“You’re crying because of a broken picture frame?”
I swallowed my sobs, still walking. I didn’t care about the stupid frame. I wanted Mamá back. And sometimes — when you’re alone in the world — you want someone to blame.
Like a pushy stranger.
Why would I want such a person in my life?
That’s a really good question.
SINCE I’D LEFT Mamá’s sweater at the youth center, I missed having it the next day at school. Like I was naked on the playground.
Worse than naked.
I wasn’t safe.
So after school when Rosa ordered me to get Suelita from Tía’s apartment, I said no.
Rosa said, “You have to. Papi says I’m in charge until Mamá comes home.”
“You’re not the boss of me.” I turned and walked toward the youth center, leaving her to shout at my back. I stuck my fingers in my ears, yelling over my shoulder, “La-la-la-la-la-la! I can’t hear you!”
Maybe if I’d gotten to the youth center one minute later, my life would be different. If I’d had to tie my shoelace. If the light had said DON’T WALK when I got to the corner. Miss might’ve left the package at the front counter for me and forgotten all about being obligated.
That’s not what happened.
After I grabbed my sweater off the back of the chair in the art room, I almost bumped into Miss again, just outside. With sunglasses hiding her sparkly eyes and a scarf covering her copper hair, you might think I wouldn’t recognize her. She looked like a movie star hiding from photographers.
So I knew it was Miss.
“Hello again!” She smiled, wide and white, like in a toothpaste commercial. As if I should be happy to see her.
And it was weird, because I was.
“Here.” She handed me a pink paper bag. “For your mom.”
Why does she have a gift for Mamá?
There’s a word for how I felt. Wary. Kids aren’t supposed to take gifts from strangers. I thought about saying “No, thank you” and walking away.
But then I’d never know what was in the bag.
It was a silver picture frame. Cut in fancy letters across the bottom was one word.
If I’d been a cartoon, my eyes would’ve popped out. When Mamá sees my photo in this, she’ll come home!
I was going to say thank you, but my mouth started moving before the right words could get there. “Miss, will you be my Amiga?”
Amiga means “friend” in Spanish, but at the youth center, it meant a lady to take you places. Not every girl had one. There were never enough volunteers.
The girls with Amigas argued about whose was best. The rest of us pretended we didn’t want one. We said only braggers had Amigas.
Angélica talked about her Amiga’s Mercedes — a car rich people drive. The rest of us listened while the green monster grew in our bellies. Having an Amiga was like finding treasure. Better, because treasure gets spent, and people stay with you.
I never asked myself if two people as different as Miss and me could ever really be amigas.
Miss smiled. “Sure!”
Mrs. Espinosa burst out of the youth center. “Kathryn! I’m rushing to an appointment, but I could make a little time if —”
Miss said, “No, no. I’m here for Jacinta. And — call me Kate.”
“She’s going to be my Amiga!” I blurted.
Mrs. Espinosa beamed at Miss. “Great! I’ll get you an application!”
The smile slid off Miss’s face. “Application?”
Mrs. E.’s eyes flicked over to me, then back to Miss. “The Amiga program is a mentorship.”
Miss turned red. Red like a stoplight, and just as fast. “Mentor? I just thought —” Miss glanced at me, then turned back to Mrs. E. “What — exactly — are we talking about?”
“It’s a one-year commitment —” Mrs. E. started.
“Oh. No. Sorry.”
I looked down so Miss wouldn’t see my tears. Angélica was always calling me Leaky Lids.
Then Miss said, “I brought a little something to make it right with Jacinta for ruining her picture frame yesterday, but I seem to be making it worse.”
“Let me see,” said Mrs. E., eyeing the bag I was holding.
Hands shaking, I showed her the frame.
“It has my name on it!” I begged, using what Rosa calls my puppy-dog eyes.
Mrs. E. ignored my eyes. Instead she gave Miss a pained look. “Kate, we don’t give expensive gifts to the kids. It causes problems.”
Then Mrs. Espinosa looked at me. “And you should know better.”
My heart dropped into my stomach. My puppy-dog eyes were my superpower. But they never worked on Mrs. E.
Miss’s face turned blotchy. “I — I should’ve asked. But I can’t take it back. It’s engraved.”
A pink bubble of hope grew in my chest.
Mrs. E. folded her arms. The word for her look is resigned. “We’ll let it go. This time. Keep it to yourself, Jacinta. No bragging.”
But we both knew better. Bragging is what girls do.
I threw my arms around Miss. “Thank you!”
She staggered, then patted me on the back with the hand that wasn’t pinned to her side.
“Are you rich?” I studied her face, but I could only see myself — as twins — reflected in her sunglasses.
Her smile crept up her cheek. As if I’d said something funny. Later she’d explain that people don’t ask each other how much money they have. It’s too personal. But I’d never heard of personal.
Mrs. Espinosa squeezed my shoulder. So I let go of Miss.
Then Mrs. E. said to her, “Thanks for your report on Teen Promise. We’re already getting calls and donations.”
Miss made what’s called a rueful smile. “Then it wasn’t a complete disaster. Most of the time it’s just work, but this story really got to me. These girls are too young. We need to be there for them.”
“We’re glad you — oh! Wait!” Mrs. Espinosa dug into her purse and pulled out an envelope. “I knew there was reason for seeing you. I heard you love gymnastics. Didn’t you compete when you were younger?”
“Until I got too tall.”
“Here. Two passes for the exhibition tonight at Michener. A thank-you from the youth center.”
For a moment, Miss’s eyes brightened. “Eva Chávez is going to be there!” Then she frowned. “But the station has a strict policy about gratuities, and — the past few weeks haven’t gone so well.”
Miss sighed, and I knew. She had pain in her life. I knew because — since Mamá left — I’d had pain in mine. Maybe it’s weird for a kid to feel sorry for a rich lady.
But I did.
Mrs. E. grinned. Pushing the envelope into Miss’s hands, her voice dripped with syrupy sweetness. “Please take one of our girls. As a volunteer.”
“Take me!” I didn’t know I was going to say it. The words just popped out.
Mrs. E.’s eyes twinkled. “It’s community service.”
Miss bit her lip. She looked at the envelope, then at me. Like I was a book she was trying to read. I showed her my puppy-dog eyes.
“I can’t be your mentor,” Miss warned.
Mrs. Espinosa’s smile was warm, persuasive. “You said that it’s important to be there for these girls.”
Miss made her sideways smile. A whiff of air blew out of her nose. Like a snort, only quiet.
Mrs. E. pressed. “Jacinta’s family lives a few blocks away. I’ll meet you there tonight to introduce you to her father.”
Miss shrugged. “A one-time thing. Why not?”
Right now, I can think of a hundred reasons why not.
But that’s how it started. By forgetting Mamá’s sweater, I stepped onto a roller coaster — an emotional roller coaster.
I did it to myself.
And that just shows that the big wounds are self-inflicted.
I DIDN’T SPEND the afternoon being apprehensive. I didn’t know that word.
Papi didn’t notice.
He paced over the spot in the carpet where you could see the concrete underneath. Then he’d glance out the living-room window, into the dark stairwell.
Papi hadn’t left for his night job. He wanted to meet the rich lady who was taking me somewhere. Rosa pretended to read one of my movie magazines.
When I stopped jumping to breathe, Papi asked me again, in Spanish. “What have you told this woman?”
“Nada, Papi”— nothing.
If it’d been up to him, I wouldn’t be going with Miss at all. Papi liked everything to stay the same. That was the way to be safe. But Mamá had called that afternoon, so I’d been able to ask her if I could go with Miss. She was almost as excited as me. “Maybe this lady will be your Amiga, mija!”
When she said it, I’d crossed my fingers. For good luck.
Two pairs of legs came down the steps. I leaped off the sofa and threw open the door. Miss walked in first. She didn’t need to duck, but she did. She looked bright and shiny in our dark apartment. If it’d been December, we could’ve put her in the window for a Christmas tree.
Suelita ran behind Papi and hung on to his pant leg. She scowled at Miss, practically growling. At age two, she already knew to be afraid of white people.
But Mrs. Espinosa was glowing. She was always trying to get new volunteers for the youth center. Getting someone famous to volunteer was like having the prize show dog at the Durango Fair. “Miguel Juárez, this is Kath —”
Miss interrupted. “Call me Kate.”
Papi took the pale hand she offered in his grease-stained one. He had to look up to nod to her. His face turned red under his dark skin. “Hello, Miss.”
“How do you do, Miguel?” Her smile was so wide, I could’ve counted every one of her perfect teeth.
The ladies sat on our lumpy sofa. Papi’s skin went darker. I don’t know if it was because he hadn’t asked them to sit, as Mamá would have, or because the cushions were covered in bits of fluff that stuck to their clothes.
You could’ve guessed Miss was a TV reporter, the way she started asking questions. “So, Jacinta, do you like school?”
“’S okay,” I said, twisting my hair around a finger. A lie.
I hated school. Mamá would remind me that she’d left her own mother so that I could go to school. “You could be smart, mija! You could work in an office!” But office work was still work. I didn’t see the point.
“What do you do for fun?” Miss asked.
“Watch movies. It’s only three dollars on Tuesdays at the Costello.”
“What kind of food do you like?”
“Tamales are my favorite. I don’t like gringo food.” Miss’s lips twitched. Then I thought about cotton candy. “Maybe some gringo food.”
Mrs. E.’s eyebrows traveled way up her forehead. “Jacinta, we don’t say gringo. It’s not a nice word.”
My face got hot. I didn’t know gringos don’t like to be called gringos. I just thought it meant somebody who’s not Mexican. Kids at school call us Mexicans sometimes. It’s not a bad word either, but they use it like an insult — something meant to hurt.
Miss didn’t look upset. Her smile hitched itself on the side of her face again. “I like Mexican food. But I’m not much of a cook. Maybe you’ll teach me.”
Happy butterflies in my stomach. She was talking future tense.
Rosa butted in. “I know how to cook, Miss! I can teach you!”
My Miss turned her sparkly eyes on Rosa, so my sister began to tell about the food she makes.
Both of them showed their big white teeth.
And the green monster grew in me.
The night started pretty bad. First I couldn’t find Mamá’s sweater. Miss kept looking at her watch while I dug through the front closet. She was tapping her foot by the time I remembered I’d shoved the sweater in my backpack on my way home. But I needed Mamá’s sweater. For protection.
And I expected Miss to be driving something cool. Something I could brag to Angélica about at school the next day. I stood in the parking lot, looking around for a red sports car — maybe even a convertible. But when Miss pushed the button on her keychain, the lights flashed on an ugly brown minivan. What boys in our neighborhood would call a beater.
She wouldn’t even let me sit in the front seat next to her. “The air bag could break your neck.”
“I’ll be twelve in two months!”
“My van, my rules.”
Miss was being annoying — like Rosa — but annoying was familiar. I relaxed.
A little.
It’d started to rain, and it was already dark. And because we’d left late, Miss drove fast. Faster than Papi ever did. He needed to be careful. If la policía stopped him, he’d get a long bus ride and have to swim back.
The shiny black streets reflected the red glare of stoplights and taillights. Car dealerships and fast-food places flew by. My skin prickled at so much dangerous color.
Like having Christmas and a sick stomach at the same time.
I thought of Suelita and Rosa safe at home, snuggled together on the sofa, the soft light of the television bouncing off their faces in the dark.
But with Mamá gone, there’s no one at home to cuddle me.
Everything in the van squeaked and rattled. The bare metal of the windshield wipers scraped half circles into the glass.
“You should have a red sports car.”
“I need something to haul my kids around.”
“How many kids do you have, Miss?”
“Two. Boys. A little older than you.”
“If you were my Amiga, it’d be like having a daughter,” I hinted.
The light ahead flicked from green to yellow to red. Miss’s brakes squealed like an animal being stepped on. The sound made my teeth hurt. Even wearing my seat belt — which Miss had insisted on — I pitched forward.
While waiting for the light, she picked a piece of sofa stuffing from her skirt and flicked it away. Air from the heating vent caught it. The fluff floated up and attached itself to her shoulder. “Jacinta, why do you call me ‘Miss’?”
“What else would I call you?”
“How about ‘Kate’?”
“No, Miss. That wouldn’t be polite.”
She looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Then ‘Miss’ it is.”
“How come you didn’t work today?” I asked.
“I did.”
“I watched 5News at Five. I didn’t see you.”
“They’ve got me doing features for the early-afternoon show.”
“But you were at the youth center after school today.”
“I finished early. I don’t always have a live shot.”
“Why not?”
She sighed. “Because some days they have real news.”
That made me angry. Like maybe the stuff in my neighborhood wasn’t important enough for TV.
Rosa always said I could talk the hind leg off a donkey, although talking its ears off would make more sense. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say to Miss. I wasn’t even sure I liked her that much. I was almost glad when she started asking questions again. Until I heard the question.
“Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?”
I knew what I wanted to be. I wanted to be a movie star. But kids in our neighborhood didn’t get to be movie stars. So I just said, “No, Miss.”
She nodded. “As long as it’s not TV news.”
“You don’t like your job?”
“Let’s just say I don’t like the environment.”
Back then I didn’t understand what the environment had to do with Miss not liking her job. But now I know she just didn’t like her boss.
We drove, not talking. I looked at the gum wrappers on the floor. “If I were rich, I’d buy a red convertible.”
From behind came a siren. Red and blue lights bounced across the roof of the van. Panic.
“Oh, hell. I’m not speeding, am I?”
I couldn’t speak. I wiped my damp hands on the seat.
The police car flew by and screamed away into the night. Relief flooded through me.
Miss said, “Thank goodness. We’re late enough as it is.”
SHE DROVE into a parking garage.
I’d never been in one before. “Isn’t that a lot of money to pay to park?”
“It’s ridiculous, but all of the on-street parking is gone. Somebody wasn’t ready when it was time to leave.”
We climbed wide concrete steps to a big building. It loomed. Like a jail.
“Miss, what kind of meeting is this?” My voice sounded weird and high. I’d been so excited about going with Miss that I hadn’t stopped to wonder where she was taking me.
“It’s a meet. A gymnastics meet.”
I stopped. “A what?”
Feeling me tug on her hand, Miss turned. Lights from the building outlined her silhouette. Her face was a shadow. “Gymnastics. It’s a sport. Like — basketball. You know what basketball is?”
“Yesss.” Does she think I’m stupid?
She started to move again. I yanked my hand away. “I don’t know how to play.”
Her teeth appeared in the dark. She was smiling. “We’re not going to play. We’re going to watch. It’ll be fun.”
I wasn’t having fun. Miss smiled because I didn’t know things. But I needed her to like me. When I’d talked to Mamá that afternoon, she’d reminded me that Angélica’s Amiga bought her shoes. “You need new shoes, mija.”
Heart pounding, I followed Miss inside.
Bright lights and the smell of nachos and popcorn pushed away the gloom and damp. People glanced at us.
Then they looked again, gaping at Miss.
She didn’t notice. She was used to being famous.
The lady taking tickets at the door of the large gymnasium spotted us. “Kathryn Dawson Dahl!”
She dragged Miss to the head of the line.
Heads turned. Instead of complaining about us taking cuts, people grinned. Some took pictures. Miss gave them her toothpaste smile. “Hello, everyone!”
Look Both Ways in the Barrio Blanco Page 2
