Lolita and Rico – Chapter One

by Janelle Hyppolite

 

Before Lolita and Rico started dating, Lolita was living in Haiti and Rico was almost kicked out of school. Lolita was a little spoiled girl enjoying the finest, not worrying about her future while Rico was ruining his own. Lolita never would have believed that her world would be turned upside down and Rico never thought that things would work out so fine.

 

Lolita

Three months prior to my coming to America, I was enjoying a red popsicle with my girlfriends by the pool. It was a Sunday in March, school was almost over; I was ready for vacation. The sun was shining, our bodies were glistening with water drops, it was hot but breezy; it was a good day.

That Friday, I had received my first kiss. I didn’t tell my parents because they would have wrung my neck. I didn’t know how to tell them. I was fourteen and to Haitian parents that means four. I was supposed to be this little innocent girl who didn’t know anything about anything and was expected to carry herself in the best of way without ever making a mistake. My first kiss wasn’t a mistake, but I probably shouldn’t have let it happen at school where a teacher could have seen me. Because if they did, they would be telling my parents in no time. But I wasn’t really worried. I mean, what did I have to worry about? Money? I didn’t have a lot but I had just enough and change. School? I was an A student. Friends? I had plenty of those and my best friend and I had been joined by hips since birth – we were born twenty minutes apart in rooms across from each other. Family? I had loving parents who would do anything for me and anything to make me happy – except letting me date. I was spoiled you could say. I would say my life was perfectly fine and I was perfectly fine.

Two months and a week before moving, I got the news: we were going to move to America.

…

…

I’m sorry, what?

“We’re moving to the US”, my parents said.

“And we are because?”

“Because your father was campaigning for Pierre Michel and Jean Luc won so we don’t want his people to come after us.” My mother spoke calmly as if she didn’t just shatter my world. As if she didn’t just destroy dreams I didn’t know I had, as if she didn’t just change the course of my life, as if she didn’t just erase my perfect predetermined future. How dare she? How dare they? Why was I not consulted? Why were they paranoid? Yeah, I heard of my uncle losing his job after campaigning for the man who actually became president but he got a new one really quick after that. The worst that could happen to my parents was: nothing. Yes, our government is very corrupt but, for Christ’s sake, not corrupt enough to put us in danger. We weren’t gonna get persecuted or anything. It was all in their heads.

I cried myself to sleep that night. My tears wet my bed worse that anytime I’d wet my bed as a child. I was devastated. I don’t know why I thought that way but it’s like I had a feeling that my life in the US was going to be bad. My instincts weren’t wrong.

 

I spent the next week acting normal around my friends. None of them even suspected that anything was wrong because I am so good at covering my problems. I could be standing in the eye of the storm and make you believe that my life is all sunshine and butterflies. This was the week that Laurent, my first kiss, asked me out. I said yes, of course. This was also the week that I had to go to the embassy for papers and whatnots; I honestly don’t remember much about that. My parents already had things going before they bothered telling me anything. I couldn’t have an attitude with my parents unless I wanted my head slapped so I locked myself in room and played music really loud so I could pretend not to hear them when they were calling me.

But one day, I went to lock my room only to realize that I no longer had a doorknob that locked. Well played, dad. He came to my room that night and we talked. Well, he talked and I listened while I fidgeted with my night dress, not wanting to look him in the eyes. I did not want to face the reality that I was leaving my perfect life for a hard one because I was not fooled for a second into believing that life in the US would be better, like so many family members had tried to convince me. That night, I told my father that I had a boyfriend. He wanted to yell but he seemed to restrain himself. He said he wasn’t worried because I would be leaving soon. Yeah, like boys don’t exist in America. That night, I realized that there was a little boy under my father’s tough guy facade. He was jovial, fun, full of life and he was scared. Scared like I was. Scared that it would be harder than he imagined, that it would be too much to handle. That night, I found another reason to love my dad. I always loved him simply because he is my father but I never truly loved the man that he is, and that night I did.

 

A month before my coming to America, I caught Laurent kissing the French girl who was at our school and that’s when I decided to perfect my English to get ready for my American boyfriend. Well, I slapped Laurent and his new girl, made a scandal out of that and basically shamed them first before I made that decision but still. It was a good decision on my part. I started watching movies in English, reading English books, tried to have conversations with my English teacher after school and started to text my friends in English. Told them I did so to able to curse out Laurent’s French girl in a language she wouldn’t understand. My best friend caught onto my lie though and I had to tell her the truth – I was leaving in less than a month. She punched my shoulder. How could I be so selfish and not tell her? Not give her enough time to cope with the news? Time to enjoy my last days in Haiti with her? I guess I was selfish. I had planned on telling everyone the day of. I couldn’t anymore since Leila told the whole school the next day and to a lot of these égarés what was most interesting was not the fact that I was leaving not to come back but the fact that I was going to live in the US. Big deal.

 

The day before I left, my friends all stood in line and hugged me and told me they were mad at me for not telling them earlier. Laurent tried to kiss me. Since I did not want to make a scandal the day before I left, I gave him my cheek and let it go. The French girl, Anabelle, hugged me too and told me she was sorry in her little purty French accent. I didn’t necessarily forgive her nor Laurent (who never apologized to date) because I was still crushed by the situation, but I was touched. I still plucked out one of her shiny blond hairs “by accident” though.

On the ride back home I took my time, looking at the Haitian landscape. The landscape that many people around the world hate and call filthy and ugly, I saw the eroded mountains, the blazing sun, I saw the occasional palm tree, the old wooden houses that still looked beautiful despite being a century old, I saw the new beautiful houses that were being built or were already built and were shiny, I saw a country trying to progress but kept being pushed backwards. I looked at the people that many people around the world call “the ugliest people on Earth”. The sweat clinging to their skin due to a hard day of work under the sun, the dirty clothes that have seen better days, I saw the people in nice outfits, ailing a taxi cab, I saw the girls in street clothes that the boys would be talking to under a streetlight near an unlit corner later, I saw the wanna be rappers, I saw the strong women with loads on their heads climbing mountains to go home and cook for their families, I saw the skinny men who ruined their hands being carpenters packing up to go home, eat and make love to their wives, and as I came closer to my neighborhood, I saw the people who were better off, the people who wouldn’t need to go to the US to have a better life. I saw me.

I video chatted with my close friends the night before and Leila pulled an all-nighter with me. There was school tomorrow but it was June and during those times we really didn’t learn, just played music throughout the school day and had playoffs between the seventh graders and the eighth graders. We had these fun activities until we took the exams, so she really wouldn’t miss much if she was late. After Leila went to sleep, I stayed awake and let some fear overtake me. How was I going to deal with these Americans? They were fat, stupid and their teenagers were evil, they bullied one another. What if they bullied me because I was an immigrant? What if they made fun of my accent? Of me? What if I didn’t make friends? I slept on those fears.

 

When the plane landed at JFK Airport on June 5th at 8: 23 pm, I said to myself “this is going to be bad.”

 

Rico

Six months before I met Lolita, I was not sure I was going to finish the 9th grade; I was so far behind that I had no idea what the teachers were teaching anymore. Summer school wouldn’t be able to save me from getting left back if I kept on the way I was. I was failing four classes, I was acting up, I was running out of chances. My principal was close to kicking me out; my parents couldn’t get to me. No one could. I wanted to be a badass with my badass friends. I wanted to be pure gangster. I was closer to death every day.

In March of that year, my parents were close to being done with me. They gave me an ultimatum: either I get my act together or they would send me to a private school. I thought they were joking, but I improved just a tad. If I kept the pace, I would just about pass and not go to summer school. My teachers tried to encourage me to do better but in vain. I was still messing around with the wrong crowd, chasing girls, trying substances, and partying every weekend. I was in a bad place, I knew it, but I just didn’t care enough to stop. I was doomed but I didn’t want to be saved.

In April, I got my third semester report card. My grades went as follow

English- C      Algebra- D     Ancient History- D+      Physical Education- A

Biology- D      French- B-     Art- D

I just about passed. My parents were extremely excited. But it wasn’t enough. They wanted to see all A’s. At least all B’s. They had to be kidding. They wouldn’t be getting anymore out of me. I kept this pace.

In May, my fast-living lifestyle crashed.

The day was May 3rd. I was out drinking with the homies, just walking around the streets, whistling at the girls with the nice bodies and being an idiot when my homie, Jay, decided to take us on a wild drive. We were all past sober so we weren’t thinking straight. We got into his Mercedes and he started driving. He drove and drove, faster and faster by the minute, ignoring red light, after red light until out of nowhere, a freaking tree.

I woke up on May 6th with a throat drier than the Sahara Desert. Every inch of my body was sore. It took me a while to open my eyes and understand where I was. Before I could speak, there were arms around me and I felt like I was dying because it hurt so much.

“Ow.”

My mom quickly let go of me. “Oh sorry, honey.” She kissed my forehead. “I’m so happy you’re awake.” I opened my mouth and started moving my tongue in a lapping motion. “Oh yes, water”. She put the glass to my lips and I drank greedily. “Are you okay?” I tried to nod. “Let me go call the doctor.” She kissed my forehead again and left.

It wasn’t until I heard a tapping of shoes that I noticed my father sitting in a corner looking at me with murder in his eyes. If he could have whooped my behind black and blue that day, he would have. I looked at him, he looked at me. I wouldn’t let up. He was my father, I was his son. I was just like him, he was always calling me a ‘mini me’. My father was a dangerous man and made a lot of bad decisions as a teenager so I don’t know why he was surprised I was too. My eyelids were heavy, I looked away. He won. I lost.

Mami brought the doctor in.

 

Two weeks later, my father still wasn’t talking to me. I tried to get on his good side by catching up on my work during this time. Nothing. But I did realize that I could be an A student if I wanted. I finished my work in nine days like a champ. I also used this time to think about my life. I was 15 and already on that bullshit, where would I be when I’m 18? Dead? My friends always told me that I was some rich boy who wanted to spice up his boring life. Maybe. But how much spice could I take before I coughed and choked to death? I almost died. I was lucky I survived with minor injuries. Jay had it the worst, he would have to use a cane for the rest of his life, so it’s a good thing he didn’t want to play sports. Mickey and Ron were fine, too. We were lucky but we wouldn’t always be. I had to stop before it was too late, before I destroyed my family.

I heard my parents arguing over me at night. My father wanted to send me to Puerto Rico and my mom thought he was crazy. He said I was a bad influence on Lexi and Andre, the latter who always came cuddle with me in my bed when our parents were arguing. My dad was right, I was awful, my mom was right too, I was precious. I was trying to find a balance between the two.

 

When I got back to school, everyone was all over me, especially the girls who were feeling sorry for me. I loved the attention and soaked in it. Ron and Mickey went back to school two days before me and spread the news. The guys thought Jay, Mickey, Ron and me were legends – that night we were going a hundred miles per hour. I smirked and boasted but on the inside I was cringing; we were playing with death and we didn’t give a damn. The girls were touching me and asking me where it hurt. I pointed to my lips. By the end of the day, I had gotten eighteen kisses, five of which were French, and seven phone numbers. Teachers were impressed by my completed assignments and I think that made them happier than seeing me recovered. Well shit, happy teachers mean better grades.

Jay came back to school on the last week of May. He came out of his new Mercedes wearing a pimp suit, he even had the wig. He said since he was to sport a cane, he better make the best of it. When I asked about his new car, he said just one word “Mom.” His mom was a guera and soft as hell. She barely let his dad discipline him properly. She believed in “lecturing” translated as “telling him what he did was bad and making him promise never to do it again” and “grounding” which translated as “sending him to his room and giving him a curfew when she knew very well he was going to sneak out”. But that was Jay and his family.

 

I received my fourth quarter report card. My grades went as follow

English- B+       Algebra- C      Ancient History- C   Physical Education- B+

Biology- C       French- A      Art- C

The decision was made. I was transferring to a Catholic school. Coño!