuff. My old school gave us lots of presents and donations. We’re still unpacking.

  But since this apartment only has three bedrooms, my options are:

  1) Air mattress on the floor in Danita’s or Danny’s room. Can you say creepy crawlies?

  2) My mami’s double bed. Can you say stinky breath?

  3) The comfy couch. Really, the best option, don’t you think?

  Mami shoos Danita and Andrea out of the living room and tucks the sheets around the couch for me. She always puts a plastic tablecloth over the cushions. I don’t know why. Well, actually, I do. Sometimes I have a little accident. But you don’t have to go blabbing about it.

  I take my shower because I take a shower every night and I admire my new princess pj’s in the steamy mirror. I suck in my belly. I feel skinnier. I really do. Maybe they’re secretly slimming pj’s. They’re very slippery as I slide under my fluffy-fleecy blanket, the one that my godmother in Mexico sent me and that Danita wrapped me up in the night of the fire. The plastic tablecloth makes wrapping-paper sounds. Mami kisses me.

  I got the pj’s from my old school’s Secret Swap for the holidays. Instead of everybody swapping gifts with each other, they gave me all the gifts because all my stuff got burned up. And like I said before, other people, parents and teachers, donated bunches of stuff.

  I’m not complaining, but some of the things they donated are not exactly my style.

  Danita says, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Mami says, “Blessings come from Heaven.”

  I say, “Let the beggars choose the blessings.”

/>   Anyway, the pajamas are nice—a little babyish with lots of sparkle and glitter. Of course, I would never wear them to a sleepover. Not that I’m likely to get invited to a sleepover, and even if I did, there’s my little accident problem anyway.

  I hear my brother Daniel come in, turn the deadbolt, and go to the kitchen. I see the side of his face as he stands in front of the fridge, hunting for food. He doesn’t look like my brother Danny anymore, the one with the laughing eyes, the color of my Burnished Brown crayon. I have to memorize this new Daniel. The new tattoo—two curlicued Ds, separated by a feathery arrow. The long arms that reach almost to his knees. The new man-voice when he talks.

  He forgets to turn out the kitchen light and walks into the living room, eating. He stands behind my couch. I hear him breathing.

  “What are you doing, Danny?”

  “¡Ay! You scared me. Why aren’t you sleeping? Did I wake you up?”

  “Nope. Me and Osito are wide awake.” I hold up my teddy. My teddy bear from when I was a little baby, which Mami miraculously rescued from our trailer.

  I pull my legs up and Danny sits down. I tuck my cold toes under him. In the shadowy light his face reminds me of Papi.

  I can’t think of one thing to say to my brother. Danny’s been gone for twenty-seven weeks. I know. I counted. It was the beginning of summer and the end of third grade when he left. And he’s been home for four weeks. I know. I counted. Christmas Eve. That’s when Danny came walking into the shelter with a big garbage bag full of presents. Even his National Guard training program heard about our trailer and gave us presents. And Mami got all slobbery. In public. Super embarrassing. We all knew Danny was supposed to come home after twenty weeks, like most of the other boys, but we didn’t ask him about it. Maybe it took him longer to be trained. Or maybe he didn’t want to live in the shelter with us.

  I want to ask Danny to tell me the story of why he dropped out of Northlake High School even though Papi told him not to. And to tell me if it was fun being in the National Guard for dropouts. And if the Danny I used to know—the funny one who belched in my face—will be back someday.

  “How’s night school?” It’s the only thing I dare to ask.

  “All right, I guess. Pretty boring. Everything is on the computer. You start back tomorrow?”

  “Yep. Another new school. Robert Frost.” That makes four since I started kindergarten. Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and now Frost.

  “The poet.”

  “What?”

  “Robert Frost was a poet.”

  “Oh.” So, three president schools and one poet school.

  “Think they’ll name a school after you someday?” I wiggle my toes to tickle him.

  “Ever hear of Dropout Elementary?” Danny says. “They don’t name schools after dropouts.”

  “You’re not a dropout anymore. And didn’t Papi used to say everyone makes mistakes? Maybe even Robert Frost.”

  Danny folds his arms and puts his chin on his chest. He lets out a sigh. “How about Dinora Diaz School?”

  “Never.” I kick him. Not hard. He knows I hate Dinora. For three reasons:

  1) No one can pronounce it. They say Die-Nora. Or Die-No-Ray. Or Dine-Ora.

  2) When you pronounce it Dine-Ora, my name sounds like dinosaur. And nobody wants to be called Dinosaur.

  3) Even if you pronounce it correctly, Dee-Nor-Ah, nobody is named Dinora, not one single soul. No singers. No dancers. No presidents. And no poets. Who wants to be friends with a girl named Dinora? It’s a stupid-dopey name.

  “How about Gordita Grammar School?” Danny says.

  This time I kick him hard. Only Mami and Papi are allowed to call me Gordita. They’ve called me that ever since I was a fat baby. I’m just a little fat now. Pudgy. But not skinny. Not like Flaquita-Danita and her stupid-dopey friend. Who wants to be that skinny?

  “Don’t worry.” Danny grabs my toes. “You’ll make lots of friends. As long as you don’t kick them.”

  “Maybe a best friend.” I snuggle my face into my blanket and cross my fingers. On both hands. But I don’t get my hopes up. It seems as though everybody already has a BFF by the time I transfer to a new school.

  “There’s a kid your age I think, right next door,” Danny says.

  “Really?” I raise my head. “What’s her name?”

  “How should I know? You’ll have to find out. Maybe you can walk to school together.”

  Papi always says that to me when I ask him stuff. How should I know, DeeDee? You’ll have to find out.

  “Is Papi ever coming home?” I only dare whisper this question. If Danny doesn’t hear me, then he won’t have to answer.

  Danny stiffens. He cracks his knuckles. “How should I know, DeeDee?” His voice is soft, raspy, like he’s swallowed too many hot peppers.

  We all think maybe Papi went to live in Mexico. He always talked about going back there. Over and over. Like those annoying commercials on TV.

  Danny moves his fingers around the tattoo swirls on his wrist. Tracing each D and then the arrow.

  “What if he doesn’t want to come back? What if he likes it in Mexico?” I pull Danny’s arm to me and run my fingers over the tattoo. “DeeDee,” I say. I know it stands for Daniel Diaz, but I like to pretend. I will never get a tattoo. I’m afraid of needles. Really afraid.

  “You know more than me about Papi leaving. You were here,” Danny says.

  “He wanted you to come home and for all of us to move to Mexico. He told Mami you needed a start-over,” I say.

  “You mean a do-over, a fresh start. You don’t even understand Papi’s Spanish.”

  “Yes I do. He said start-over.”

  Danny pulls his arm from me and rubs his neck. “Fine. Then what?”

  “Danita told him moving to Mexico would ruin her life and she would hate him forever.”

  “What did Mami say?” asks Danny.

  “Mami said she would never come back if they moved to Mexico.” I’m not positive about this. She might have said she could never come back. I don’t know for sure, because Danny’s right—sometimes I do get mixed up when the meaning is close in Spanish.

  I remember the day of the argument. Papi’s face. So sad. Mami’s face. So scared.

  “And anyway,” I tell Danny, “Mami told him we didn’t have passports or money to get them.”

  I don’t tell Danny what I said. Because maybe that’s the real reason Papi left. His little Gordita, taking sides with Mami and Danita. All you care about is yourself. That’s what I said. Because I was worried about missing the Secret Swap at school. Because I thought maybe, for once, somebody would want to be my best friend. I mean who wouldn’t want to be best friends with me, the giver of a super cool up-cycled bike, the awesomest Secret Swap gift ever?

  Danny stays quiet for a minute and I’m afraid he’s going to ask me what I said to Papi. Then he says, “I don’t know, DeeDee. I don’t know. Let me worry about it, okay? It’s a grown-up problem.”

  I wonder if Papi said goodbye to Danny before he left. I bet he didn’t. He didn’t say goodbye to me or Danita. I tuck my teddy bear under my blanket. “Danita says maybe he got fired from his job and now her quiñceanera will be canceled.”

  “Because she knows everything, doesn’t she? Like her quinceañera is the most important thing in the world.” Danny makes a grunting noise. “And anyway, if Mami wants to give her a quinceañera, she will do it no matter what. Stop worrying about it, okay? I’m going to shower.”

  “Wait, can I go pee before you go in there?”

  Before I zip out of the bathroom, I take big gulps of water right from the faucet. That pizza made me so thirsty. When I come back, Danny tucks the blanket around my toes. “Night, DeeDee.”

  I hear noises. The bark of a dog. The slam of a door. The siren of an ambulance. I can’t get to sleep. I guess I’m nervous about going to school. Explaining to another teacher that my name is DeeDee and not Dinora. Hoping I don’t have to make a stink about
it. Hoping somebody will sit by me at lunch. Hoping that maybe—well, I’m not going to say it. If I say it, it might not ever come true.

  And I’m thinking about Papi. I know the real reason he’s gone. Danita doesn’t know. And neither does Danny. I know.

  Papi deserted us. He left his dropout son and his disagreeable daughter. He left his disappointing Gordita and his stubborn wife who only speaks Spanish. And that’s the truth. It makes me sad. And mad, too. How dare you? I want to say to him. How dare you?

  CHAPTER TWO

  D IS FOR D (DUH)

  Danita stands in front of the hall mirror. First frontways. Then sideways. “I am so fat,” she says, grabbing at her waist.

  I pull on leggings and a pink top with a ruffle. I twirl like a ballerina so it spins out.

  “Danita, no te preocupes por tus masitas,” I hear Mami say.

  Love handles? Those tiny ripples are her love handles? Well, if Danita’s not supposed to worry about her love handles, then my belly must be the entire love pot. I take off the leggings and the ruffly shirt, squeeze into my last pair of clean jeans, and yank one of my two sparkly T-shirts over my head—the purple one. It feels like a purple day, not a pink one.

  I rush to eat breakfast and Mami rushes to answer the knock on the door. It’s Andrea, in her skinny leg dark wash jeans, leather boots with sheep fur sticking out, and a puffy silver jacket. She has about a million braids that dance around her head.

  “Ooh, what a sparkly shirt,” she says to me. “All ready for your first day?”

  Danita comes in and grabs her jacket. She’s wearing eye makeup. Papi never let her wear makeup. “Mami,” I start to tattle, and Danita narrows her eyes at me.

  Andrea says, “Your little sister looks just like you.”

  Danita opens the door and before I can finish tattling, says, “I was never that pudgy,” and slams the door shut.

  Mami has to walk me to school to deliver my school folder to the office. Like I’m such a baby I can’t handle a simple folder. I keep my eyes straight ahead, walking one sidewalk square in front of Mami, so nobody notices she’s with me. She could be anybody’s mother, or some lady taking a walk. While she waits for help at the office counter I get a long drink at the water fountain. Then I stand at the back of the office, watching the students streaming into school.