Flor and Miranda Steal the Show

by Jennifer Torres

  “She doesn’t mind, does she?” I asked.

  “As long as we don’t scare anyone away, Carolina says it’s all right. Here’s your hot water.”

  Steam filled my nose as I took a careful sip. “Gah!” I burned my tongue, but I could already feel the hot, lemony water soothe my throat. Or maybe it was just the rush of a good performance. I searched the patio for our next table.

  “There.” I handed the water back to Flor.

  This one would be risky. Definitely a tougher crowd than my first: two men, each with a glass of soda drunk down to the last drops. One stabbed a piece of lettuce—all that was left of his taco salad—with a fork. Between them, a toddler sat on a booster seat. The table in front of her was covered in rice. Chunks of refried beans clung to her hair. A bright red Icee stain dripped down the middle of her pink T-shirt.

  They were tired. They were about ready to leave for the day. Plus, I didn’t know what kind of mood the little girl was in, which made the whole thing even riskier. If she started crying when I started singing, they’d get up and leave in a hurry. No tip. And the manager might think we’d scared them off.

  But if she liked it, and I kept her happy—well, then they might stay for a second song.

  I couldn’t ask for a request this time. They’d only say no, thank you, and I wasn’t going to give them that chance. I marched up to the table, tickled the little girl under her arm, and said, “I bet you like to dance.”

  I spun around to find Flor. “Do you know ‘Ay, Chabela’?”

  “What, me? No!” She started to back away. She let those bangs of hers fall over her face like they were a curtain she could pull shut whenever she didn’t want anyone to see her.

  “All you have to do is clap,” I said, as sweetly as I could. Then I mouthed impatiently, Come on. Her shoulders drooped, and she set the cups on the ground next to her.

  “Thank you.” I tapped the beat out against my hip until she got a feel for it and started to clap along.

  I had only sung a little of the song when one of the men began wiping the rice off the table and crumpling their napkins and straw wrappers into one tidy pile. I thought it was over. He’d get up and throw away the trash, then they’d all leave and I’d be singing to nobody.

  But then the little girl started smacking her hands against the table—right in time with Flor.

  “That’s right!” I shouted. I took the Cholula bottle from the middle of their table and crooned into it like a microphone. The little girl squealed and bounced on top of the booster seat.

  When the man did get up, it was only to order another Fanta.

  I didn’t see how much money they dropped into Flor’s cup after I finished the second song, but it looked like more than we got at the first table.

  The plan—my plan—was working. It made me feel as full of bubbles as their orange soda. But it also made me overconfident. I should have noticed how lively the conversation was at the next table I stopped at. Instead, I walked right up and started my serenade. One of them rolled his eyes. “No. Please. Not now.”

  “Sorry!” My cheeks burned. I didn’t have my own bangs to hide behind, so I pulled the brim of my hat down lower.

  Flor skittered up behind me. “What now?” she whispered.

  I wasn’t sure. I started to bite my thumbnail but then reached for the lemon water instead. It was lukewarm and sort of bitter.

  You can’t make everyone like you, I reminded myself as I swallowed it anyway.

  Someone interrupted my thoughts. “Excuse me? Excuse me?”

  “I think they’re talking to you,” Flor said.

  Great. Probably someone with a complaint. Someone who’d ask me to keep quiet so they could eat in peace. Well, we would just wait until they were finished and try again after they left.

  I walked over, prepared to say sorry to them too. Instead, one of them asked, “Are you taking requests?”

  It was a big family. They had pushed three of the patio tables together and still barely fit around them. Backpacks, jackets, and carnival prizes were piled under and behind their chairs.

  “We didn’t know you played here too!” a woman in a polka-dotted tank top said. “Where’s the rest of the band?” She looked behind me, searching for Junior and Ronnie.

  I glanced over at Flor, but she wasn’t listening. She was reading the ingredients off an empty carton of Good & Plenty someone had left on the table. I realized I still hadn’t told her exactly who I was. And she hadn’t asked. But I was so happy someone recognized me, I didn’t really stop to think about it.

  “Well, it’s just me this afternoon. And of course I take requests!”

  “It’s my tía’s birthday,” the woman said, wrapping her arm around another lady whose reddish-brown hair had streaks of white at the temples.

  I nodded. This one would be easy. “One, two, three,” I counted off before leading them through “Las Mañanitas,” and after that, “Happy Birthday.” It was our biggest tip that afternoon.

  Flor stopped me after another two tables. “I think we have it!”

  I was almost sorry we were finished.

  We took the cup to an empty table and counted the money twice. With the rest of my quarters, it was enough to buy the rabbit. There was even a little left over to give Carolina.

  “Thanks so much for helping us out,” I said, passing her a few dollars through the window.

  “Come back anytime,” she said, refusing the money. “You too, Flor. I’ve never seen this place so busy on a Sunday afternoon. If you ever get tired of the petting zoo, you come right over here.”

  “I’ll never get tired of the petting zoo,” Flor said.

  We left the Cantina a second time. It was cooler now, getting late. The light was softer, the sun no longer blazing straight down on our heads like it had been most of the afternoon. I needed to get back to my family. Just one more stop.

  At the livestock manager’s office, Flor took a deep breath and said, “Let’s hope this works.” She took our money to the cashier. “For Number 210, please.”

  The cashier pulled an index card out of a container. “Edith deCarli?” She squinted down at us.

  “Yes. I mean, no,” Flor sputtered. “She—I mean, Edith—sent us to pick up one of her animals.”

  “The rabbit,” I added.

  Flor

  (5:30 P.M.)

  Conejo,” Randy said. “Rabbit.”

  “You want to name him Rabbit?” For a singer, it was not very creative.

  “Well, you already have a goat named Goat. He’ll fit right in, don’t you think?”

  “Fit in? Aren’t you going to take him?”

  Randy’s laugh came out like a bark. “Ha! There’s not enough room for us inside Wicked Wanda as it is. There’s no way my dad will let me have a pet. You can keep him, can’t you? Maybe your dad won’t even notice one more rabbit.”

  “He’ll notice, but he won’t mind. He probably should mind, but he won’t.”

  Randy stopped walking and tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “I just mean that Papá loves taking care of animals. I’m not sure he ever meant to turn it into a business. Sometimes I don’t think he knows how.” Randy was quiet. I wasn’t sure why I had told her that. I hadn’t told anyone before. I cuddled Conejo against my cheek. “But you won’t eat too much, will you?”

  “Nope,” Randy squeaked in what must’ve been her rabbit voice. “You’ll hardly know I’m there.”

  We started walking again, and I tucked Conejo’s head back under my elbow. That way, he wouldn’t see anything that might startle him. Randy skipped up a few steps ahead of me to clear a path.

  I wanted to tell her she could come to the petting zoo anytime to visit Conejo. She could still think of him as her pet, even though he didn’t live with her. But I caught myself. If her performance didn’t go well that night, if she didn’t perform at all, she might not be at the carnival very much longer.

  And if her performance
did go well, there might not be a petting zoo left to visit, and I didn’t know where Conejo, or any of us, would go then. The thought of it brought the sour-sick feeling back to my stomach, but not the eye-stinging anger. The Miranda I’d met at Rancho Maldonado earlier that afternoon didn’t seem like the same person as the Randy who was walking back there with me. But she was. The only difference was that now she was a real person to me. A friend, maybe.

  She stopped. “Oh, is that your pig? She’s cute!”

  “Betabel? What’s she doing out? She might look cute, but don’t let her fool you.” I caught up and looked over at the zoo, where Papá was standing with a man wearing a gray suit coat with jeans and a straw cowboy hat. Betabel was between them, rooting around the grass, then nibbling out of the man’s hand. It must have been the man from the pig farm, finally here to help us.

  His timing was perfect. If he could show us how to get Betabel comfortable around people, maybe Papá could trust her with the guests. Maybe I could finally finish teaching her how to ride that skateboard, and Randy and I could both stay on at the carnival.

  I lifted Conejo and whispered into his ear, “Let’s sneak you in while Papá’s busy talking. Then we’ll find out what they’re saying about Betabel.”

  Randy followed me around to the back of the petting zoo and into the supply shed, where Betabel liked to nap during the day. Against the wall, there was an empty hutch that we set aside for animals that needed to be kept alone because they were sick or hurt or tired. I showed Randy where to find a clean bottle of water and a dish of feed. Then I set Conejo down inside.

  When Randy got back with the feed and water, she reached in and scratched his neck. Then she started humming.

  “He likes that,” I said.

  Rabbits are nervous animals. They stress easily. But Conejo was calm considering everything he had been through that day. And he did not mind being handled. Lucinda must have done a good job raising him.

  We would have to watch for a while—to make sure he wasn’t a biter or a scratcher—but I had a feeling Conejo would fit right in at Rancho Maldonado. He would scamper through the hay and eat oatmeal out of people’s hands. We’d let the littlest kids run their fingers through his fur, the same golden color as four o’clock sunshine.

  “So that’s your trailer?” Randy had gotten up and was standing just outside the shed. “You don’t park in the lot with everyone else?”

  I gave Conejo one last scratch, swung the top back over his new hutch, and fastened the latch. “There you go, little guy. Welcome home.” Then I dusted off my hands and joined Randy outside.

  “Papá likes us to be close to the animals to make sure none of them need anything and that no one gets in here and tries to bother them.”

  She unfolded one of the lawn chairs that leaned against the shed and sat.

  “I’ve been thinking all afternoon that you looked familiar somehow, and I wondered if it was because I’d seen you in the RV lot. That’s where we park Wicked Wanda. But I guess not.”

  “Guess not.”

  I was starting to think Ms. Alverson was right. I should have made friends with Randy earlier that summer. Ms. Alverson—if she had been there—she would have told me it was not too late. She would have said that right that very second would have been the perfect time to tell Randy that she didn’t recognize me from the parking lot; she probably recognized me from the Family Side Stage. To tell her I had seen her show every day since she got here. To admit that I was not just going there for a spot to sit in the shade, but because she was a good singer and I really liked the show.

  To tell her what had happened there that afternoon.

  I almost said something. She seemed like the kind of person who would have wanted to help. But there was nothing she could do to help. Instead, I asked, “Want to meet Betabel?”

  We cut through the hay bales that kept guests from wandering behind the pens, and back to the front of the petting zoo. Two nuns in black habits combed the sheep’s wool while it stood lazily chewing on hay. Cricket nudged a man’s shin with her head until he finally opened up his bag of feed again and knelt to give her what was left. The rooster crowed. Everyone froze, then everyone laughed.

  Papá was still talking to the man in the gray suit coat, only now Betabel was wearing a halter. She shook her head, trying to jostle it off.

  Papá clipped on a leash. The man took it. I thought, She’s already leash trained. When is he going to teach us something new?

  But then he started walking away.

  “What’s going on?” I burst out, leaving Randy behind. “Where is he taking Betabel?”

  “Flor, there you are!” Papá said. “I’m so glad you’re here. I sent Mikey and Maria out to look for you—I was worried you would be too late.”

  “Too late?”

  Papá wrung his hands. “Too late to say good-bye. I knew you would want to. This is Mr. Forrest, you know, from the pig rescue. He says there is plenty of room for Betabel at Black Walnut Hollow.” He turned to the man. “Thanks again for meeting us here.”

  The man held out his hand to me, but I didn’t take it.

  Papá was sending Betabel away with a complete stranger? Sure, she was cranky and stubborn and sometimes she snapped at us, but that was not supposed to matter. We were supposed to look out for one another. We were supposed to be a family.

  “No! He can’t have her.”

  Papá tucked his hands in his pockets. He looked at Mr. Forrest. “She’s eleven,” he said with small shrug. I despised that.

  Mr. Forrest nodded like he understood completely, and I despised that even more. “You know, I’ve just remembered I need to make a quick phone call,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll only be a moment.”

  Papá took the leash back, then brushed my bangs out of my eyes.

  Randy just stood behind us in the pen, biting her nails and watching.

  I swatted Papá’s hand away. “I cannot believe you’re just going to send her away. She belongs with us. She belongs here. This is her home.”

  Papá took off his glasses, squinted at the lenses, then wiped them with the edge of his shirttail. “We talked about this, mija.”

  “We never talked about this.”

  “I told you about the rescue farm and about Mr. Forrest coming to take a look at the pig. You thought it was a good idea.”

  “I thought he was coming to help us with her. So she wouldn’t be so crabby all the time.”

  Papá put his glasses back on. “Pues, that is just what he came for.”

  “So he’s not taking Betabel away?”

  “No, Flor, es la razón. That’s why he’s taking Betabel away. To socialize her. She is not happy here. You’ve seen that. She belongs with other pigs. It would not be fair to keep her here.”

  I dropped to the ground, threw my arms around Betabel’s neck, and cried into her bristly shoulder. She snorted and tottered away. She could not stand criers either. I scratched her back instead. Her tail swished.

  “Pero, did it have to be today? Does it have to be now? I was teaching her to ride una patineta. She was making progress.”

  Papá smiled.

  “It has to be today because this is the last night of the fair. We will be on the road again tomorrow, and we might not be in Dinuba again for another year.” Then his voice got softer. “And quién sabe if the zoo will last that long. Better for Betabel to go to a good home now than for us to scramble to find someone to take her when we’re desperate, ¿que no?”

  So he had noticed what was happening to the zoo, and he was not even trying to save it.

  “But I am glad you got back in time to say good-bye,” Papá said. “And Mr. Forrest says we can come visit Betabel any time we’re in town.”

  I got up, sniffed, and wiped my eyes. “No,” I said. “What for? She’s just a pig.”

  Miranda

  (5:45 P.M.)

  I reached my arm out and tried to stop her. “Flor?”

  She sna
rled back, “Leave me alone.”

  So I did.

  We watched her storm off, Mr. Maldonado and I. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at me, like maybe I knew what she was thinking. But I didn’t. I just shook my head. He shook his head too, patted the pig, and shoved his hands back in his pockets.

  I’d never had a pet before, not unless you counted Conejo, and you couldn’t exactly count him. But I did know what it felt like to say good-bye. To friends, to school, to home. To knowing what was going to happen next. It didn’t even matter if it was all for the best. “For the best” didn’t always smooth out the sharp, shattered edges of the hole that was left when you really missed something, or when you were afraid that nothing would turn out the way you hoped it would.

  Dad meant it when he promised us that all his plans and all his decisions were for the best. But he didn’t know for sure. None of us did. Every Monday morning, while we waited in the motor home for the carnival to pack up and get ready to move on, I put on my headphones and pretended to listen to my Spanish lessons. But really I was worrying about whether the people in the next town would like us, whether they would like me.

  Flor had said she wanted to be left alone, but I wondered if she really meant it. No matter how frustrated I was with Dad’s plans and how there was never any room to stretch outside the margins of his notebook, no matter how nervous I was that I’d never sing and dance on the big stages of my dreams, I always felt better knowing I could count on Ronnie and Junior to be there with me.

  I knew they were counting on me too and that I should get back to them, but I wanted to wait a little longer for Flor. I wanted to thank her for changing her mind and showing me around the carnival all afternoon. I wanted to tell her I was sorry about her pig, and if she felt like it, that she should come see our show.

  And cold hard fact: I also wanted to see if she was mad at me. She had seemed kind of mad at me when she rushed away, and maybe she had a good reason. If I hadn’t insisted on singing at Carolina’s Cantina, maybe we would’ve gotten back to Rancho Maldonado in time for her to stop her dad from giving away the pig.