Flor and Miranda Steal the Show

by Jennifer Torres

  “Take what personally?”

  “Nothing.” I ducked as Junior tossed his vest over my head. It landed right on top of mine in Ronnie’s arms.

  Cold, hard fact: Audiences did not always give us their full and complete attention when we performed. Sometimes they ate in the middle of our shows.

  Okay, it wasn’t just sometimes, it was more like always. Corn dogs. Cotton candy. Whatever. Once, in Salinas, this lady and her kids sat right up near the stage, where people liked to dance, you know? Well, then she opened her purse and pulled out a blanket and—I’m not even kidding—spread out a picnic with little plates and cups and everything. Well, I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t like Ronnie. Ronnie could’ve kept on smiling if that lady had brought a whole banquet to the show instead of just a picnic. Mom always said Ronnie had poise. But not me.

  “You know, looking at all your food is making me kinda hungry. So, unless you plan to share, could you save it till after the show?” Everyone laughed. Even the lady with the picnic.

  Dad didn’t think it was very funny, though. “Mija, you need to focus,” he had told me later. “You’re a performer. You can’t let the distractions get to you. Ignore them.”

  But it was hard to focus when people made phone calls during our shows, not to mention when they changed their babies’ diapers. And it was almost impossible to ignore it when someone walked out, let alone when someone ran.

  “Hey, Ronnie?”

  “Hey, what?” My sister had taken the vests to the back of the motor home where Mom and Dad slept, to hang them.

  “Did you see that girl? The one who ran out of the show? Curly hair? Green-and-white shirt? It was in the middle of ‘Esta Rosa Roja’?”

  The closet door closed with a soft thud, and Ronnie came back out to the middle of the motor home. Wicked Wanda’s belly, I liked to think, since that was where the kitchen was.

  Ronnie tapped her knuckles against her forehead like she was really thinking hard about it. “Mmm… Nope. Didn’t notice anyone. All I noticed during ‘Esta Rosa Roja’ was Junior playing too fast again.”

  “Not my fault if you can’t keep up.” He was slurping Spaghetti-Os straight out of the can.

  “Gross,” Ronnie said. “Use a spoon at least.” She reached around me, into the drawer under the sink. “Here.”

  It probably wasn’t such a big deal. I wouldn’t have even noticed her if she hadn’t run right by—practically right into—Dad and Mr. Barsetti.

  Dad was trying, yet again, to talk Mr. Barsetti into paying us more. If it didn’t work, I had heard Mom whisper to Dad a few nights earlier, we would just have to accept that it was time to go home. Cold, hard fact.

  I slid into the L-shaped booth next to Junior. You wouldn’t believe it to see it, but the booth and table pulled out into a bed with enough room for Ronnie and me to share. Junior’s bunk was right over the steering wheel.

  He handed me the can, and I scooped up a big bite of Spaghetti-Os.

  “Ooh, with hot dog!” I thought we were out of those. I shoveled another bite into my mouth before Junior grabbed the can back.

  “You guys!” Ronnie screeched. “So gross. So gross. We still have a microwave. We still have bowls.”

  She pulled a box of cereal off the shelf and took it to the driver’s seat.

  So someone ran out of our show. No big deal. Just forget it.

  Except it was kind of like a mosquito bite. The more I tried to ignore it, the worse it itched. “But why would she run out right in the middle of a song? It’s a good song. Everyone loves the ‘Rosa Roja’ song.”

  At least I thought they did. By the end, there was always a bunch of people singing along. There was always a moment when I couldn’t tell my voice from their voices anymore, or even from Ronnie’s accordion or Junior’s guitar. It was just one big, bright sound that rocketed up into the sky like fireworks, leaving a trail of sparkles behind.

  But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the whole act was getting boring. Maybe that girl was just the beginning, and soon whole rows of people would leave right in the middle of a song. Or worse, stop showing up to begin with.

  It had all been for me, and it would’ve all been for nothing.

  Junior swallowed. He scraped the last drops of tomato sauce from the bottom of the can.

  “Do you think maybe she just couldn’t stand listening to your Spanish anymore, Miss Ro-zah Ro-hah?”

  I socked him on the shoulder. “Stop. It’s not that bad.”

  “Do you even know what you’re singing about?”

  Not every word, not exactly. But I was pretty sure I understood the main ideas. “Love,” I said.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “And a rose. A red one. Whatever.”

  The only reason Ronnie and Junior could speak Spanish was because Tía Elena, who spoke only Spanish, used to babysit them when they were little. But not me. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t trying to learn. As Wicked Wanda rumbled over the highway from fair to fair, I listened to You Can Speak Spanish! The Complete Audio Course. Dad had found it at a gas station in Wilton.

  Hola. ¿Cómo está?

  Hello. How are you?

  Bien, gracias. ¿Y usted?

  Well, thank you. And you?

  Even Dad said I was getting better. Junior just liked to give me a hard time.

  Ronnie swiveled around to face us, cereal box still on her lap. “Randy, let it go. You can’t make everyone like you. So some girl left in the middle of the show. Who cares? She was probably late meeting up with her mom or something. If I were you, I’d be more worried about that stunt you pulled, jumping off the stage.”

  “Stunt? Come on, the crowd loved it.” They did too. That, at least, I was sure about. When I had seen everyone dancing down there, I just sorta knew I should dance with them. So I jumped. Didn’t even have to think about it.

  Ronnie said “Mmmm” and swiveled away.

  “Junior, tell her. It was practically the best part of the whole show, everyone screaming, all surprised and excited like the piñata just broke.”

  Junior straightened up and threw back his shoulders. “We did not rehearse jumping off the stage,” he said, scrunching up his nose and bunching up his eyebrows and sounding almost exactly like Dad. “Stick with what we rehearse!”

  “We rehearse for a reason!” I boomed, doing my own impersonation.

  “You better be quiet,” Ronnie warned in her bossy-as-usual voice. She threw a handful of Froot Loops at us. Junior caught one in his mouth.

  Just then, there was a tap on the kitchen window. We all froze.

  “Verónica? Junior? Miranda? Are you in there? Can one of you get the door?”

  We exhaled. Only Mom.

  Ronnie got up to let her in while Junior and I swept cereal crumbs off the table. We finished just as Mom dropped an armful of fresh-from-the-laundromat socks and T-shirts on top of it.

  She cracked her neck, first to the right, then to the left. “Randy, mija, fold those while I sit down for a minute?”

  The laundry was already folded, but before we could put it away, we had to fold it all over again. There was only one drawer for each of us inside Wicked Wanda, and the clothes didn’t fit unless they were extra flat.

  “You didn’t walk, did you, Ma?” Junior asked.

  She sank into the passenger seat and loosened her shoelaces. “No, no, mijo. One of the carnival ladies gave me a ride. It’s just so hot out there, and the laundromat didn’t have air-conditioning.” She looked around. “Is your father here? How did things go with Barsetti?”

  “Don’t know,” Ronnie said. “He hasn’t come back yet.”

  Mom frowned. “Well, we’ll find out when we find out. You’re finished for the weekend anyway.”

  And maybe forever. She didn’t have to say it out loud.

  She unzipped her purse and took out three rolls of quarters. I knew from all the times I went with her to the laundromat that each one held forty coins. Ten dollars. “And I think you should celebra
te,” she said, holding them out to us.

  We all froze again.

  “Go on, take them. My arm’s getting tired.”

  Junior and Ronnie looked at me. It didn’t matter that I was the youngest, it was always up to me to say the things that no one else wanted to say. So I cleared my throat and touched Mom’s elbow. “Mom, that is the laundry money,” I said. Slowly, like maybe Mom had forgotten.

  It was only when she laughed like she laughed right then that I could see myself in Mom’s face. A gap between her two front teeth, and eyes that crinkled at the corners. People usually said we looked just like Dad with our round cheeks and thick black eyebrows.

  “Thank you, mija. Yes, I know it’s the laundry money,” she said. “I’m the one who goes out searching for a laundromat every weekend, remember?”

  “So, then, don’t you need it for next week?” Junior asked, leaning on the edge of the table.

  Mom stared at the rolls of quarters, then looked back up at us.

  “Depending on what Mr. Barsetti tells your father today, next week we’ll either have more quarters, or…”

  Or?

  “Or,” Mom continued, “we won’t. So help Miranda finish the folding, then take the money and go have fun. You’ve been to how many carnivals this summer? And haven’t had a chance to enjoy even one of them. Ándale. Go.”

  She meant, “Go before Dad gets back and says it’s time to rehearse again.” We all knew it.

  Junior pushed himself off the table and took the quarters from Mom. He lobbed one roll to Ronnie and one to me, then tossed his own in the air and caught it. “I think I’ll try a frozen lemonade.”

  “You’ll try a frozen lemonade,” I said, coiling a pair of white socks. “Or you’ll try to get Lexanne to talk to you?” Lexanne and her mom had a little red car. They gave Ronnie and me rides to the grocery store sometimes when Mom didn’t feel like taking Wanda out. Junior was always trying to find some excuse to tag along, but mostly Dad made him stay behind to polish the boots.

  Junior pulled the brim of my hat down over my eyes. “See you, Ro-zah.”

  But he stopped when he got to the door. “Dad!”

  Wanda shook as Dad stomped on the mat to shake the dust off his shoes. He flung his hat on top of the laundry pile and squeezed Junior’s shoulders. “Heading out to rehearse, mijo? Good. Because you’re still racing through the chorus.”

  He turned to my sister. “Verónica? You go out and help him count. And, mijo, remember, you are the backbone. Keep it strong and steady: Bom, bom, bom, bom.” He clapped with every beat.

  Then he stopped and put his hands on his hips. “Where’s Miranda?”

  I lifted my head above the laundry pile.

  “Ah. Mija, make yourself some tea. But first, go wash off your face. You been hanging around the clown car?”

  Not again. “Dad, it’s a carnival, not a circus. There’s no clown car. And anyway, it’s just makeup. Not even that much.”

  “Off. You’re, what, ten?”

  “Eleven.” Not that it mattered. Not that he’d ever stop telling me what to do or what to wear or who to be.

  I slid out of the booth and into the bathroom, which was smaller than the coat closet back at our old house. So small that if I stretched my arms out I could touch the door with one hand and the back wall with the other. Some of the people who traveled with Barsetti & Son—like Lexanne and her mom—got to stay in motels every weekend. Some of the motels even had swimming pools, Lexanne told me. Must’ve been nice to dive into a pool after a long, sweaty day at the fair, I couldn’t help thinking. Must’ve been nice to stay in a room it took more than three steps to walk across.

  Still, I reminded myself, a lot of the other carnival workers slept in tents and trailers. She might have been small, but I had a feeling Wicked Wanda was a lot more comfortable than a tent pitched on a gravel parking lot.

  “And don’t think we aren’t going to discuss you jumping off the stage this afternoon,” Dad called after me. “We did not rehearse jumping off the stage. Stick with what we rehearse.”

  I stuck the quarters in my pocket. We hadn’t gotten out fast enough, and just like always, fun would have to wait. I turned on the faucet and scrubbed away Mom’s red lipstick and Ronnie’s inky mascara with Dad’s bar of clean, white soap. It even smelled serious.

  The bathroom door barely muffled the sounds outside. Cupboard doors opened and shut as Dad rummaged for the bag of chicharrones that Mom kept hiding, and then for the old pocket notebook where he scribbled out our set lists. I didn’t know why he even bothered. We always played the same songs in exactly the same order.

  But if there was one thing Dad loved, it was a plan. He treated plans like secret recipes. No substitutions, no skipping steps. He was flipping through the notebook when I stepped out of the bathroom, water dripping off my chin.

  We all watched him, Mom, Ronnie, Junior, and me.

  He looked up.

  “What’s everyone staring at? Why aren’t you rehearsing?”

  Mom stood. Her lips were thin and straight. No more gappy smile. “Barsetti, Lalo. What did he say?”

  Dad scratched his head. He whistled through his teeth. “What he always says.”

  Mom’s chin dropped.

  I gnawed on my thumbnail, stopped myself, and laced my fingers behind my back.

  “Well,” Mom said. “Well.”

  Dad didn’t say anything. His face was still and stony—until finally, his mouth twitched. Only a little, but enough for me to know he was hiding something. Something good.

  I stepped forward, pushing Junior aside, and grabbed Dad’s arm.

  “What?” I asked, shaking him. “Tell us.”

  Dad looked down at me, at all of us. Made sure the spotlight was shining right on him. Like the dream he’d had since he was my age had finally come true, and he was lead singer of los Reyes. Then his mouth twitched itself into a grin.

  “He said Miranda y los Reyes is playing the main stage tonight!”

  Ronnie jumped and threw her arms around Dad’s waist, nearly knocking him over. He laughed as he stumbled backward, just catching himself before they both fell. Junior pulled my hat off and ruffled my hair. “You did it, sis.”

  I kept my hands pressed over my mouth. Otherwise, they would have heard me screaming all the way back at the laundromat.

  Only three songs, Dad explained. We were only the opening act.

  Well, maybe it was only three songs, but it was also the only reason we were there: to play on a real stage—even bigger than the side stage—not just at wedding receptions and quinceañeras, or in the dim corners of taquerías. Ronnie grabbed me and Junior and pulled us into her hug.

  Only Mom was missing.

  “Lalo?”

  We broke apart and looked at her.

  “But what about the money? Is he going to pay?”

  Dad took her by the hands and drew her toward him. Then he dipped her over his arm like it was the end of a tango. “He will when he sees them.”

  He lifted Mom to her feet and pointed to the rest of us, one by one.

  “So we have to be perfect tonight,” he said. “Really connect.”

  Connect.

  Exactly.

  That was the problem. I wasn’t connecting. I couldn’t, not really, not when I didn’t understand half the words. But I knew what to do.

  “I have the perfect song.”

  “I’m still thinking about that,” Dad said, remembering his notebook. “For now, rehearse the usual set.” He started flipping pages again.

  “No, something else. Wait, it’s right here.” In my drawer, under my clothes, I found the composition book Ms. McDaniel had given me on my last day in her class that spring. It was a week before fifth grade was supposed to end, and she had tried to persuade my parents to let me stay and finish the year. But the carnival wouldn’t wait, so neither could we.

  When I had closed my eyes, I could see a road map with little yellow stars next to all the
new cities we would visit. I could hear the cheers of audiences bigger than any we had ever played for. There were one hundred eighty-five seats at the Family Side Stage. One hundred eighty-five! I couldn’t keep my hands still. It was like I was filled with soda fizz after someone had just shaken the bottle.

  And yet, thinking about everything we would miss when we were gone, about all our friends moving on without us, had felt a little like being left behind. Even though we were the ones going away. It was the same hollow-stomach feeling I had one Monday morning, a year or so before we left, when I found out all the other girls in our class had been to Lisa Li’s house for a sleepover that weekend. I wasn’t invited.

  “I didn’t think you could come,” Lisa had explained. “You’re always busy singing on the weekends.” She was right, but that didn’t make it feel any better.

  I tried to explain it all to Ms. McDaniel, and that was when she gave me the composition book. She said it was a journal for writing down everything I saw and thought and felt while we were on the road.

  So far, there wasn’t anything in the notebook except for just the one song. Between rehearsals and Spanish lessons and Dad’s lectures on discipline, sacrifice, and stage presence, there wasn’t time for much else.

  But it was all right. One song was all we needed.

  “What’s this?” Dad asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Ronnie said before I could answer.

  Junior tried to snatch the book out of my fingers. “Randy, no. We were just having fun. He’s not going to go for it.”

  But it wasn’t nothing. “It’s a new song,” I said. “Well, not exactly a new song. It’s an old song. But a new version. Our own version. We wrote it, Junior and Ronnie and me. And it’s perfect for tonight.”

  It really was.

  See, we always ended our show with this song called “El Rey.” Because our last name was Reyes, I guess, and because it was Dad’s favorite. It was about this guy who, even though he didn’t have any money or anyone to love him, still felt like a king. The king of his own life.

  To help me work on my Spanish, Ronnie translated it with me, line by line. That’s how I got the idea to translate it again. Into my own words, words that meant something to me. Words about hoping so hard your heart hurts. Junior sped it up a little and we practiced every now and then, when Dad wasn’t around.