Read Online Across the Border by Arleta Richardson - Free Book Online Page A

been in the little village of Galeana for two weeks now. Just thinking about the new things she had seen and heard in that time made Polly’s head whirl.
    Polly looked around carefully as she neared the market stalls. She was certainly not accustomed to walking this far to get food for the day, but the house where they lived had no garden where she could pick her own vegetables. There was no springhouse or root cellar either. Polly had never before had so many new things to get used to.
    Now she approached a stall where baskets of big, ripe tomatoes were displayed. Pointing at one basket, she said, “Cuánto?”
    â€œFive centavos, Señora .”
    Polly shook her head. “Too much.”
    â€œFour.”
    â€œI can get them for three centavos down here.” Polly turned away.
    â€œThree.”
    Polly nodded, then dug into her bag for three coins. As she transferred the tomatoes to her basket, she thought gratefully of Carlotta.
    â€œWhen you shop,” Carlotta had told her, “don’t just say ‘I’ll take that.’ You must say cuánto? That means ‘how much?’ The vendor will always tell you more than it’s worth, so you must bargain.”
    This Polly learned to do quickly, and she was soon able to get the best price on everything she bought. She continued down the row of tables, reflecting on the new foods she had already cooked in Mexico with Carlotta’s help.
    On her first trip to the market with Carlotta and Manda, Polly had stopped in front of a table piled high with small cactus plants. “I seen enough cactuses along the road without buyin’ ’em to plant in the yard. Do they really sell ’em?”
    â€œOh yes,” Carlotta said, “but you do not plant them. They are good to eat.”
    Polly stared at her in disbelief. “You’re joshin’ us, ain’t you?”
    â€œJoshing?”
    â€œThat means joking or being funny,” Manda had explained.
    â€œOh no,” Carlotta replied. “It is not a joke. This is called a prickly pear, and you can cook them many ways. I like them fried, but you can also stew them like apples.”
    Polly hadn’t yet fixed prickly pears for the family, but she had tried many other new things. Everyone in Mexico, she discovered, ate a flat pancake called a tortilla instead of bread. Polly had watched in fascination as Carlotta showed her how to pat the cornmeal dough on the table, then toss the dough back and forth between her hands, slapping it sharply until it was round and thin. When it was warmed in a skillet, it could be rolled up with a filling of meat or cheese or mashed and fried beans. The family soon became fond of this new food. Polly’s tortillas weren’t as round and thin as Carlotta’s, but no one minded.
    Polly squinted up at the sun and decided that it was time to be getting home. She would be late with dinner unless she hurried. As she turned back, she saw a boy running down a side street.
    â€œEthan,” she muttered to herself. “That boy has no idea what time it is. If I can catch him, he can carry this basket home.”
    Quickly she crossed the road and entered the little street. A burro was coming toward her, and Polly backed up against a building to let it pass. When she started again, the street was empty.
    â€œOh, bother. He’s already gone around the corner. But he can’t be too far ahead of me.”
    As fast as she could, Polly continued on. The street twisted and turned, and there was still no sign of Ethan. Confused now, Polly was beginning to tire. Removing the shawl from her head, she sank onto a wooden step in front of a deserted-looking building.
    There sure ain’t much of anybody livin’ back here , she thought. I ain’t seen another soul since I passed that donkey.
    Suddenly two large black boots appeared in front of her. Slowly she raised her head and looked at the man who was in them.