Chameleon Read Free Page B

stepped through the door, and they all started talking. Andre stayed outside bouncing circles around each leg. Right hand: dribble-dribble right, dribble-dribble back, dribble-dribble between legs, switch. Repeat with left hand. He’d gotten good enough that he could wink at me and Trent as we crept inside.
    The Tamale Hut. It was also in the DMZ, and since it was on the way home for almost everybody, it was always jumping on afternoons during the school year. The door dinged open onto little wooden tables with orange benches scattered across a small room. Bottles of Cholula hot sauce sat next to Tabasco and salt and pepper as the condiments of choice. Miguel, the owner, had been bangin’ the bell there for as long as we could remember.
    Ding-ding: “
Número ocho.
Tamale platter. Strawberry soda.”
    Miguel was cool too. His son went to our school a few years ago, and Miguel was nice to everybody: blacks, Mexicans, whoever. Plus his food was good. But the hot sauce he put on the table was a monster! The first time Lorenzo tried it, he poured it on like it was salt or something. Shaka-shaka-shaka. Shaka-shaka-shaka.
    “Lorenzo, man, you gonna burn your tongue. Why don’t you taste it first?” I said.
    Shaka-shaka. Shaka-shaka-shaka. Shaka. Shaka-shaka.
    “See, that’s the difference between me and you, Shawn: you too careful for your own good. Me: I’m an adventurer, an explorer,” Lorenzo said.
    When the tamale touched his lips, his tongue leaped from his mouth. His nostrils flared, and his eyes became a faucet for his tears.
    “You all right there, Marco Polo?” I asked.
    “Water! I need water! Miguel . . .
agua, por favor! AGUA!
” Lorenzo had screamed before rushing the counter like his drawers were on fire.
    See, there’s a difference between being an adventurer and being stupid.
    “What’s up, skinny Shawn?”
    Passion’s voice snapped me back into the present.
    Her thin black frame plunked down next to me, across from Trent. Lorenzo was already up at the counter.
    “Oh, and hi, fool!”
    Trent rolled his eyes and looked at me. I knew that look.
    But Passion Jackson is a good friend to have. If somebody was to curse any of her friends or bad-mouth someone who’s done something good for her, then she is their personal pit bull. She’ll defend your name like it was hers. Get on her bad side, though . . .
    One time during PE she got mad at Trent because he almost hit her with a softball. It was an honest mistake, because everybody knows that Trent can’t throw too straight. So the ball comes flying in a little too close to her face. Well, that was just
it.
Passion sucked her teeth, shook her head, rushed the mound with the bat, and started swinging at Trent. Me, Ivy, and Lorenzo jumped in, and ol’ girl just would
not
stop. Good thing Trent was fast, ’cause he ran away from her when she got too close with the bat. Ever since then she thinks Trent is out to get her. Trent thinks she’s crazy. Shoot, if I had a girl rush me with a bat, I would think she was crazy too.
    “So what y’all up to today?” she asked.
    “You know. Same ol’, same ol’. Play some ball. Hang out . . . you know,” I said.
    Her eyes narrowed in on Trent.
    “Yeah, I know . . . a whole lotta nothing as usual.”
    “Don’t start with me, Passion,” Trent said.
    “Don’t start with
me,
little boy,” she said, rolling her eyes and neck at Trent.
    “Come on, now. You guys are worse than cackling hens,” I said.
    As Trent and Passion exchanged evil eyeballs, I wandered my eyes over to Marisol. Mare-ee-sol.
Te amo.
I love you.
Te quiero mucho.
I want you. Oooh, you look good today. How you say that?
    “So what’s up with Marisol these days?” I asked Passion.
    “What you mean, what’s up with Marisol?”
    “He’s asking you if she got a boyfriend, thickhead,” Trent jumped in.
    “Shawn, please tell me Dumbo here didn’t say what I think he just said. I
know
he didn’t call me no thickhead!” She stood and