Mexican WhiteBoy by Matt de la Pena Page B

still listening. He’s never thought of his Mexican neighborhood like this. He looks out over his high school. Wonders if he’s gonna go through his entire life without paying attention.
    “It’s people who wander into your city, Uno. They the only ones who could see your life for what it is. National City, boy. Ain’t but a forgotten slice of America’s finest city. And you know what’s on the tip of all y’all’s tongues? Each and every one of y’all?”
    Uno turns back to his dad. Shrugs.
    “Money, baby.”
    Uno nods. What his dad’s saying is totally true.
    “Ain’t just you, son. It’s every fool down here. If it ain’t money they talkin’ specifically, it’s some pseudonym of money. Some materialization of the concept. Maybe they usin’ a different word. Like
dividends. Dough. Funds. Scratch.
The Mexican cats call it
dinero
. Or
billetes
or
scrilla.
Back in the day we used to call it paper. ‘Yo, you wanna get down with homegirl you gots to have paper, son.’ ‘I got paper.’ ‘Not
that
kind of paper, you don’t.’ Or maybe they talkin’
around
money. They talkin’ food stamps or government cheese. Supplemental housing. Unemployment checks. Disability. Welfare. Or maybe they so beaten down from a lack of funds, they don’t have no talk left in ’em at all. But even these folks, Uno. They
thinkin’
’bout money. Ain’t that right?”
    Uno nods, riveted. That’s
exactly
right, he thinks. Even the people who don’t talk about money are thinking about it. Because everybody’s poor. Every one of his friends. Their families.
    Senior takes a roll of breath mints out of the pocket of his khakis, unwraps it and pops one in his mouth. He wads the wrapper up and shoves it back in his pocket. “Take a look around you, son. Everywhere—it’s the same goddamn thing. Some old union cat and his wife are sittin’ at the kitchen table right this second, balancin’ they checkbook. Scannin’ overdue bills, highlightin’ dates shit gets turned off.
    “Across the way some little Mexican girl’s openin’ up a fashion magazine. The one she keep hidden under the bed. She turnin’ to page a hundred and fifty-one. Pullin’ out a secret stash of cash and countin’: ‘Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight.’ She’s restackin’ them bills over and over, in order of value, but it still ain’t enough to get her hair done. Not like the little white girl in the magazine. The actress. She flippin’ to that dog-eared magazine page again, studyin’ the picture. Lookin’ at herself in the mirror, runnin’ a couple fingers through her nappy-ass hair.
    “Your little stepbrother Manny. He at the Arby’s down the street mopping a soda spill near the patio exit. The new owner just enrolled in a program where they send you partially retarded cats to work part time. He gets a tax break from the state. Gets cheap labor and a write-up in the local paper. Looks like a hero. Your little bro’s mopping away until he spots an abandoned quarter, reaches down for it. When some white broad walks by with a pipin’-hot meal deal he holds the quarter out and tells her: ‘Excuse me, miss? Who lost this quarter, miss?’
    “But the woman just shakin’ her head, Uno. She hurryin’ past. Know why? ’Cause she scared of this little retarded Mexican with a mop.”
    Uno searches his head for connection. His brother doesn’t work at Arby’s. Is he just saying that as a figure of speech?
    Senior slaps the bleacher, says: “And here I am with my firstborn. Just gave the boy a ten-spot. So he could go get hisself some lunch tomorrow. ‘Something with vegetables,’ I tell him. ‘Gotta fuel a young mind with the right nutrients. Can’t fly a rocket ship to the moon with the same juice you pump into a lawn mower.’ But he ain’t even hear me. My own son. Shades drawn on his daddy. And why? ’Cause he programmed to hear what rich white folks tell him in the media. And he