The Painted Boy Read Free Page A

says?”
    He shook his head. “It’s in Chinese. I know, I know. But I was born in Chicago, not in Hong Kong or the main-land. I can speak Mandarin, but I can’t read it. Everyone in my family speaks Cantonese except for Paupau and my mother. Anyway, the point is your uncle wouldn’t be able to read it, either.”
    “Tío Sandro makes his own decisions about who he thinks’ll fit in here.” She smiled. “And since I’m putting in a good word for you, I know the job’s yours if you want it.”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “And until you can get a place of your own, you can sleep on my couch.”
    He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
    “Are you this nice to all strangers?” he asked.
    “I just like helping people.”
    “And I totally appreciate it.”
    “Oh, and before you get any ideas,” she said, “I’ve got a boyfriend.”
    “’S cool. I’ve got a girlfriend.”
    There was a laugh in his dark eyes that made her ask, “What’s her name?”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t met her yet.”
    “Has that line ever worked for you?” she asked.
    “What? You don’t believe in romance and true love? That somewhere out there is the one person who’s going to make you complete?”
    “Is this more of your grandmother’s wisdom?”
    “Nope, this is all my own.”
    She shook her head. “Life’s not a pop song, it’s a rap song. And around here, it’s a narcocorrido .”
    “Say what?”
    “Do you know what corridos are?”
    “Some kind of Mexican music?”
    She nodded. “They’re part of the norteño tradition and usually have a polka beat. In the old days they would tell the stories of the Mexican ‘Robin Hood’ bandits like Malverde—‘the generous bandit’ who stole from the rich and then shared his loot with the poor. There’s even a song about how at the end of his life, he got one of his own friends to turn him in so that his people would benefit from the reward money.”
    “Cool.”
    “If it’s true.”
    “But now . . . ?” Jay said.
    “Now bands sing narcocorridos praising the murderers and drug lords who rule the bandas . It’s weird, but in Spanish the word for band and gang are the same, and now these stupid kids are showing us why.”
    “But it’s just like rap, isn’t it? Most of the people who make it and listen to it aren’t actually drug lords going around shooting people.”
    “No, here it’s the bandas that get shot. A group’ll sing a song in praise of one of the drug lords and members of a rival gang will shoot them for it.”
    “And is everyone like that around here?”
    “No, of course not. But it still cuts close to home. My friend Anna’s brother was killed in a drive-by a couple of years ago. My cousin José is in prison. The bandas are everywhere. Even my uncle ran with a gang when he was a kid, but he got out of la vida loca before he hurt himself or anyone else.”
    “Lucky.”
    Rosalie shook her head. “No, smart. And brave. It’s hard to turn your back on your friends the way he had to. Because they’re like your family. So he understands why José was running with the Kings, but it still breaks his heart that his only son’s in jail.”
    Jay glanced where the gangbangers had been earlier.
    “Maybe I picked the wrong place to move,” he said.
    “Oh, no. I’m making it sound horrible. There are lots of good people here, too. And there’s lots of other kinds of music, and all kinds of arts and street fairs and festivals. We have the mountains and the desert. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.”
    He smiled. “Well, I’m here now, so I might as well get a taste of it.”
    “Do you want me to talk to my uncle? I’m working another shift tonight. You could help out and when it’s slow I’ll show you the ropes.”
    He plucked at his T-shirt. “I’m kind of grubby.”
    “Oh, right. You should have a shower and clean up first. I’ll see if Anna’s free to run you over to my place.”
    “Is this the Anna whose brother was