“Let’s go ride the horses, Sofia!” said Lucy.
“Yeah!” said Noe.
“Okay, let’s take them,” I said. Berta rolled her eyes and opened her door.
Berta and I tried to keep up with Lucy and Noe. They were leaping and laughing way ahead of us.
“Hey, Berta, what’s wrong?” I said.
“Nothing, why?”
“You seem so . . . quiet.”
“No. It’s just that I’m here to see the movie. This kid stuff bores me.”
“You want to see the movie? Boy, I feel I’ve missed a lot.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Like what?”
“Oh . . .”
“Oh, what?”
She was silent.
As I watched Lucy and Noe fly away on their magic horses, I noticed that Berta looked older, pretty, and somehow her teeth didn’t even look big anymore. They went perfectly with her face now. Her curly, light brown hair was neatly tied back with a red ribbon, and she had on a bright blue dress with glass buttons in front. She was even wearing makeup. When did all this happen?
I looked down at my torn jeans, my white T-shirt, my old white sneakers. My hair still looked like Apache hair, as Papa liked to call it—long, dark, and wild.
Then a loud horn blew. Berta told Noe and Lucy to get off the horses— now! That she didn’t want to miss the movie. Back to the car.
Papa and Mama stayed in the front seat while the four of us took the Mexican blanket from the trunk and spread it on the asphalt mound next to the car.
Just as I thought, it was another one of those singing charro movies Mama loved.
But this was our green light to start gobbling whatever we’d brought along with us. Sometimes it was a bucket full of corn on the cob or Maguacatas, the boiled pods from our ebony tree, or mesquite beans or bean tacos or pan dulce. But this time we felt really, really lucky, for Papa had stopped at Whataburger’s and bought hamburgers and Cokes.
After we had finished eating and then made spiral toys from the paper cups, I looked up at the screen and saw that the charro was singing another boring song. I rolled my eyes. But Berta was watching with a dreamy expression.
I couldn’t believe it. We hated these movies. “I’m going to the car. You all are making way too much noise,” Berta said. I laughed but carefully watched as she got into the backseat.
Berta was glued to the movie, just like Mama. Papa smiled and waved at me. He leaned his head against the car door and closed his eyes. I wondered if taking Mama to the movies was another example of his learning to dance.
I joined Lucy and Noe in our usual game of gazing up at the stars and calling out what shapes and animals we could make by connecting them. We also looked for falling stars, sure signs of good luck.
When the charro and the señorita finally kissed, Lucy, Noe, and I made our usual loud lip-smacking sounds. But Berta was as captivated as Mama. Papa was asleep. And when I coaxed Lucy to go over and ask Mama how Saint Christopher and the Virgin were enjoying this part of the movie, Mama said, “Be quiet.” Berta said, “Shhh!”, not taking her eyes off the screen.
Lucy jumped up. “Restroom time!”
I opened Berta’s door and whispered, “Berta, come with us.”
Berta sighed. “You all act like a bunch of babies.”
We passed car after car and people on aluminum chairs, milk crates, or blankets. I also saw two sofas and even a church pew. Some young couples were kissing as the charro’s song and the señorita ’s sighs floated over everything.
I looked at the mile-long rays of light shooting from the top of the concession stand, magically painting the movie onto the screen. “Remember, Berta, how we wished we were twenty feet tall, so we could project shadow puppets onto that enormous screen? Especially during the kissing.”
Berta just looked at me and frowned, making us walk faster and faster, constantly turning around to watch the screen. “You’re all acting silly and ruining the movie for me,” she said. Noe and Lucy made even louder kissing noises.
I studied Berta as we walked, thinking about what Mama had said while Papa and I were cleaning beans, that I should start being more like Berta.
Berta turned and bared her now perfect teeth at me. “Sofia, what are you looking at?”
Once there, Lucy and Noe pretended to use the restroom and then begged to ride the flying horses again. I smiled, knowing they had learned this trick from me. But Berta said, “No!” We headed back.
Berta jumped into the car, while the three of us went back to watching stars. I leaned back on the blanket, folded my hands under my head, and stared up at the darkness.
I glanced at the screen. Now the charro and the señorita were married with children. But instead of the movie, I saw Mr. Weld’s slides of Saint Luke’s projected onto the screen. Who are those rich people anyway?
I turned to the stars and now saw them as faraway worlds. Yes! That’s what I wanted: I didn’t want to stay a kid, but I didn’t want to enter Mama and Berta’s grown-up world either—at least, not so fast. And not if it was only about getting married and having children, like in the movies. No, I wanted to explore.
I spotted a falling star. I kept it a secret. It was good luck! Yes! But what if it’s a sign of crashing and burning?
As we dropped Berta and Noe off at their front porch, I remembered what Tía Petra told us on her porch. When I got home, I called Berta.
“Sorry we ruined the movie for you.”
Silence.
“Listen,” I continued, “is there something I don’t know? . . . I mean, remember what Tía Petra told us . . . about being comadres and all.”
“Sofia, it’s late.”
“I know it’s late, but . . .”
“Well . . . I have . . . a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend? Wow! Who is it?”
Silence.
“Why is this such a big secret?”
Silence.
“Jamie.”
“Jamie, the track star?”
“Yes.”
“Have you kissed him?”
“Sofia!”
“I’m just kidding, Berta. I’m not as immature as you think. I’m worse! No, no, I’m really happy for you. And again, sorry for ruining the movie. Now I understand.
“And Berta, one more thing. How do you want me to support this new dream of yours?”
“Actually, I’m glad you asked because I was going to come over to tell you tomorrow. Now good night.”
“Good night.”
As I drifted off to sleep, I realized that staying happy did get tricky, just as Tía Petra had said.
And I hadn’t even left home.
BeRTa’S QUiNCeaNeRA
The next morning I was sitting at the kitchen table looking at the school brochure and thinking about the picture of the students all dressed up for dinner. I was also thinking that even if I got Mama’s blessing, how could I raise that four hundred dollars, the “parents’ contribution”?
Berta walked in the door, all excited. “Sofia! What are you doing?” She grabbed the brochure. “Boy! I don’t know. You’re such a tomboy, and look here,” she said, pointing to the dinner picture. “All the girls are in nice dresses. You can’t even bother to comb that crazy Indian hair of yours.”
I grabbed it back.
“No, seriously. You’re the smartest person I know, but you still look and act like a kid. Why don’t you grow up?” Berta walked over to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee.
I sighed. I wanted to just laugh it off, but I stared blankly at the table, knowing that Berta was leaning against the counter, staring at me.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s not start this again. You said you were coming over to tell me how I can support your dream. So tell me.”
Berta sat down at the table. “I want you to be my dama de honor, my maid of honor at my quinceañera.”
“What do I have to do exactly?”
“Well, you’re going
to have to look and act mature, for one.”
“Come on. Tell me or I won’t do it.”
“Oh! But I’ve already talked to your mama months ago.”
“And what does she have to do with this?”
“A lot. She’s one of the comadres who’s helping me. And she thinks this will be good training for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes! It will help you, especially since you told her you don’t want a quinceañera yourself. As my dama de honor, you’ll have to wear a long dress, have a chambelan, and dance at my ball.”
“I don’t have a long dress or a boyfriend, and I don’t know how to dance.”
“The comadres have taken care of all that. You think I’d leave these things to you? Dios mio! Look, you’re my best friend and this is my party, and—”
“Okay! Okay!” I said. “I’ll do it. But remember, you told Tía Petra you’d support my dream. Papa said I can go to that school, but I still need to convince Mama.”
Berta smiled. “Okay, it’s a deal: you be my dama and I’ll help convince your mama. But you’ll see the two are connected. And you know what?”
“What?”
“After the comadres are all done with you, you’ll know that you’re not only smart, but pretty, too.”
I sighed. But now I was at the point where I’d do anything to go to Saint Luke’s.
The next seven days were pure hell.
We drove around and around in Berta’s new car—a bottle green Chevy, her parents’ birthday present. Berta had a special “hardship license” to drive at fifteen since Tía Belia didn’t drive, her brother, Beto, didn’t live at home, and her papa had an injured foot.
We drove from the bakery to the flower shop to the dress boutique to the church to the caterer and then back to the bakery. How could any of this possibly have anything to do with connecting with Mama?
After triple-checking on the cake, I got into the car and kicked the seat. Berta started backing out. “Is this it? I mean, we’ve already stopped everywhere at least twice. I hope we’re heading home now. I really need to study.”
“No! Sofia! Remember? I told you that I needed you until eight o’clock tonight.”
“But for what?”
“Now we’re going straight to La Plaza hotel.”
“But we were there yesterday!”
Berta started laughing.
“What?”
“You’ll see.” As Berta stepped on the gas, I noticed she was wearing new white sandals and stockings. I looked at my torn white sneakers. I started to get a headache.
“Oh, Sofia! Cheer up! It’s not that bad. Is it?” At the traffic light, Berta turned and smiled with her perfect white teeth. I shook my head and kicked the seat again. “Sofia, what are you thinking?”
I shook my head.
“What?”
“Nothing!” I sighed.
“Sofia!” Berta, said, driving again. “Stop being a mule and talk to me. I can’t read minds, you know.”
“How is this all going to help me connect with Mama? I don’t have much time left.”
“Okay, genius, here’s a clue: why do you think I’m having a quinceañera in the first place?”
“Because you’ve turned fifteen.”
“Wrong! Sofia. It’s because the comadres are making it happen for me. They all got together, including your mama, and they have been helping me plan it for at least six months now. And they’re making it really special and beautiful.
“My family alone could never have done this. For one, they wouldn’t be able to afford it. And two, a quinceañera is my coming-out party, yes, but it also brings everyone together. So, all in all, it’s helping me learn how to be a comadre.”
“How?”
“Well, I had to learn how to go about getting padrinos and madrinas to sponsor and pay for my cake, the dance, the flowers, and on and on. I also had to assemble my court of honor by finding fourteen damas and fourteen chambelanes to represent my past fourteen years. I had to go talk to the priest about the spiritual meaning of turning fifteen.
“It’s like preparing for your First Communion. It’s all about growing up and joining the community.”
Berta turned left onto Main Street.
“As for your mama, start acting like you’re not a kid anymore, and show her that you can take care of yourself.”
“But how?”
“Sofia, I know you can look out for yourself. Your papa knows too. But to your mama, you’re still a kid. And no mother is going to send her kid away, especially to a world she doesn’t know. So you need to show her that you’ve grown up.” Berta parked the car. “Show her that you can function in the real world too, in the world of people, not just in your books and soccer and those crazy stories you tell. And you can start doing it right now!”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a surprise!” she said.
Berta dragged me through the massive door of the hotel, the most beautiful in the valley. It was white stucco with a red-tiled roof and tiled floors and secret courtyards and stone fountains like a Spanish hacienda.
Berta walked me out to the main courtyard.
“Sofia! Sofia!” It was Mama. “Hurry! You only have ten minutes before it starts!” I turned and saw Berta laughing from across the courtyard. She was standing with Jamie beside the Spanish fountain.
As I followed Mama to the ladies’ room, I got a few clues as to what this surprise was about. One was seeing Berta’s other damas standing around in their new dresses. Tía Belia, who was a seamstress, had been busy making them. Mama was carrying a big paper bag with her.
Then I bumped into Beto, Berta’s older brother, in a tux! He had terrific teeth like Berta, and he was over six feet tall. He flashed a big smile at me. “Sofia, are you ready to dance?”
I laughed. My headache was back. “She will be!” Mama said as she hurried me along. “Beto’s your chambelan,” she said as we passed the twelve mariachis tuning their instruments. They looked dazzling in their black charro outfits, with silver buttons all down their pants and vests.
“Here.” She took my dress out of the bag.
I went inside one of the stalls and put it on. It was white, with orange and green lace trim along the waist and collar, and puffy sleeves.
“Sofia! Come on out! You’re late!”
I sighed, then remembered what Berta had said. I put on a smile. But my headache kept getting worse.
“Oh! Sofia!” Mama said. “You look so pretty, so grown-up!”
Wow! This is working!
“Thank you, Mama,” I said, tripping.
“Hold still,” she scolded. I stood stiffly, doing my best to keep my smile going, as Mama pinned a pair of earrings on me, then added her pearl necklace, a touch of lipstick, rouge. But I drew the line at stockings. I put on my flat black shoes.
“Oh! It’s amazing!” Mama said as she came at me again with a big tube of red lipstick. “You’re so beautiful!”
I started rolling my eyes but caught myself and smiled instead. “Thank you, Mama.” My headache had spread to the very front of my head.
For the next three hours, Berta’s royal court was put though an excruciating hands-on crash course on the correct use of utensils, polite conversation, handling social “mishaps,” and dancing.
This boot camp culminated with our having to go out to the courtyard and dance to the vals “Dulce Quinceañera.” As I inadvertently kicked Beto in the shins for the fourth time, I wondered why the boys always got to lead.
That night I found Papa at the kitchen table carving something with his knife, and I told him what the comadres had just put us through.
“Ah! La Plaza hotel. That’s where I first saw your Mama. She was dancing in that very courtyard. And that’s when I fell in love with her.”
It was hard to imagine Papa falling in love, for he was always so calm, reserved, thoughtful; falling in love sounded like losing control.
“Yes, back then, La P
laza held a dance every Saturday. I went one Saturday with a couple of friends. I had just returned from the Korean War. We were out in the courtyard, drinking beers. The mariachis were playing. Couples were dancing. And then I saw your mama dancing a vals. She was wearing a bright red dress and had the brightest smile, the sweetest eyes. She looked so beautiful.
“I stood there watching her all evening. Of course everybody wanted to dance with her. And she did every kind of dance—rancheras, polkas, cumbias, valses. She was amazing!
“But I realized I didn’t stand a chance with her unless I could dance too. Now it’s your turn to learn.”
We went outside and Papa taught me how to dance the lead to “Julia.”
On Berta’s big day, I woke early and made breakfast for everybody. Then I put on my dress and let Mama pretty me up.
The priest’s blessing of Berta at the church was followed by the reception. And after Berta had posed for a zillion pictures, the damas all danced with her. Then Berta’s father started waltzing her around the courtyard.
Berta’s mother appeared carrying a white satin pillow with a tiara and high heels. She placed the pillow in front of Berta, and then she and Berta’s father replaced Berta’s flower headpiece with the tiara and her flat shoes with heels.
The vals started again, but now Berta danced with all fourteen of her chambelans, and finally with Jamie. She looked so beautiful in her flowing white dress, and so grown-up. It struck me how much I’d miss her if I went away to school. How much I’d miss all my family and friends!
Finally, Berta’s towering cake was wheeled into the middle of the courtyard. Her parents reached up and took the little doll from the top of the cake, a replica of Berta— tiara, gown, and all. They presented it to Berta as her last doll ever. Berta cut the cake.
Later in the evening, Papa whispered something to the lead mariachi. Papa looked so handsome in his dark suit and his brown and white boots. Then “Julia” started to play. He whispered to me, and I walked across the courtyard.
The Tequila Worm Page 6
