Dairy Queen

You know Banesa Delgado walks home with you cuz she hungry—right? I mean, you the fattest freshman in North Bergen High. You think the baddest bitch in the volleyball team—and that’s a lot to say, cuz alladem bad—wanna be seen nowhere with you? 

I taught you better than that. But here you are, trying to remember the sound of your own damn name when Banesa Delgado say it.

“Edi?” she said, like y’all been cool. 

Man, close your mouth. Swallow before talking. 

“First period Phys Ed, right?”

Nod. Sit up straight. Stop staring like you tryna blink the red gloss off her lips. It’s not magic-eye art, dumb dumb!

“I’m Banesa,” she adds, like everybody don’t already know. Like she ain’t the reason

Ángel Ramirez keep coming to school with hickeys the size of Santo Domingo around his neck. 

How she start walking next to you without asking where you going? Now here y’all are, side by side in front of the Dairy Queen on 69th, splitting a damn chicken sandwich like it’s communion. Aren’t there twelve more blocks to your corner? Your ass better get on that bus. Weren’t you daydreaming about China Dragon all through Algebra? Damn near drooled on your quiz thinking about double-fried wings soaked in duck sauce. 

But Banesa said Dairy Queen and you said okay. Like a dummy. You think she here for you? Man she here to spend your bus money. Now your thighs gon chafe all the way home, Lordamercy! And why neither of you got enough for a drink? Just look at yourself, washing this dry-ass chicken down on saliva.

She wipes mustard off her cheek with her finger, then licks it, and you stare like the bitch just pulled off a magic trick.

“You mad quiet,” she says, “You shy or sum?”

“Nah,” you shrug. 

She chews loud. Mouth open. Her chipped nails are painted blue. There’s a tiny star tattoo near her wrist. You wonder if she gave it to herself.  She says “you mad funny” after you mumble something about Coach Barone’s Narcolepsia. The man falls asleep in the middle of the football field and wakes up way after the bell has rung. 

“You cool, Edi,” she says, mouth full of chicken. “I fuck with you.”

Try not to smile. You want to pocket her words, save them for later. Say them back to yourself when you’re alone. Tell Fat Danny and Chino that Banesa Delgado fucks with you.

Your whole body lights up like someone lit a match inside you. All of the sudden you full. 

“You ready to walk?” she asks.

Your feet hurt. Your thighs rubbed raw. But what other choice do your broke ass got? Toss the crumpled DQ wrapper in the trash, and start walking.

She walk like it’s a runway. Like the concrete rising up to meet her steps. Meanwhile, you got the gait of somebody who been trying to disappear since third grade. Keep tugging at your shirt so it don’t ride up to show your chichos. I hate to tell you everybody see ‘em from a mile away. 

Wipe your face. Bet you dying to know how many blocks before you melt. Keep counting steps like a soldier. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Shift your weight to the left, pull up your jeans. Maybe you make it home before burning up.

And listen, cuz Banesa talking, and she gon talk all the way there. Loud. Fast. Wild. Bout being sick and tired of being sick and tired. Volley practice this. Coach Barone that. How Ashley got benched cuz she can’t shut the fuck up. How she can’t let that be her. She needs the coaches at Rutgers to see her blocking and digging. How she gotta get the fuck up out of Hudson County, and how you should too. Like you in a rush to go nowhere. Like you ain’t terrified of the light turning green before you reach the sidewalk. Like you’ve imagined anything past Bergenline Avenue.

Them dodgeballs land on you like bricks. Didn’t I teach you how to duck? Guess not!

You out here laughing real loud, and bumping shoulders with the most popular girl in school.

Like you don’t know what it is? 

“Yo, you ever been to the cliffs?” She asks.

You shake your head.

“We should go sometime,” she says. “It’s mad pretty at night.” 

Like she don’t got nobody to go with.

“Dope,” you say. 

Knowing damn well Mamá Tina ain’t letting you go nowhere once the street lights come on. Don’t go making promises you can’t keep. 

“This my block.”

She stops at the corner of 60th and Kennedy BLVD.

“How long you got?” she asks.

“I’m down on 57th.”  

Your feet feel like overripe fruit breaking open. 

“Almost there,” she say, kissing you on the cheek before going on her merry way. 

The bitch ungrateful too! Didn’t even thank you. Talmbout “almost there” like y’all didn’t just walk damn near thirty blocks.

You should walk away. You should laugh it off. But your cheek’s still warm where she kissed it, and you holding on to the smell of her hair in the air. Don’t you feel the sweat under your tits? You would’ve been such a gentleman, had you not been such a bitch. 

On the way home you think about texting Chino or Danny—Guess who I just walked home with?

You better not! First of all, who gon believe your fat ass walked home at all?

——  

The next day she pop up behind you in the second-floor hallway, right after lunch, talmbout leaving her biology book in your locker.

“Since you so close to the lab,” she say, like y’all been coordinating schedules.

And she ain’t joking neither. So tuck away that stupid-ass smile. You got lettuce on your braces.

“It’s mad heavy,” she says, like her back pain your concern. Like you the one blowing it out behind the bleachers.

“Text me the combination babes.” 

And there you go, reaching for your two-way. You really gon let her leave her shit next to your tampons and half-melted Now & Laters? Banesa Delgado said jump, and you ain’t even had the sense to ask how high. Just thirsty to have her number sitting in your phonebook like a trophy. Like proof she spoke to you on purpose.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, fingers ready to listen.

“TWO OH ONE,” she start, and your whole chest swell up behind your sports bra.

“EIGH FOHR FIVE FIVE EIGH FIVE TWO.”

Press save before she changes her mind. 

Fat Danny and Chino watch the whole thing from the vending machine like they seen a unicorn hatch. Danny clutching a Frutopia bottle by the waist, Chino halfway through a bag of

Cool Ranch Doritos, orange dust caked on his cheeks and fingertips.

“She really just gave you her number?” Chino whispers after she walks off.

“She tryna leave her book,” you say, playing it cool, like it ain’t just short-circuited your brain.

“Yeah, right,” Fat Danny wheezes, damn near choking in a laugh.

“She did, for real.” You give him a weak punch in the shoulder.

“Really, really?” Chino looks at you dumbfounded. 

“Really.” You smirk, like the number ain’t more than less space in your locker. 

Truth is, she could’ve written the combo on the back of her hand. Could’ve remembered it. Could’ve not even asked. But now you and Banesa Delgado text back and forth all damn day, talmbout who’s with who, who doing what, where it be popping, where shit be wack, what are the answers to the Health Ed quiz, and how much she can’t wait to get the fuck away from here.

Don’t get caught texting in the hallway. Vice Principal Harris will damn near sprint down the hall.

“Put it away, Miss Rodríguez,” he’ll yell. “Before it’s mine!”

You know the rules. But you can’t help yourself, can you? How you gon explain to Mamá Tina that she gon have to bail your phone out Harris’ desk? You wasn’t supposed to have it out to begin with. 

Get your head straight! You seen yourself?

She ain’t even gay like that. Shorty got a whole man. And how you gon look beefin’ with Angel Ramírez? That nigga drive a two-door Integra and got a chinstrap he lines up with a razor blade. You can’t handle that smoke.

Oh but Banesa Delgado and you all buddy buddy now, and you think you big man, huh? 

She all comfortable showing up at your locker between every period. Leaving her stank gym shorts rolled up next to your tampons. Borrowing your hoodie when she cold. Smelling like heat, vanilla, and problems. You love that shit, don’t you?  

Damn fool. Pretty soon there won’t be room in there for you! 

But she texts before the last bell:

Meet me by the North Gate.

And, of course, here go your dumb ass walking again. About to let her shred your bus money like your feet ain’t still burning from the other day.

She talks nonstop the whole walk. About The Hills and how they replaced Kristin with that ugly ass ho, about 50’s new album, and who landed where on which music countdown. You only have the TV after Mamá Tina is done with la Novela. Just about a good hour to play Zelda before bedtime.  

Let her talk. Gives you time to catch your breaths. Stay a half step away. Keep wiping the sweat off your lip with your sleeve, hoping she can’t smell your deodorant quitting. Pull down your hoodie. Ask her if she heard of Linkin Park. Breathe. Don’t trip when she says, “Duh! I love them.” 

You ask if she seen X-Men United. Tío Niño took you to the premiere last summer. She says Bad Boyz II was funny as hell.

“We should rent it from Blockbuster,” she says. “You got a card?”

Your mouth be moving before your brain.

“Yeah,” you say.

A lie! How you gon get one now? There isn’t even a DVD player at your house.  

And here y’all are again, posted up at DQ. She licks the swirl off the cone like she paid, and you watch in a daze. Because only fools fall in love—and yeah, you one of them.

Now you show up to Phys Ed on time, even though you hate running laps. And Banesa slows down to let you keep up. 

“He smell like Bengay and depression,” she says, about Coach Barone.

You both lose it mid lap. 

After class she pops open the lock like it’s hers.

“Damn, Edi, it smell like yams.”

You laugh like you ain’t the yam.

Hand her the mixtape. Thirteen songs. Opens with Linkin Park. Ends with Hov. She Rican, so you throw in some Daddy Yankee to be on the safe side. After burning the CD, you wish you’d added bachata too.

“Wachumean?! I love Aventura,” she’ll say, when you mention it. Like you should’ve known better. 

Doodle the tracklist in purple gel pen, write her name in bubble letters with little stars around it, then scribble it out so it don’t look like you trying. Fold the case insert real careful and act like it’s no big deal when you say, “I made you this.”

Think you slick? 

“Aww,” she says. “You cute, Edi.”

Cute. Cute like a puppy. Cute like a joke. Cute like you soft. And you smile anyway—cuz it’s Banesa Delgado saying it to you.

Can’t even blame you. Shorty really doing the most.

Keeping you on messenger way past your bedtime, your two-way glowing under the blanket, pillow pressed to your face so Mamá Tina don’t hear. Whispering “You up?” like y’all grown. Asking you to come watch her volleyball practice like you don’t got chores. Calling you boo, babes, beba, chula, nena, mi amor in front of your boys. 

She even starts showing up to your lunch period with Ashley Jones—loud as ever, chewing gum mad disrespectfully.

“Tell me you love it,” Banesa says, lifting her shirt to show you her belly button.

A gold, heart-shaped belly ring. Tiny. Still crusted in healing goo. The skin around it puckered and pink.

Don’t nod so fast. Eyes wide. Heat crawling up your neck.

Across the table Chino drops his fork. 

“Do it hurt?” You ask. 

Banesa shrugs, biting into your mozzarella stick.

 “A little. Wanna touch it?” She grabs your hand. “Just don’t pull it.” 

Press your finger gently. Her skin is warm, soft, and a little sticky. 

Hold your breath.

“Yo, you wild delicate,” she says, then pokes you in the ribs.

You squeal. Deadass?! Cuz you a seal now? And we at SeaWorld, right?

“Ticklish ass,” she laughs, then does it again. 

“Gay much?” Ashley Jones says, raising one eyebrow like she invented shade. 

Banesa laughs, too loud, too long. Your cheeks burn. Your smile flickers, then dies. Something caves inside you. You feel your throat tighten. Don’t try laughing. It’ll come out like you forgot how.

Across the cafeteria, the lunch lady calls for clean-up just as you start wishing to disappear. 

You still thinking about it when Banesa texts in the middle of Home Ec:

“U mad quiet.”

You type:

“Just tired.”

But what you really mean is:

What games you playing? 

Do you like me, like me? 

——  

Take the bus home. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Hate to tell you, I told you so.  

Mamá Tina won’t be home when you get there, but the whole apartment is drowning in sofrito. She left you a plate on the table. White rice, pink beans, and chuleta. But you not hungry today, thoughts of Banesa fill you up. So you head straight to bed. 

Climb to the top of the bunk bed you and Mamá Tina share. Aside from the Aventura poster on the top corner, the room don’t got much of you in it. The dresser is covered in rosaries, a picture of la Virgencita, and a ceramic baby Jesus holding a bleeding heart.

 It’s always hot up there. The kind of hot that sticks to your back and makes you sweat between your cheeks. The ceiling fan stays off. You afraid one day you’ll sit up and lose your head. 

The phone buzzing in your pocket wakes you up.

BaneeDee

“U up?”

EdiThe_Kid88:

“Yeah.”

BaneeDee:

“What you doing?”

EdiThe_Kid88:

“Chillin.”

BaneeDee:

“I was thinking bout X-men. I think my dad looked like Wolverine.”

You too drowsy to follow. So you send her an emoji heart. 

BaneeDee:

“Nah fr. I seen a picture. He had crazy sideburns too.”

EdiThe_Kid88:

“I believed you.”

She keeps typing like it don’t matter who on the other end of her message. 

BaneeDee:

“She used to talk to spirits and shit. Before they took her.”

You reread that shit twice. Then one more time just to be sure. You didn’t even know her mom wasn’t around.

“My foster parents don’t really care what I do. I bet if I leave right now nobody would notice.”

You stare at the glowing screen in the dark. You wanna say something good. Something that makes her feel held.

EdiThe_Kid88:

“Damn. That’s wild.”

Is what you say, and slap yourself on the face after.

BaneeDee:

“Meet me on the cliffs?”

You hesitate. Even if you ride your bike, it will take dumb long to get there. 

EdiThe_Kid88:

“Nah. I can’t. My grandma don’t let me out after dark.” 

BaneeDee:

“Lame lol. It’s mad pretty. Stars and shit.”

Glance out the room. Mama Tina’s knocked out in front of the television. She be sleeping like a rock. You got chores, prayers, curfews. Banesa got stars, ghosts, and nothing to lose.

A full minute passes before Banesa writes:

“Com’on. Do it for me.”

You already out the window when the message buzzes through. 

Pedal like you on a mission, wind slapping your cheeks. Don’t pedal so hard, the chain gon skip. Don’t pedal so hard, your laces gon get caught on the whee By the time you hit the hill, you sweating bullets, thighs on fire. Damn, you really like her, huh?

When you get there Banesa is perched on the guardrail. Hoodie tied around her waist, legs swinging, face lit up by the ugly orange of a streetlamp.

“Took you long enough,” she say, like she didn’t summon you at midnight.

Park the bike. Plop down next to her. Reach for the half-empty bag of sunflower seeds in her hand.

“For a minute I thought you wasn’t coming,” she say.

You shrug out of breath. 

“Had to sneak out.” 

“You such a good girl,” she say.

Your legs dangle off the edge. Below, cars crawl along 1&9 like ants. It’s quiet except for the wind and the occasional pop of a far-off firework or gunshot—hard to tell which.

She tells you about getting benched for being rough.

“How can I be delicate blocking a damn ball?” She says.

When she asked, “whachumean rough?” Coach Barone gave her detention too. He don’t put up with her smart mouth like you. 

Laugh, but not so loud. 

“You cute,” she says.

Real casual. Like she don’t really mean it. But when her voice dips soft at the end you think maybe she do. Feel something start in your chest. An ache that floats up to your throat. You think this is your chance. The air gets thick and slow. She close now, close enough for you to smell her hair. All sugar, vanilla, and summer. She not looking at you, but she not looking away either. Her knee brushes yours. Then her shoulder.  She stays put. So you shift a little closer, heart thudding stupid loud, thinking—if she don’t pull back, maybe this is it. Maybe you can lean in. Maybe it’ll finally happen. 

You hold your breath. Your face inching toward hers. And then—

Engines. 

The sound splits the night. First a low rumble, then tires screeching like the world pulling the brakes. Headlights. The whole night washed in beams of yellow.

Banesa blinks slow, like nothing got interrupted.

A ‘92 Integra and a Camaro Z28 slide to a stop like it’s Fast & the Furious. Out pop Angel, Dean, and Ashley, all loud and smelling like tobacco and burnt rubber.

“Yo!” Angel yells, walking up with a swagger like his dick got hydraulics. “Look who it is.”

Banesa hops off the rail and smirks. 

“You late.”

“You early.” He slides his arm around her waist like she been waiting for him the whole time. Then he looks at you.

And oooohhh, you feel it. That slick-ass smile creeping across his face.

“Ayo,” he says, squinting at you. “Ain’t you the shorty who be carrying Banesa’s books? What’s good, mami, you her little butler or something?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Banesa says, but she grinning. Like Angel know how to be anything else.

“I’m her man.” Angel extends a hand like it’s a joke. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitate, looking at Banesa lean into Angel like she ain’t been whispering in your ear all damn month. Like y’all wasn’t just talmbout how cute you are. 

Look down at your shoes.

“Yo, I’m just sayin,” Angel keeps going. “You got a little fan club now, B?”

 “Shut up,” Banesa says, her voice light and playful, like she knows he’s right.

Ashley rolls her eyes, lights a Newport, and exhales. This whole scene bores her. 

“Banesa always got strays,” she says. “She need a leash.”

“This sure looks like a little date,” Angel goes on, “out here gazing at the stars and shit.”

Ashley bursts out laughing, loud and ugly. “You tryna get recruited to the team, Edi?” Dean cackles and bumps her shoulder, then lobs a bottle cap off the edge of the cliff.

Banesa shifts. You think she’s about to say something—but Angel grabs her chin and kisses her. Right there. Right in front of you. Like it’s nothing.

Like you’re nothing.

You pretend not to see. Pretend your bike chain need tightening. Pretend your throat don’t feel like it swallowed a brick. And right when you get up ready to leave—they part.

“I’m just playing. I know what it is,” Angel says, palming Banesa’s ass. 

What is it? you wonder.

“Y’all really gotta chill on my friend!” 

Friend, she said clearing the air. Friend, like that’s all you ever were. Like it’s always been obvious.

Ashley stretches, exaggerated, yawns into her palm. “I’m cold.”

Dean shrugs off his hoodie and wraps it around her shoulders. They drift toward the

Camaro, giggling and whispering like eighth graders with a secret.

“Yo, we out,” Angel says.

Banesa hugs you goodbye. Her cheek grazes yours, and you hate how much you still want her to stay.

Engines roar. The headlights bleach your vision before they whip around and disappear.

You ride home in the dark. Alone.

——  

I tried to tell you, didn’t I? That girl had nothing for you.

So stop checking your phone every time it buzzes. Stop watching the volleyball courts after school. And when she walks by you—talking loud, walking loud, smelling like sugar and sweat and that coconut oil she slathers on her legs—hold your breath.

Don’t wait by your locker hoping she comes around, and when she comes around, don’t rehearse a new version of yourself just to hear her say “aww.”

As big as you are, you know how to disappear. Make yourself invisible.

“She did what?” Chino says, biting off the end of his Cuban Sandwich.

Fat Danny laughs so hard he snorts soda out his nose.

“She made out with Angel,” he says, dabbing his face with a napkin. “Right in front of Edi.”

Don’t speak. You too tired to make sense of it all. Just take another bite of your spicy chicken wrap, even though you can’t even taste it. Your stomach ain’t been right since last night.

“I mean, do she even like girls like that?” Chino says. “She just play too much.”

“She stay playing,” Danny adds. “Remember how she asked Javi for a sip of his Sprite   and drank the whole thing? Savage.”

You fake a laugh, just to keep them from looking at you too hard. You nod at the right beats.

You don’t say, she texted me at 1 a.m. 

You don’t say, she let me touch her belly ring.

You don’t say, she made me feel wanted.

Instead, you say, “Yeah. It’s whatever.” 

After school, you walk right past the volleyball gym. You ignore the sound of the ball smacking the floor. You ignore the sound of her voice shouting “mine!” You don’t linger outside the window. You don’t peek through the door.

You go straight home.

You delete the messages. All of them.

Even the one where she said, “Babes, where you at?”

And the one after with the sick heart emoji, “missed you at gym 󰵘”

And the one where she asks, “yo what’s good? U ignoring me?”

You might as well delete her number from your phone. Hell, just turn the damn thing off. And when you lie in bed tonight, try not to picture her face under the orange streetlamp. Try not to want her. Try not to miss the way she smelled like coconut oil and fire. Try not to replay the way she kissed Angel in your face. Try not to wish you were him.

——  

You been ducking her all week.

Cutting gym. Skipping lunch. Taking the long way to class just to avoid the second-floor hallway.

You even stopped bringing your two-way to school altogether. Started sitting by that weird-ass flag mural in the main lobby—where nobody goes—just to stay off her radar.

But Banesa Delgado got range. She catch you outside the girls’ bathroom in the Special

Ed building. Cornered you like a goddamn fly.

“Edi,” she says, outta breath. Like she been looking for you.

You keep it pushing. She grabs your arm like your Manny Ramírez jersey wasn’t all your pool check from July. Like you and Tío Niño ain’t camp outside Champs three hours just to cop it before it sold out.

“Edi, wait up—please.”

You stop because her plea sounds like it cost her something.

“I need you to come with me,” she says.

“Come where?” 

You start walking again, but she pulls you back in, then lowers her voice.

“Planned Parenthood.”

You wait for her to laugh. For Ashley Jones to pop out from behind a locker, camera phone in hand, recording the punchline. But nobody’s laughing.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, eyes glassy. “I don’t know what to do.”

You feel something twist inside you. Something sharp. Part of you still wants to say: I got you. Part of you still means it. But you don’t flinch. You just pull your arm back slow.

“You should be looking for Angel,” you say, voice flat.

“I can’t.” Her voice cracks. “I can’t tell him. Not yet.”

You scoff. Loud. Too loud.

“So you come looking for me?” Your voice gets louder. Your body starts backing away.

“You need somebody to hold your hand, and I’m the lucky winner, huh?”

“Edi, don’t—”

“I should be jumping at the chance, right? That it? Be a good little friend and fix it?”

“I thought we—”

 “There ain’t no WE, Banesa. I ain’t the one who got you in this mess!”

Her shoulders drop. And for a second, she looks so small you regret your words.

“I know,” she whispers. “I just… I don’t know where else to go.”

You wish she hadn’t said that. Wish she hadn’t made it make sense.

“I’m not your man, Banesa!”

It echoes. Off lockers. Off tiled walls. Rattles down the hallway and loops back like a slap.

And just like that—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

Even the juniors near the vending machines stop chewing. Like you summoned him—Angel. 

“Damn right you not,” he says, real calm. Which is worse than yelling. “So what’s all this about?”

Banesa looks at you. Then him. Then the floor. 

“What you saying?” he says. 

The hallway doesn’t breathe for what feels like too long. Ashley slides in like she been here the whole time. Bubble gum in her mouth, staring like it was a scene from Pasión de Gavilanes. 

“You not her man, huh?” Angel says, “You sure as hell act like it.”

Don’t blink. Don’t say a word.

Banesa will try opening her mouth. But the only thing that’ll come out is a sob.

And then she’ll run. Past you. Past Angel. Past everyone. 

Nobody stops her. Not even you.

——  

You and Banesa don’t speak again. Not after that day. She never calls. You never text.

She stops showing up at your locker. Stops walking the halls like she owns them. 

You’ll catch her name in passing—

Banesa got benched. 

Banesa can’t play anymore. 

Banesa’s showing now.

Banesa gon keep it.

By mid-May, the bump will be undeniable. She’ll waddle past the vending machines in hoodies that don’t zip all the way. She won’t wear her hair down anymore. The ring will be gone.

Stretch marks will adorn her belly instead.

Ashley won’t be her bestie. They’ll smile if they catch each other in the hallway though. The bounce in her walk gets heavier. She’ll move like her lower back carries the weight of the world.

Some days, you’ll wait for her name to pop up on your two-way, but you’ll never talk about her. Not to Fat Danny, or Chino, or yourself in the mirror. 

You’ll just watch. From the edge.

The last time you see Banesa Delgado, you’ll be riding the bus home. She’ll be in line outside the Dairy Queen. Too many months pregnant. Sweating through a tight white tank top and jeans that don’t zip. Her face will be rounder. Her ankles will hurt too much not to lean against the wall. She’ll laugh at something the girl next to her says—and when your eyes meet, both of you resist the urge to smile, or wave, or anything. But in the split-second pause before she looks away, an old feeling will take over your body. Something filling, satiating, plentiful. 

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