The Tequila Worm

by Viola Canales

  “Mama, can I have this dance?” I said.

  She looked surprised and then laughed as I took her in my arms and we started waltzing, just like Papa had taught me.

  “Mama,” I said, counting steps in my head, “I love you.”

  “I love you too, mi’ja. It’s like a dream. Me and you dancing to ‘Julia,’ in the same courtyard where I met your papa. And you looking so beautiful, so grown-up.”

  “Mama, I have a dream too.”

  “What’s that, mi’ja?”

  “To go to that school.”

  “What does Papa say?”

  “He supports it, so long as you do.”

  “But what about Lucy?”

  “Ay, Mama, she’s just like you. She’ll go along with whatever you say.”

  “But what about those dresses you’ll need, and the four hundred dollars?”

  “Don’t worry about that. My comadre Berta and I got all that figured out.”

  “Your comadre Berta?” Mama laughed. “Okay, mi’ja, you have my blessing.” Mama had tears in her eyes.

  We kissed when the vals ended. As we sat at the table, I winked at Papa and turned to Lucy next to me.

  “Lucy, is it all right if I go to that school? Mama and Papa say it’s okay, if it’s okay with you.” Lucy looked at Mama, who nodded.

  “Okay,” said Lucy quietly. I moved closer and squeezed her hand. “I’ll come home as often as I can,” I whispered.

  “So let’s celebrate!” Papa said. “I’ll be right back.” He returned with Berta in one arm and a tiny bottle of mescal in the other.

  “Sofia!” Berta beamed. “I told you our dreams were connected.”

  Papa poured five copitas of mescal. Mine was a drop.

  “To Berta’s and Sofia’s dreams!” Papa said, toasting. He gulped his down. I gulped. Coughed. Whoa! Everyone else took a sip.

  “And, Sofia, always remember Clara’s cure for homesickness—the tequila worm.” Papa fished the worm out, dangled it between his fingers, then bit it. He started chewing it, slowly.

  “Yuck!” we all said.

  “Sofia, here’s your half,” Papa said. “I left the best part for you—the head. And remember to chew it slowly. It won’t dissolve like a holy host.”

  Yuck!

  “Berta, want a big bite?” I said.

  “No way!”

  I took the head of the tequila worm. Squishy. I put it in my mouth. Squishy. And started chewing. It felt . . . I swallowed. Squishy.

  “Gross, Sofia!” Everyone laughed.

  “And,” Papa said, “once you go, I’ll be sure to send you a whole tequila worm in the mail.” I laughed, but anxiety flooded me.

  I’d been so intent on getting my parents to let me go that I hadn’t thought about actually leaving.

  Five “NeW”DReSSeS

  The phone rang early the next morning. Berta. “I can’t believe you ate the tequila worm. Gross! How did it taste?”

  “Terrific! But it didn’t cure my problems.”

  “A tequila worm cures homesickness, not problems.”

  “Well, I’ve got two big ones.”

  “What are they?”

  “How to get those five new dresses and the four hundred dollars,” I said. “I told Mama that you and I had a plan. I even called you my comadre.”

  Berta laughed. “You’re quick, Sofia. Let me come over and show you the quinceañera pictures. Then we can talk and talk about a plan like real comadres.”

  “You mean your zillions of pictures are back already?”

  “Yeah, and I made extras of you and your mama dancing!”

  “And how many did you make of you and Jamie kissing? A zillion?”

  “Two zillion!”

  The most daunting thing about going to Saint Luke’s was not that it was over three hundred miles away, or that it was Episcopalian, not Catholic, or even that it was way up on a hill, away from anything and everything. No. It was having to dress up every evening—Monday through Friday—for a formal sit-down dinner.

  This had worried Mama, too: “So even if we decide that you can go, Sofia, what are we going to do about your clothes? You only have one decent dress—the one you wear to Mass.” I thought of the piggy bank Papa bought me years ago in Mexico. It contained about three dollars, not enough for even one dress.

  I kept having the same nightmare over and over again: I was sitting down to dinner in my Sunday dress, and there were seven other students at the table, which was set with the finest silver, china, and crystal. They all stood up and started pointing and laughing at me. I looked down and was horrified to find that my nice white dress had turned into one taped together with pieces of Tía Petra’s rolls of plastic. I woke up in a sweat, remembering “Taco Head!”

  Mama and Lucy were visiting the abuelitos across town. Papa was on the front porch, watering his Mexican jasmine and listening to his singing canary. I made a fresh pot of coffee and was putting out a plate of pumpkin empanadas when Berta came into the kitchen carrying two huge photo albums and a big bag.

  “Wow!” I poured coffee. “It’ll take us years to—”

  “And these are only the really good ones.”

  After our third cup of coffee and our third empanada, we were only halfway through her pictures. I’ll die if I see one more shot of her kissing Jamie, I thought.

  “Okay!” She slapped the albums shut. “You’ve done a really good job at being my comadre by looking at my pictures. You even got the props down—kitchen table, coffee, pan dulce. So now let’s talk about you and those dresses.”

  “Not until we talk about you and Jamie. What’s it like kissing him?”

  “Sofia!”

  “No, really. It’s important that I help you, too. . . . Remember what Tía Petra said.”

  “My dream is not about kissing Jamie.”

  “So what is it about?”

  “Well . . . it’s about being with him, about how he makes me feel about myself.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Like I’m in a dream . . .”

  “And kissing him, what’s that like?”

  “That’s . . . personal. . . .”

  “Come on, Berta. You can’t treat me like a kid and tell me to stop being one.”

  “Umm . . . kissing him is like . . . well, going outside yourself. You feel wobbly and all.”

  “And you like that?”

  “It’s hard to explain. I don’t really understand it either.”

  “So how do you want me to support all this?”

  “Well, you can help me not flunk math. It’s hard to study when you’re in . . .”

  “Love?”

  “Sofia . . .”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll help you with your math.”

  “Thanks. Now, those dresses . . . Why don’t you do what I did with my quinceañera? Get yourself some dress padrinos and madrinas to sponsor and buy them!”

  I sat up in my chair. “I can’t do that!”

  “But why not?”

  “Because . . . it’s not me. I have to do this my way.”

  “Sofia! What’s wrong with getting other people to help you? That’s part of learning to be a comadre, anyway.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . well . . . It’s just like Papa. . . . You know, how he wanted a guitar and then went about making one in his cabinet shop, using his tools and stuff. That’s how I am too.”

  “You’re going to make these dresses yourself ? You can’t even button your buttons straight. I told you to take home ec with me, but no! You took advanced algebra.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, you took home ec, so you must know something about sewing, and . . . How about we take my dama dress and you help me make it into one of my new dresses?”

  “Your dama dress?”

  “I’ll think of you every time I wear it. It’ll just hang there in the closet otherwise. Please, Berta? ”

  “But what about the other f
our?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Oh! I have an idea! I’m bigger than you, right? Remember that blue dress I wore to the drive-in? Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s nice.”

  “That’s dress two!”

  “What?”

  “It’s yours. I’ll just make it fit you!”

  “No! I’m not taking your dress.”

  “You’re not taking it. I’m giving it to you. It’s a present.”

  “No.”

  “Yes! Part of being a comadre is learning to receive. So we have two dresses, and only three to go.”

  Papa walked in. “Berta, how wonderful you looked at your quinceañera!” Berta showed him the picture of me dancing with Mama.

  “Ah! My two girls look so beautiful. And that dama dress, Sofia, makes you look so grown-up.”

  I kicked Berta under the table when she blabbed to Papa about our plan for my new dresses.

  He took out his thin wallet and pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill. He handed it to Berta.

  “I want to be the proud padrino of the third new dress,” he said, beaming.

  Papa poured himself some coffee. “I have all the faith in the world that you two will conjure up the other two somehow.” Then he went outside.

  “Sofia, how much money do you have in that tequila worm of yours?”

  “About three dollars. Why?”

  “That’s perfect! I’ve got it all figured out!”

  “Figured what out?”

  “Your other two dresses! How we’re getting them! And for only about three dollars!”

  I’d heard wrong.

  “Maybe even cheaper. On Saturdays everything goes on sale—for thirty cents a pound!”

  “A pound? What’s selling for thirty cents a pound?”

  “Your new dresses!”

  “What?”

  “Yes! We’re getting your other two dresses at Johnson’s Ropa Usada.”

  I shot to my feet. “We can’t go there!”

  Johnson’s Ropa Usada had been a running joke between Berta and me for years now. The name conjured up the whopping shock we’d gotten when we’d first walked into the massive concrete-and-cinder-block warehouse near downtown McAllen. It was a colossal room covered wall to wall with fifteen- to twenty-foot-high mountains of bras, panties, plaid shirts, fuzzy slippers, baseball caps, T-shirts, snow pants, overalls, work gloves, jackets, dresses, boots—everything and anything, even yellowed wedding dresses.

  Tiny squealing kids squirmed all over these colorful mountains: rolling down their sides; chasing each other over piles and piles of clothes to where their mothers sat in craters, sifting, piece by piece, through the mounds around them.

  Anything the Salvation Army and Goodwill didn’t want eventually came here to Johnson’s Ropa Usada to get picked over one last time before getting shipped off to the Third World. For a flat fee, you could buy a whole bale. They would open it for you and you could choose whatever you wanted inside, leaving the rest to become part of one of the mountains nearby.

  So if you bought something here, you also acquired the dubious honor of wearing a shirt or dress that everyone else in the entire country had rejected and cast off, even those who got their clothes at secondhand stores.

  The first time we went, Berta and I had laughed so hard we fell into a pile of clothes, tears running down our faces.

  “No way!” I said as we parked in front of Johnson’s.

  Berta began to laugh.

  “Berta!” I said. “You’re supposed to be helping me. People died in those clothes. . . . Everyone will laugh at me.” My nightmare came back to me. Taco Head at a formal dinner.

  “Don’t worry!” Berta said. “When I’m done with them, they’ll look tailor-made—perfect. No one will ever know where you got them.”

  I thought of what Tía Petra had said about Berta: she often bit off more than she could chew.

  I left Johnson’s Ropa Usada carrying a couple of old dresses, a bathrobe, a tangle of neckties, and a king-size bedsheet—all for $2.35. Berta had insisted, “Trust me, Sofia. You’ll see. Anyway, you should be thrilled, since my mother agreed to help us transform all our stuff. You’ll be like Cinderella.”

  For the next two weeks I spent every afternoon and evening at Berta’s house. Under her mother’s supervision, Berta measured, cut, and sewed. I helped the best I could, by counting buttons, cutting, and doing anything Berta and her mother asked me to do. But mostly I climbed on and off a chair, to stand and get pins stuck everywhere.

  My dama dress only needed to be shortened. Berta’s blue dress with the glass buttons in front was the second one. The third came from Wal-Mart, bought with Papa’s ten dollars. It was bright yellow, with white piping and a smart white belt.

  When it was time to work with the bathrobe, the tangle of ties, and the king-size bedsheet from Johnson’s, I shuddered as I got onto the chair.

  “Trust me, Sofia!” Berta kept saying.

  Jamie would sometimes stop by for a Coke. That was when I did my best to help Berta with her dream by telling him stories about how smart, kind, wonderful, and pretty Berta was. Then I kept watch for Tía Belia so the two could sneak a kiss or two.

  And every night, I helped Berta with her math.

  Somehow Berta turned the bathrobe into my fourth dress. It was red cotton with a bow Mama made from the tangle of ties. We laughed long and hard, remembering all of Mama’s crazy creations, especially the tequila worm Halloween costume and her panty-hose baby.

  “Berta, you’ve done terrific magic so far, but I’d rather die than be seen wearing a bedsheet to dinner!” I said, as she started tracing a pattern on the king-size sheet.

  Berta laughed and just kept on tracing, cutting, pinning, sewing. As she snapped the thread with her perfect teeth, I kicked my foot, worrying.

  A few nightmares later, she called.

  “Sofia! Your fifth and best new dress is ready!”

  She met me at the door with a green dress on a hanger.

  Well, it does look like a dress, I thought as I put it on. But everyone would instantly know what it was made from!

  Mama and Lucy came over to marvel at the five “new” dresses. They insisted I model each one. “The green is by far the prettiest! So elegant!” they all agreed, clapping. It was emerald silk, with a narrow waist, three-quarter sleeves, a rounded neck, and a delicate black Asian design.

  Mama thanked Berta and Tía Belia over and over.

  “Now, Berta,” said Mama. “Has Sofia been a good comadre to you, too?”

  “Oh! Yes!” said Berta. “I would’ve flunked math without her.” And not gotten to kiss Jamie so much, I added silently.

  I smiled at her as she adjusted my belt. Helping her was nothing compared to what she’d done for me.

  Lucy looked longingly at us.

  The PaCKinG SheD

  The door slammed. “It feels strange doing math so early,” Berta said, throwing her book on the kitchen table. I measured coffee into the pot. “Please make it extra strong. I have my final tomorrow. God, how I hate math. But, Sofia, it doesn’t take a math whiz to know that you have a big zero toward that four hundred dollars you still need.”

  “Yes, I know. But let’s get cracking on your math.” I sat next to Berta and opened her book.

  Berta shut it. “I can’t even look at numbers without a ton of coffee. So what are we going to do to get your four hundred dollars?”

  “I’ll get a job.”

  “What job? You know how things are around here, with so many people unemployed. And you don’t have any experience.”

  “I know. . . .”

  “Why don’t we get family and friends to sponsor you, to be your school padrinos?”

  “That’s the same idea you had with the dresses. Papa said he’d take on some extra work. But I told him I want to earn this money myself.”

  “I’m helping Mom with some sewing projects this summer. You can help, and we’ll—”

 
; I started to laugh. “Berta, you’re so sweet. No wonder Jamie’s crazy about you. Me, sew? No, I’ll just go downtown and find a job.”

  “But how?”

  “I’ll just get out there and figure it out.”

  “Sofia, you are a mule. At least let me drive you there.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I jumped up. “Coffee’s ready! Now open that book.”

  The next day I woke early, dressed, and then walked toward Main Street in downtown McAllen. Summer had just started but it was already sweltering, with temperatures over a hundred by noon. It was about a three-mile walk.

  When I got to Main Street, I dusted off my shoes, straightened my skirt and my shirt, and double-checked that all my buttons were buttoned straight. I stared at the stores. I had no idea how one went about asking for a job, what I’d say if they asked if I’d ever worked before, or been a saleslady or cashier or anything.

  When I opened the glass door to the Popular, a women’s dress shop, I froze. Salesladies were buzzing around, waiting on customers. And they all wore makeup and earrings and high heels and stockings. My flat brown shoes and bare legs seemed terribly out of place. Why in the world would any woman want me to wait on her, I thought, much less ask me for any fashion advice?

  I walked around in a daze and then pretended to be looking at some blouses. I jumped when I heard a woman’s voice behind me, asking if I wanted any help. I mumbled that I was only looking. The next minute, I was out the door.

  I walked farther down Main Street. Most of the stores were either dress shops or clothing stores. In Woolworth’s, I could see myself unboxing toys, sticking plastic flowers into those green Styrofoam squares, even folding towels. And, maybe, if I was really lucky, they’d let me serve scoops of ice cream and glasses of Coca-Cola at the long red food counter.

  “Excuse me. Who do I see . . . to apply for a job?” I finally asked a lady wearing a name tag.

  She looked me up and down. “Aren’t you a little young? Back there.” She pointed. “Go ask for an application.”

  I took the two long pages and struggled through the application.

  When I went to hand it in, I was embarrassed by the cross-outs and scribbling in the margins. But I made sure to smile and thank the woman who finally took it.