Into the Beautiful North(6)

It was much harder for girls to become astounding characters in the fabric of Tres Camarones culture—they were mostly, if they were eccentric, seen as outrageous monsters—but Verónica’s every public appearance was a shock.

She had been a goth for three months; before that, she had dreamed of being a pop star in revealing hot pants and see-through blouses of televised Latin American variety shows. She was going to dye her hair that plasticine coppery color that passed for blond among Mexican starlets. Only the notorious girlfriends noted that she’d gone goth after her father and mother had died.

Everyone called her La Vampira.

The girls burst through the door, popping gum and clanking bracelets.

“Tachito, mi flor!” trilled Yolo.

Normally, Tacho would flick anyone who called him a flower with his deadly washcloth.

“Tramp,” he replied, not meanly.

“Yolo!” Nayeli called.

“?Qué onda, morra?” Yolo replied, delighting in street slang. Sounding like a city tough was so rocanrol. She was the best student among them—if she had been able to, she would have studied dentistry in college. She, too, was a soccer star, though Nayeli had overshadowed her on the field.

“Hola, Nayeli,” sighed La Vampira.

“Vampi!” Nayeli said. “How is life, Vampi?”

“Sad,” said La Vampira. She pulled a rosary from her black beaded clutch purse (Tacho’s fashion emporium, 155 pesos). The beads rattled on the table. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Yolo and Nayeli looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Tacho, a sucker for the goth routine, made up a small bowl of mango and pineapple and orange slices with red chile powder on them, and sat with La Vampira and poked toothpicks into the fruit.

“Eat,” he said. “You’ve got to eat, my angel.”

“Oh… Tacho…” she breathed. She squeezed his hand weakly. “She’s an angel?” muttered Nayeli. “Angel of death, maybe.” Yolo snorted.

“You snorted,” Nayeli said.

“I so did not snort.”

Nayeli clicked the keys and opened a video of a skateboarder getting hit in the crotch by his board on Google Video. She made a face and switched Web sites. Ah! Captain Jack Sparrow. Yolo leaned against Nayeli’s shoulder. She turned to La Vampi and said, “Oye, Vampi. La Nayeli is going to marry Johnny Depp.”

“Mmm, Capitán Yack Esparrow,” Vampi said.

“Oh, yes,” Tacho agreed. “Es muy caliente, el Capitán Yack.”

Verónica made a face.

“Me encanta,” Nayeli said. “I love him.”

“Me, too,” Tacho said.

“Yack Esparrow,” Vampi said, “needs a bath.”

She waved her hand dismissively.

“Besides,” she added, “I can only marry one man.”

“Not again,” muttered Nayeli.

She grumbled and went to YouTube. Verónica had never even seen “gothic” people before she had watched Nayeli work Tacho’s computer, but as soon as she saw wan boys in mascara, she was lost. Type O Negative was awesome, or “chido,” as she put it. The Sisters of Mercy put her way around the bend. And now this. Nayeli huffed, then typed in “The 69 Eyes.” Thinking: Why do I do this?

“What does that mean?” Tacho asked.

“He must have sixty-nine eyes,” Yolo said.

“Who does?”

“Him,” said Nayeli, pointing to the goth band on the screen, and at the cadaver sitting in their midst.

“He always wears sunglasses,” Vampi marveled. “His name is Jyrki.”

“The glasses hide all those eyeballs,” Yolo said.

“?Qué?” asked Tacho.

“Here we go,” Nayeli said, mouse clicking to call up Vampi’s favorite song, “Gothic Girl.”

The girls started to dance. Tacho thought this Jyrki person sounded like he was dead, but he sounded comfortable being a corpse, even happy.

“Dance with me, boy,” Nayeli commanded.

Tacho took Nayeli’s hand and tried a cumbia to the music. La Vampi went crazy and started jumping up and down, bobbing her head from side to side. In her heavily accented English, she sang, “I love my gothic girl!” Well, what she said was: “Ay lob myng goddig gorrl.” And everyone laughed.



Nayeli didn’t get home until ten o’clock. When she came in the door, her mother said, “What were you doing?”

Nayeli said, “Nothing. Just another day at work, Mami.”

“How is Tacho?”

“Fine.”

Nayeli ate some calabazas and a glass of milk, then went to bed in front of her ancient electric fan. The geckos chirped on the wall above her bed.

Her mother called, “We’re going to the lagoon tomorrow.”

“Awesome!” Nayeli called. What she shouted was: “Chido.” But her mother did not know what that newfangled word meant. “Night, Mami.”

“Good night, m’ijita.”

Nayeli rolled her head on the hot pillow. She was asleep before she knew it was happening. She dreamed that she lived in a big white house, surrounded by trees and fountains. There was snow on the distant mountain range. Her horses were white, and the swans in her lake floated serenely as the maids served tea. She had English muffins with strawberry jam on a silver tray. She spoke perfect English. She wore a long gown and ate ice cream when she was done with the muffins. Her husband, Johnny Depp, had gold teeth, black eyeliner, and waist-length hair. “Tomorrow,” he said with a metallic grin, “we will go to Kankakee.”