Isabel's Texas Two-Step

by Annie Bryant

  There were low buildings in one direction, and nearby, a fenced-in corral. To the right I saw the corner of a swimming pool, sparkling in the morning sun. I saw cows in the distance. I raised one of the glass windows and inhaled.

  “Yeeeee-haaaaw,” I started, realizing my cowgirl cheer needed some serious work to sound authentic. But I would definitely have some time to perfect it here. The morning was cool, quiet, and I felt so happy…until I remembered the broken eagle. I forced myself to put the image of a cracked eagle wing out of my mind. It was such a beautiful day, I didn’t want to miss any of it.

  I dressed quickly and headed toward the kitchen, running my fingers along the bumpy stuccoed walls of the long hallway. The texture of the walls appealed to me and I imagined having walls like that in own home someday. I passed an empty dining room and skipped into the kitchen.

  Fidencia faced the stove, her slapping hands letting me know I’d soon be feasting on fresh tortillas. Mmm! I couldn’t wait. Mercedes sat at the prep table, slicing and mincing a mound of vegetables and herbs. She was sipping a cup of steaming Mexican coffee. The smell of cinnamon made my nose twitch with pleasure. Soft accordion sounds came from a radio nearby.

  “Buenos días,” I said.

  Both ladies fussed over me like mother hens, rushing me with questions. Hungry? Thirsty? Did you sleep well? What does the preciosa need? Their fawning was just what I needed, and a pleasant warmth came over me. I didn’t know what to answer first. There were so many choices.

  Suddenly I heard the rooster crow, and it sounded so close it scared me out of my wits! “Eeeee!” I shrieked as I felt a little peck on my ankle. I couldn’t believe it—that naughty rooster was under the kitchen table!

  “¡Pecas! ¡Fuera!” Fidencia grabbed a broom and shooed the bird out the door, which was propped open with a rock.

  “¿Le llamas ‘Pecas’?” I asked. What a weird name for a rooster. “Freckles?”

  “Sí, sí, Freckles. Muy travieso, ese gallo, el Pecas,” Mercedes said.

  Travieso. Now there’s a word I hadn’t heard in a while. It meant troublemaker. Would my aunt think I was a troublemaker when she found out about the broken eagle?

  As if on cue, Aunt Inez appeared. She was perfectly groomed and wore lots of beautiful turquoise jewelry. “My darling, you’re up early,” she greeted me. “Did you sleep well? Everybody else is still in bed.”

  “Good morning! I slept fine. Tía, what lovely jewelry! And did you know that my room changes colors?” I was babbling, but I was afraid. I wanted to tell her about the eagle, but I had promised Ricardo not to say anything just yet.

  She looked at me funny and said, “You have the eye of an artist, I see. Light is so important to how color is interpreted.” Then she clapped her hands—I was so nervous I almost jumped!—and proclaimed, “We’re going to have a full day, mi ’jita. Breakfast will be served shortly after eight, so have some lovely strawberries or cereal in the meantime, please. Mercedes will be knocking on everyone’s door soon to get us going.” And then she flew off like an…eagle?

  The day’s activities were announced at the breakfast table. All the ladies were going to San Antonio’s famous River Walk, a colorful area of shops and restaurants that is one of the most popular tourist sites in Texas. I had read all about the art galleries that lined the streets. I shivered in anticipation.

  “Afterwards,” Aunt Inez announced, “we will have lunch at the revolving Tower of the Americas restaurant.” Then she read such a long shopping list of quinceañera items that it made me dizzy.

  “I hope I’m up to one of Inez’s marathon shopping sprees,” Mom teased with a laugh. But I knew she was worried about keeping up.

  Uncle Hector came in, pushing a folded compact wheelchair before him. “For you, Esperanza. Just in case,” he added with a smile. “This is very light and easy to pull along.”

  Mom looked genuinely touched. “How thoughtful, Hector. Now I can really shop until I drop!” she said with a laugh. I know what my job is today, I thought. I loved pushing Mom in her wheelchair, because it made me feel like I was important—like I was really helping her.

  Uncle Hector cleared his throat. “Muchachos, honored guests of my precious niece Elena Maria, today I am treating you to a tour of San Antonio’s missions. Some ruins of the old missions can be found on this property. We will return here for lunch, and then my sons will be happy to show you around our modest ranch.”

  Scott and Andrew high-fived each other, relieved to miss the shopping expedition. I knew nothing about the San Antonio missions, but they sounded way more interesting than shopping for more quinceañera stuff. I looked at my mother, whose eyebrows said, Don’t even think of asking. Given my adventures the night before, I dared not utter one ounce of complaint about anything. No, today…I would be mature, as befitting a member of my sister’s court.

  Shop Till You Drop

  During the drive to the River Walk, Aunt Inez rambled on about the origins of San Antonio. But her history lesson, like Ricardo’s, was actually pretty interesting. Aunt Inez was beginning to grow on me. She seemed to have so many passions—art, history, shopping….

  “As the Spaniards moved northward from Mexico,” she told us, “Franciscan friars enlisted local Indians to help them build forts. A string of protective settlements were established along a river. These included presidios, or outposts, and missions, which were religious communities. One of them, the Mission San Antonio de Valero, would become the heart of the city. That mission was closed in 1793 and eventually became known as the Alamo, probably named after a regiment of soldiers that was later stationed there.

  “The Alamo is the best known of all the missions, but in my opinion, the least impressive,” she said. “But it’s on the River Walk, next to the mall that we’re going to.”

  “Will we get to see it?” I asked hopefully.

  “If we have time, but I doubt it,” she said.

  I now could see what I’d missed last night on the ride from the airport. As we got closer to the city center, the roads gave way from neighborhood clusters of one-story wood-frame houses to modern office towers.

  “Everything is so spread out here,” Jill said. “And look at that old movie theater, the Alameda. It looks like it’s frozen in time.”

  “Elena, are your cousins who make up the rest of your honor court going to wear something different from us?” Lauren asked.

  “The dresses have been ordered for the damas,” Aunt Inez answered before Elena Maria could even open her mouth. “Lauren, Jill, you two will be fitted today. Elena Maria, I have some choices already in mind for you. But, of course, you get to make the final selection.” My aunt and my sister beamed at each other.

  I glanced over at my mom, who was staring out the window. She didn’t seem that interested in the conversation. I wondered why. I knew Elena Maria’s quinceañera was very important to her.

  The River Walk was right on the San Antonio River. We walked along paths shaded by flowering trees and plants. This led us to the back entrances of many of the mall’s shops, which was a picturesque route. Luckily there were plenty of ramps for wheelchairs. Aunt Lourdes and I took turns pushing Mom from store to store. Mom dubbed us her “escorts.”

  The grown-ups and Elena Maria seemed to delight in the endless search for the right shoes. Lauren and Jill were happy to discuss the benefits of silk versus satin as well. I was losing interest fast.

  “I’m so in love,” Lauren sighed. “Tony! What a dreamboat. How does such a hot dude have such a funny-looking little brother like Ricardo?” I suddenly felt protective of Rico and his goofy glasses and big ears.

  “He’s very smart,” I said a little defensively.

  “Alfonso’s just fine with me,” Jill said. “With his long curly hair, he reminds me of a rock star.”

  I was getting tired of tagging along behind Lauren and Jill. They had nothing to talk about but boys—except when they argued about whether my sister should wear pink (Jill) or w
hite (Lauren).

  As Elena Maria tried on shoe after shoe, I got that familiar ants-in-my-pants feeling. Then I had an idea. On the way in we had passed by a gallery with an interesting name—the Blue Turtle.

  I tapped my mother a couple of times on her shoulder. “What is it, Isabel?” she finally asked, sounding impatient, as she was trying to pay attention to my sister’s questions.

  “Can I go outside? I want to see the art gallery on the River Walk.”

  Elena Maria had the three adults’ attention firmly in hand. She was arguing the finer points of spaghetti straps versus a princess neckline. Katani would have loved the conversation, but I was ready to leave. Mom nodded without looking at me, but that was all the permission I needed. I was outside in a flash, skipping down the River Walk, on the lookout for the Blue Turtle Art Gallery. Who wouldn’t want to walk into a gallery called the Blue Turtle?

  It wasn’t far, just four doors down. I came upon stone entrance steps and was enchanted by what I saw through the massive glass doors. I walked in. The front gallery was filled with bronze statues of all kinds of animals. I circled one of a buffalo that looked so lifelike I wanted to reach out and touch it. Having just made that huge mistake, I kept my hands in my pockets and began walking around in the rest of the gallery.

  I approached a large figure of a woman’s head. I could not make out her expression. Was she asleep, or half-awake? In pain, or full of happiness?

  “Ah,” said a deep voice behind me. “La Llorona exerts a power over all who enter here, whether they’re eight years old or eighty.” I turned to see a very tall man dressed in jeans and a leather vest, his dark hair plaited into two long, shiny braids. He extended a hand encrusted with silver and turquoise rings and bracelets.

  “Daaaaaad,” said a voice from behind him. I peeked around his imposing figure and saw a girl a little older than me, maybe fourteen, running into the shop through a big sliding-glass door. Behind her, in a courtyard sort of area, was a potter’s wheel and all sorts of half-formed sculptures and pots.

  The girl gracefully slid around her dad and stopped in front of him, facing me. She had black hair like his, except that hers was supershort and spiky, some of it tipped in green. “You don’t have to listen to him being all dramatic,” she told me, rolling her eyes. Behind her, I could see her dad smiling. “La Llorona means ‘the weeping woman.’ Do you like art?”

  Whoa. With her awesomely wild hair and straightforward style, this girl was a lot to take in all at once. She was kind of a teenage, Western version of Razzberry Pink, the proprietor of Think Pink, my friend Maeve’s favorite store in all of Boston. “Um, yeah,” I finally answered softly.

  Her dad put an arm around her shoulder. “My name is Cesar Arnoldo Guerrero, proprietor of this most humble gallery, and creator, I’m afraid, of this mysterious piece that everybody can’t get enough of, but nobody ever buys.”

  His impatient daughter rolled her eyes again and said, “Dad, that’s because people don’t like to have sad things around their house.”

  “Yes, TV says you must be happy all the time or you are a big loser, right?” he answered with a smile.

  I was starting to like Mr. Guerrero. He was funny and his eyes looked kind, and when he spoke I felt a little braver. I finally found my voice to compliment him on the beautiful sculpture. “This is really cool! How do you make this?”

  “Metal, fire, and a little bit of magic. An artist, like a good magician, never gives away his secrets.”

  “Magicians tell other magicians how they do their tricks, if they think they’re good enough,” his daughter countered. This girl was very direct and definitely not the artsy-sensitive type. Mr. Guerrero laughed a big, hearty laugh. “That’s true, daughter. But we don’t know yet if our visitor is one of us—an artist.” He looked at me with questioning eyes.

  “I am,” I said boldly.

  “I knew it!” the girl cried, clapping her hands together. “I could just tell from the way you were looking at La Llorona. Like you were really studying it, really seeing the art, you know?”

  I blushed and nodded. She knew I was an artist just from the way I looked at art? What a compliment!

  “I’m Xochitl,” she told me. “That’s Zooooo-cheeeeel, but it’s spelled x-o-c-h-i-t-l. People always get it wrong. Anyway, what’s your name?”

  “Isabel.”

  “Nice to meet a fellow artist,” Mr. Guerrero said and shook my hand.

  As the three of us walked along, he pointed to some of the paintings and told me the artists’ names and where they were from. Xochitl was constantly jumping in to add some funny detail. Mr. Guerrero didn’t seem to mind, though. Xochitl really did know a lot about the art. I was so impressed that someone who was not much older than me was so knowledgeable about art. I guessed that living and breathing art every day was like taking an art vitamin pill every morning of your life.

  “Here at the Blue Turtle Gallery we celebrate the culture of our ancestors,” he explained, as we arrived back at La Llorona. “Our family, for example, is of Coahuilteca-Apache lineage. Of course we’re Mexican, too.”

  “My name means ‘flower’ in Nahuatl, the old Aztec language,” Xochitl interjected.

  “Oh, wow! It sounds so pretty, too. And your last name, Guerrero, means warrior, right?” I was proud that I remembered the English translation.

  “Yes. But trust me, we’re a very peace-loving family.”

  Mr. Guerrero made me laugh, and I was beginning to relax in his presence. “My cousin was talking about the Coah-whoa-whoa-whatevers last night,” I told them.

  Xochitl laughed and shook her head. “Kwo-weel-tekah,” she said slowly.

  “Right,” I answered, laughing too. “Sorry. I’ll learn to pronounce it eventually. But Apache…I’ve heard that they were fierce warriors, weren’t they?”

  Mr. Guerrero smiled again. “Not all the time. But even up to the nineteenth century, San Antonians still had to be on the lookout. People still find arrowheads out there, outside the city.”

  I thought about what a thrill it would be to find a genuine arrowhead on my cousins’ ranch. As I looked around the gallery again, my eyes returned to the statue of the mysterious woman—La Llorona. “I’d love to learn to do metalwork like that someday,” I said, gazing at the rich luster of the bronze.

  “No way!” Xochitl exclaimed. “Isabel, I was working on a model for a bronze casting out in the courtyard when you came in! Can I show her, Dad?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Guerrero agreed. “I need to get back to some bookkeeping up here at the desk. But I’m certain Xochitl can give you just as good a tour of our studio space as I could.”

  “Better, actually,” Xochitl teased. “Come on!”

  I thought about this. I wasn’t sure how long I had been in the gallery, and I wondered if my family was looking for me. On the other hand…a real artist’s studio space! And Elena Maria probably wouldn’t be done dress shopping for hours. “I guess so,” I said finally. “But I really should get back soon.”

  “Sure, sure,” Xochitl said, pulling me out the back door. “This is so cool, you’re going to love it!” She led me over to an old wooden worktable, covered in layers of paint splatters. Right in the middle was a large clay model of a bird.

  “I’m trying to sculpt a heron, but something about it is just not right. I just can’t see what’s wrong with it. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “You like birds?” I asked.

  “Love, love them,” she answered.

  I told her all about my bird cartoons. “Wow, that’s so cool,” she responded when I was done. “What do you think of my heron? I know there is something off, but I’m not sure what.”

  I walked around and around, checking out her piece, and then it struck me. “I think I know why it seems off to you. This part, the curve from the head to the back at the neck…I think maybe it’s a touch too short. Try making the head a little rounder and the neck a little longer,” I suggested, looking up at Xochi
tl. I hoped I didn’t sound like too much of a know-it-all. I really liked her and hoped we could be friends.

  She walked around her bird, looking at it from different angles. I had a sudden fear that maybe she was insulted by what I had said. But she burst out with, “You’re right, you’re absolutely right, Isabel.” She slapped a glop of red clay on the back of the head and began to mold. She stepped back. “That’s it. Genius, Isabel. I can’t thank you enough.”

  I blushed. “I like to draw birds. They’re so…birdlike.” Xochitl cracked up at that one.

  “You have an awesome sense of dimension,” she said. “Would you like to work on something? Come on, don’t be shy.” Xochitl tossed me a small brick of pottery clay. Before I knew it I was kneading and pinching the clay. It turned soft in my hands. In a matter of minutes I shaped a small parrot.

  “That’s so cute,” Xochitl said, striking a pose with a hand under her chin. “It’s so parrotlike,” she joked.

  “I don’t think I got the feet right, though. The feet on your heron look better proportioned. My parrot has too-tiny feet!”

  We were in the middle of an intense bird-feet discussion—with some high octane laughing, because Xochitl decided to mimic a heron walking in high heels—when the door to the courtyard slid open. Mr. Guerrero and a policeman entered.

  “Miss Martinez?”

  “Yes, officer,” I answered. My heart was pounding like a huge grandfather clock in my chest. Had the broken eagle been discovered?

  “Young woman, you’ve caused quite a scare to your family,” he said. Almost immediately, the entire shopping gang appeared behind him: Lauren and Jill looked giddy from shopping but annoyed, and so did Elena Maria, Aunt Lourdes, who wheeled in my mother, and Aunt Inez, who towered over me.

  “¡Muchachita! Dios mío, we were so scared. I was worried you were kidnapped,” Aunt Inez said, putting her hands to her throat. “Don’t ever leave again without asking us permission.”