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I try not to worry too much. It helps that we have found such nice
patrones
here in Vermont. Tío Felipe can tell you they treat us like we are their family. In fact, the grandmother insists we call her Grandma. Ofie and Luby actually think of her as their only grandmother as they have never met their Mexican ones. I tell them all about you, Abuelito and Abuelote and Abuelota, so they at least know you through my stories. One nice thing that Alyssa did this last Sunday was take all our pictures. She also promised that she'd bring back photos, so we can catch up on what
everyone looks like. That will settle it once and for all, Abuelota and Abuelote, how fat you really are!

Ofie and Luby have spoken with you on the phone, so you probably have noticed how they're forgetting their Spanish. Sometimes I even have to translate between Papá and them, imagine! Papá gets upset, but we can't really blame them. All they know is the United States, and they spend their days in school or at Grandma's house, speaking English. Of course, if Mamá were here, it would be different. She always was so proud of México and told us many stories about her life there. Papá works so hard, and when he gets home, all he wants to do is throw himself down on the couch and watch the Spanish channels. It makes him feel happy to be hearing his own language and seeing people who look like us even if they're only on TV. Tío Felipe can also tell you that this state is full of white people, so Mexicans stand out and that makes it easy for
la migra
to catch us.

Besides the grandmother, the wife, and the
patrón,
the family includes three children: one older son I mentioned, Ben, who is studying at the university; a pretty teenage girl, Sara, who is always changing boyfriends; and my special friend, Tyler, who is in my class at school and was my same age up until last week.

I used to feel so alone, neither Mexican nor American. But now that I have a special friend, I feel like I don't have to be one thing or another. Friendship is a country everyone can belong to no matter where you are from.

That's what I wrote about last month for Valentine's Day. Mr. Bicknell had thought up a creative assignment. Instead of sending valentines, he wanted us to write a love story that had happened to us this past year.

He got a bunch of groans in response. “Now hold on, guys,” he said, grinning. “I want you to be creative. I mean love in all its dimensions, not just the girl- boy variety!” He stood at the board with a piece of chalk and we had to come up with different kinds of love.

The girls were extra giggly for some reason, and the boys went wild with crazy suggestions, like love for your pet snake or vampire love, where you want to suck somebody's blood!

I decided to write about how we had come to Vermont to help the Paquette family, and what good friends they had been to us. How Tyler had taught me about the stars, and the grandmother had showed us how to bake cookies and given us her extra TV so we wouldn't get bored.

On Valentine's Day, Mr. Bicknell asked us to read our love stories out loud. When I read mine,
Mr. Bicknell asked the class what kind of love I was talking about.

“She's in love with Tyler?” Ashley asked. The girls all started giggling again. The boys hooted. I didn't dare look over at Tyler, but he couldn't have been more mortified than I was.

That day after school, Tyler told me I shouldn't have done that.

I wasn't sure what part of what I had done I shouldn't have done, so I asked him.

“Well, for one thing, telling about your working on our farm. It could get my parents into trouble.”

“I didn't say anything about us not having papers,” I defended myself. For some reason, I didn't want to keep quiet anymore. “Besides, why do we always have to hide how hard we are working? We are not criminals!”

I should have just dropped it right there, but it felt so good to speak up for once. “You yourself say that if it hadn't been for our help you would have lost the farm.”

Now it was Tyler who was angry. I can always tell because his pale face flushes with color. “It's not like we don't pay you.”

There we stood, glaring at each other, both mad and hurt and confused. This was happening out in the front of the school as we waited for our
bus. Ofie was standing by, all ears, ready to jump in with her opinion. But just then, along come these two bullies in our class, Ronnie and Clayton. The minute they spotted Tyler and me standing together they started chanting a little rhyme:

Tyler and María

sitting in a tree

K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

I didn't think Tyler could turn any redder, but he did! Now I saw another reason why Tyler was upset with me. He had been the only boy in our class to feature in a girl's love story.

Usually, Tyler will avoid a fight, but he lunged at these two guys, throwing his fists around. Meanwhile, Mr. Rawson, our bus driver, must have seen what was happening, as he came bounding out of his bus to separate them. “Paquette, inside,” he ordered Tyler, jerking his head toward our bus. “You two, beat it unless you want to go pay Mrs. Stevens an after- school visit.”

And that was that. Peace was enforced, but not inside my heart.

Tyler and I soon mended our friendship, especially as his birthday approached. But his words still stung every time I remembered them.

He didn't really appreciate how my father and uncles had helped save his family's farm. It was like we had only done it for the money.

But then Mr. Bicknell gave us another one of his creative assignments. Our class had to attend the town's yearly gathering and write a report about it. At this meeting, Mr. Bicknell stood up and said such beautiful words about people who come to this country because of necessity, and how they are not just helping their families back home, but helping build this great country.

Maybe Tyler's ingratitude had worn an extra- sensitive place in my heart. I began to cry. Tyler must have noticed my tears because he wrote me a thank- you note that made all the difference.

I better hurry up and finish this as Alyssa leaves tomorrow on her spring vacation. Ours won't be until the third week in April. Tyler really wants to go down to this nation's capital with a club he belongs to. But it is very expensive, and although they seem rich to us, the family cannot afford to pay for the trip. The club itself is going to hold a bake sale, which the grandmother is organizing.

But that money has to be divided twelve ways among all the members. Tyler thought he could make up the difference with birthday money, but he did not receive as much as he was counting
on. His rich aunt and uncle never even sent him a card.

But then there was an article in the paper about Tyler's club and how they were raising money to go to the nation's capital on a field trip. The picture showed all the members and gave their names. Imagine being famous enough at twelve to have your picture in a newspaper! Right after it was published, Tyler got a call from this old man in town, offering him work for pay. Tyler would go after school a couple of times a week and on weekends and help the old man do things he can't do anymore on account of he's too old, like shovel his walk or help him take out the garbage or carry in his groceries.

This was just what Tyler had been hoping for because his family can't afford to pay him for helping out with the farmwork here, which Tyler will still keep doing, as he is a very hard worker. “You could almost be a Mexican,” Papá has complimented him more than once.

So twice a week, after school, Tyler rides the bus to the edge of town and gets off on the block where the old man lives. Then, when he's done, he calls his grandmother to pick him up, as his dad's involved with the evening milking and the mom is getting supper ready. The grandmother has her car back finally; the family had taken it away last November when she kept getting into
accidents because she was so sad about her husband dying.

The first time the bus dropped Tyler off, I recognized the old man coming down his front porch. This was the very same old man who had said some not-so-nice things about Mexicans at that town meeting. Tyler had helped him find some money he lost, and the old man offered a reward, but Tyler refused. I suppose when he saw the story in the paper, the old man decided to help out. Still, I would be afraid to work for him, but Tyler says the old man couldn't be nicer.

This past Tuesday, my sisters and I were over with the grandmother when she got Tyler's call to come pick him up. So she invited us along for the outing. She gave me a cake to hold on my lap that she had baked for the old man. Ofie asked if it was his birthday. “Oh, nothing like that,” the grandmother explained. “It's just we've got to fatten him up. Poor old Joseph is just skin and bones. No wonder he's gotten so mean.”

Well, Ofie was in one of her nosy moods. The whole ride over, she kept asking questions. “Grandma, how old do you suppose Mr. Rossetti is?”

“Oh, I've figured it out from some things he's said. Joseph must be seventy- six, seventy- seven.” There was a sweet little smile on the grandmother's face as she spoke. “I remember him
when he was a handsome young fellow. There wasn't a girl's heart in the county that didn't flutter when she saw him. Why do you ask?” she said, peering at Ofie in the rearview mirror.

Ofie answered her question with a question. “And how old are you, Grandma?”

“Well, dear, that's not something you normally ask ladies to disclose. But I'm your grandma so you can ask me. I'm seventy- three, or will be this May. You're suddenly very curious about birthdays, aren't you?” She gave a little laugh. “You care to inform me what you're cooking up in that lively head of yours?”

“First, Grandma, how old do people live to be?”

The grandmother suddenly got very sad. “Only God knows that, honey. Look at Gramps.” She bit her lip. I turned around and gave Ofie the eye so she would stop before she had the poor grandmother in tears.

But forbidding Ofie anything is like giving her a green light. She stuck her little chin in the air, like she knew better. “I just think you should marry Mr. Rossetti soon before one of you dies.”

The grandmother was turning into Mr. Rossetti's driveway, and the old man had come down the porch steps to greet us. Just in time, the grandmother braked really hard. Now I believe what she says about seat belts. That poor cake
wasn't belted in, and it jumped out of my hands and smashed against the dashboard and windshield!

The grandmother looked like she was about to die. Meanwhile, Mr. Rossetti had opened the car door and reached in a hand to help her out. “Excellent reflexes, Elsie!” he complimented her.

When we got home, Ofie told Papá that Grandma and Mr. Rossetti were going to get married! I can't believe her imagination. “This must be the month of romance,” Papá observed. “The grandmother and her beau, Tío Felipe and Alyssa, and,” he added, glancing over at me with a sly look, “the
patrón's
son fighting for a certain girl's honor.” How on earth had he found out about Tyler's fight with Clayton and Ronnie?

I don't know if I figured it out by myself or if I saw the guilty look sneaking across my sister's face. But right then and there, I knew that Ofie had been feeding Papá what Mr. Bicknell calls misinformation! No wonder he has gotten even
more
strict about my going over to Tyler's house even with my sisters.

I tried explaining to him what I wrote for Mr. Bicknell's Valentine's Day assignment. How friendship is a country that includes everybody. All you have to do to belong is be a good friend. But Papá just shook his head like he knew better.
“Más sabe el diablo por viejo que por
diablo.”
A favorite saying of his about how the devil knows more because he is old than because he is the devil. I did not want to be disrespectful, but very softly, I asked, “Papá, and what do angels know?”

Just like that, his face lost all suspicion, and he gave me the most angelic smile!

Abuelito and Abuelote and Abuelota and Tío Felipe and
toda la familia,
I certainly hope that Papá is wrong about how you do not allow girls and boys to be special friends. Because if this is so, I hate to say it, but just like my sister Ofie, I would not want to live in México.

Your granddaughter, niece, cousin, and special
amiga,

Mari