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  • Katy Kola
  • Sara Márquez Durst (bio)

Katy lived in our building, in the apartment directly below us. She always wore her brown hair in two braids that went through the air because outside of school she was only ever seen on her roller blades. I had never seen anyone visiting her apartment. She told people her mom didn't want the kids bringing their smells inside and ruining the air. I had heard that Katy's older sister was sick and couldn't really come into contact with people, but there was another rumor that her mom ate the neighborhood kids for dinner, so I wasn't really sure what to believe. I think it was really because our neighborhood was full of Latin kids running around. We smelled like chicken bouillon, but Katy smelled like flowers. I usually sat with Katy on the stoop during the summertime. No one really spoke to me (Gracie once said I had put an ant down her shirt during recess, so the other kids were scared of me), and no one really spoke to Katy (she said Gracie was the one to put an ant down my shirt at recess), so we usually sat together, not really talking.

"Th at kid Chico from across the street brought in some sodas to school the other day," Katy said.

"Okay." I was picking at a scab that had formed on my knee and that had trapped some dirt inside. I had tried on Katy's roller blades by the basketball court, but I fell over as I tried to stand. Katy had laughed at me and said that wasn't how you roller skate.

Katy moved her legs back and forth, so the backs of her roller blades would hit the step under her. "Kola Inglesa," she told me. "I've actually had it before. Tasted like candy."

I finally managed to make the scab open up. The blood prickled out and I stuck the tip of my middle fingernail into it, trying to dig out the dirt.

"Soda does that," I said.

"Last week he brought in Inca Kola. That was okay too." "Oh. I don't really like that one."

"Ronnie said the same thing."

"Ronnie has good taste." [End Page 189]

I winced at the stinging I was inflicting on myself. I gave up on taking the dirt out. I hadn't washed my hands before sitting down and I was only getting more dirt in the cut.

"What's an Inca?"

"People from Perú," I said.

"Like anyone?"

"No … like Indians. They're dead now. They died a long time ago. I think a hundred years ago."

"So is the soda from a hundred years ago?"

"I don't think so."

"It tasted kind of new. I don't think it's from a hundred years ago."

"I don't think so, either."

"I like cola. My mom doesn't let us drink sweet drinks anymore. She said my dad drank the stuff and he's a no-good slob because of it."

"Where's your dad now?"

"I don't know," Katy said, shrugging. "My mom won't tell us."

A line of ants was crawling toward Katy's hand. I wondered if she would see them. I didn't warn her. I just waited to see if she would cry like Gracie had.

"I spilled soda on myself once," she said, "and when I went home my mom yelled at me because it was my nice shirt."

Katie didn't cry. She simply wiggled her thumb, and I frowned.

"What kind of soda?" I asked.

"Cola. It was that shirt that had the little flowers sewn on."

I nodded. I knew that shirt. We all did. It was the prettiest and most expensive shirt any of us kids on the block owned. I had to resist the urge to pull off one of the fabric flowers. Katy said her mom had brought it back from Paris and we had all lined up to look at it when she wore it for picture day. A week later, Ronnie's sister, Clara, was wearing the same shirt but in blue...

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