The air in Our Lady of Perpetual Hope was so thick it stuck to my lungs like syrup. Even with all the flowers, sweat, and perfume, all I could smell was sorrow. The tiny little church was packed with pubescent boys and girls, each of us perspiring in our best clothes as we prepared to say good-bye to one of our own.
The pews had long disappeared under a sea of mourners crowding together to fill any available space. Cranky babies and toddlers were passed from lap to lap like small ships unable to find a comfortable harbor. The endless chain of mourners was even more uneasy. Wet faced girls cried openly and even the toughest of the Cholo boys wiped at swollen eyes. We stood with bodies pressed so tight, we practically moved as one, slowly pushing our way down the isle. We crept toward the terrible mountain of flowers, stuffed animals, and balloons, each of us searching for the coffin, afraid to see what was left of the mutilated girl inside.
Gloria De Guzman looked like a bride on a bed of white satin, strangely prettier and more perfect than she had been in life. Someone whispered that the elaborate gown, trimmed with flowers and pearls, was the same dress she'd worn to her first communion just months before. "Ay Dios mio. Ay Dios mio." I knew if I turned my head I'd find Gloria's mom seated in the front row. She'd been our lunch lady for so many years I recognized her voice as it rose above the others. "Ay Dios mio. Ay Dios mio."
Gloria's death was so sharp and clear that the memory of the living girl was now just a shadow. The pictures across the alter told the story of a girl with shiny black braids and a gap toothed grin, but what I wanted to see were her knees. Scraped and scabby with knee socks that never stayed in place, Gloria De Guzman had been the Jump Rope Queen all through elementary school. It didn't matter that she was thirteen now, thirteen for always. I pulled the jump rope out of my pocket, making sure the note was still attached.
It'd been three years since Gloria De Guzman, the Jump Rope Queen, had been taken by the streets, the same streets separating me from June. Pistol was right. It was a crappy plan. The sun was down and the gangs were out, but June was in trouble. What else could I do?
