Look Both Ways in the Barrio Blanco (2 page)

She took the glue bottle and squeezed.

Nothing
.

Her smile slid off her face. Her eyebrows bunched together as she shook the bottle, then squeezed again.

Glue splurted.

All over my picture frame.

“No!” I shrieked. Pink and purple flowers floated to the top of the spreading white blobs. We both grabbed for the frame, but she tipped her coffee cup. Brown liquid splashed across the newspapers.

I yelped.

“As you can see, we’re having technical difficulties,” she joked. Shoving the microphone under her arm, she snatched up the scratchy paper towel to wipe off the glue, but the rough brown paper clung to the gummy mess. “Don’t worry — we’ll fix it.”

She sounded stressed
and
calm as she picked at the shreds of paper towel. Her fingernails turned pinkish purple. The frame was scratched, the flowers smeared, with bits of paper sticking out.

The TV lady flipped it over. “It doesn’t look
too
bad.”

I tried to yank it back, but she was still examining it and didn’t let go.

The frame cracked.

We each stared at our own broken piece. We looked at each other. Then we remembered the TV camera.

She pasted her smile back on. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. This is Kathryn Dawson Dahl for
5News First Look
.”

We stared into the light — painful grins stretched across our faces — for the world’s longest moment. Then the tiny red light went dark.

“Clear,” said the camera guy.

She slapped a hand against her forehead. “Oh,
God
!”

The camera guy said, “I thought this was supposed to be about teen pregnancy?”

I didn’t care about their dumb news story. I stared at the broken frame in front of me. It was stupid, but I looked to Angélica for sympathy. She
was
my best friend. For one second I saw surprise. The next moment I saw something else. The word for that look is
satisfaction
. I shoved myself away from the table, ran into the art-supply closet, and slammed the door.

Maybe I was making a big deal out of a stupid picture frame. But it was part of my secret plan to get Mamá back.
I’ll put my photo in it. She’ll see how much I’ve grown. She’ll feel guilty and come home
. Maybe my plan sounds dumb if you say it out loud, but I had hoped it would work.

If I was being honest, I would’ve admitted that I was scared Mamá might not get home at all. Papi’s cousin never came back. Now I imagine his bones propped against a rock in the desert, his skull grinning a warning to others. But I couldn’t think about that. I lived with fear by looking away.

I sank to the floor. The tears burned, ready to come. The tiles in the art-supply closet were cool underneath me.

Perfect for crying.

So when the door opened, I started to tell Mrs. Espinosa that I wasn’t coming out.

It wasn’t Mrs. E.

It was the lady who ruined my frame, with her face all blotchy. “I’m so sorry.”

Mamá always said, “Be polite to white people, because you don’t know what they’ll do.” Families could be ripped apart because someone made an American angry.

“Can you close the door, Miss?”

I said it
politely
.

You’d think a grown-up would know to close the door and let me cry. But she came
into
the closet,
then
closed the door. Even wearing a skinny skirt, she sat down on the floor, right next to me. In the dark.

“I’m sorry about your frame,” she repeated.

Part of me wanted to be nice about it. That’s called
gracious
. Grace is something it’s taken me a long time to understand. But I didn’t feel gracious. I felt
bitter
.

“’S okay,” I mumbled. Even though it wasn’t. I just wanted her to go. My tears wouldn’t wait.

“No. It’s not okay. I’m obligated, aren’t I?”

I blinked, then shrugged.
Maybe
obligated
means a clumsy person who breaks stuff?
I tried to take a breath, but it came out like a sob.

She pulled me into her arms. “Tell me about it.”

My heart slid up into my throat. Even white kids who don’t have to be afraid know not to talk to strangers. But her hair spray smelled like flowers. Like Mamá. Her sweater reminded me of Abuelita’s afghan. Mamá gave the afghan to me when she left so I’d feel safe. In the dark I could pretend this stranger
was
Mamá.

So I cried. Like a two-year-old. Like my little sister, Suelita.

When was the last time someone held me?

It made me feel real. Since Mamá had left, I’d been a head floating around with no body. I started talking. The lady listened — like Mamá would’ve — and that made me feel real, too.

I didn’t tell everything. I didn’t tell how Mamá let me do things when Papi said no. Like the time she took me to the health clinic for a physical so I could go on the sixth-grade camping trip.

And I didn’t tell how — before Suelita was born — I’d leave Rosa in our bedroom and sneak under the covers with Mamá while Papi was at his night job. That was our secret.

Instead I said that Mamá understood about being the middle child because she had four brothers.

I told how kids at school had laughed when I cut my hair so I’d look like a movie star. Mamá had paid a lot of money at the hair place to fix it, not waiting for it to grow out like Papi said.

“But Mamá’s forgotten me.”

The lady squeezed me. Like a
reflex
. And that made me cry harder. My nose leaked. I leaned in to wipe it on her sweater, but Miss must’ve thought I wanted to snuggle, because she squeezed me again. “She can’t forget you, Jacinta. She’ll never forget.”

For one second I wanted to rest against her, to let myself melt into her.

But the closet door swung open.

The camera guy. “Kate, I’ve got the van packed. We’d better go. Maury’s really pissed.”

The TV lady stood up, dumping me on the floor. A shiny blue bead from her sweater bounced on the tiles in front of me. I picked it up. It glittered in my hand.

She brushed at the wrinkles in her skirt, smearing it with drying pink and purple paint. “Maury can stick it in his ear. Sending me on a live shot after twenty-five years? You think I
like
making a fool of myself?”

“Miss, you dropped this.”

She glanced at me, her face angry. But her frown dissolved when she saw me holding the sparkling bead. She made the fake news-lady smile. “Just — throw it away.”

But I stuck the bead in my pocket. I found it there yesterday as I packed my old clothes away for Suelita to wear when she’s big. That bead is one of the few things I have left. I’m keeping it to remember what I’ve gained — things like my
vocabular
y — and how much those things have cost me.

The TV lady stalked out the door and down the corridor, her high heels clicking on the tiles.

The camera guy followed her.

Sighing, I went to get Mamá’s sweater. I’d been wearing it since she left. It was grubby, especially around the wrists. I wouldn’t wash it because it smelled like Mamá. The sweater hung on the back of my chair, but I didn’t see it, because there — right there — on the table was the sticky mess that had been my picture frame.

My legs were stiff as I backed away. I couldn’t breathe. Pushing past Rosa, I ran down the hall. I flung myself against the heavy front door and bumped into the TV lady, who was standing on the pavement talking to the camera guy.

The lady who ruined my plan to get Mamá back
.

I bounced off her and ran.

“Jacinta!” Her voice chased me down the sidewalk.

I heard my name a second time. My sister’s voice. The tears I’d held back broke free again. Rosa caught up with me. “You let that lady put you on
television
?”

Little bumps jumped out on my arms. “Don’t tell Papi.”

“You’re crying because of a broken picture frame?”

I swallowed my sobs, still walking. I didn’t care about the stupid frame. I wanted Mamá back. And sometimes — when you’re alone in the world — you want someone to blame.

Like a pushy stranger.

Why would I want such a person in my life?

That’s a really good question.

SINCE I’D LEFT
Mamá’s sweater at the youth center, I missed having it the next day at school. Like I was naked on the playground.

Worse than naked.

I wasn’t safe.

So after school when Rosa ordered me to get Suelita from Tía’s apartment, I said no.

Rosa said, “You have to. Papi says I’m in charge until Mamá comes home.”

“You’re not the boss of me.” I turned and walked toward the youth center, leaving her to shout at my back. I stuck my fingers in my ears, yelling over my shoulder, “La-la-la-la-la-la! I can’t hear you!”

Maybe if I’d gotten to the youth center one minute later, my life would be different. If I’d had to tie my shoelace. If the light had said
DON’T WALK
when I got to the corner. Miss might’ve left the package at the front counter for me and forgotten all about being
obligated
.

That’s not what happened.

After I grabbed my sweater off the back of the chair in the art room, I almost bumped into Miss again, just outside. With sunglasses hiding her sparkly eyes and a scarf covering her copper hair, you might think I wouldn’t recognize her. She looked like a movie star hiding from photographers.

So I knew it was Miss.

“Hello again!” She smiled, wide and white, like in a toothpaste commercial. As if I should be happy to see her.

And it was weird, because I was.

“Here.” She handed me a pink paper bag. “For your mom.”

Why does she have a gift for Mamá?

There’s a word for how I felt.
Wary
. Kids aren’t supposed to take gifts from strangers. I thought about saying “No, thank you” and walking away.

But then I’d never know what was in the bag.

It was a silver picture frame. Cut in fancy letters across the bottom was one word.

If I’d been a cartoon, my eyes would’ve popped out.
When Mamá sees my photo in this, she’ll come home!

I was going to say thank you, but my mouth started moving before the right words could get there. “Miss, will you be my Amiga?”

Amiga
means “friend” in Spanish, but at the youth center, it meant a lady to take you places. Not every girl had one. There were never enough volunteers.

The girls with Amigas argued about whose was best. The rest of us pretended we didn’t want one. We said only braggers had Amigas.

Angélica talked about her Amiga’s
Mercedes
— a car rich people drive. The rest of us listened while the green monster grew in our bellies. Having an Amiga was like finding treasure. Better, because treasure gets spent, and people stay with you.

I never asked myself if two people as different as Miss and me could ever really be
amigas
.

Miss smiled. “Sure!”

Mrs. Espinosa burst out of the youth center. “Kathryn! I’m rushing to an appointment, but I could make a little time if —”

Miss said, “No, no. I’m here for Jacinta. And — call me Kate.”

“She’s going to be my Amiga!” I blurted.

Mrs. Espinosa beamed at Miss. “Great! I’ll get you an application!”

The smile slid off Miss’s face. “Application?”

Mrs. E.’s eyes flicked over to me, then back to Miss. “The Amiga program is a mentorship.”

Miss turned red. Red like a stoplight, and just as fast. “Mentor? I just thought —” Miss glanced at me, then turned back to Mrs. E. “What — exactly — are we talking about?”

“It’s a one-year commitment —” Mrs. E. started.

“Oh. No. Sorry.”

I looked down so Miss wouldn’t see my tears. Angélica was always calling me Leaky Lids.

Then Miss said, “I brought a little something to make it right with Jacinta for ruining her picture frame yesterday, but I seem to be making it worse.”

“Let me see,” said Mrs. E., eyeing the bag I was holding.

Hands shaking, I showed her the frame.

“It has my name on it!” I begged, using what Rosa calls my puppy-dog eyes.