Read Online Gringa by Sandra Scofield - Free Book Online Page B

purse. I didn’t care. Suddenly I could get around. I rode it to school, and to work on Saturdays. In the evenings I rode around my neighborhood, going a little farther each time. I realized that most of our neighborhood was Mexican. Their houses were like ours, on lots with scruffy patches of grass and weeds—boxy, dilapidated rentals where for block after block you never saw a tree. Cars sat up on blocks, and there were motorcycles, and sometimes a car polished like a gem, trimmed in pink and orange and yellow, with curlicues in front like moustaches, and tendrils running down the sides. Sometimes I saw the owners shining their prizes with soft rags. They would look up and watch me ride by. After a few weeks they recognized me and their gazes were more open, a little friendlier. Boys of eleven or twelve made chirping noises at me, but I laughed at them and they went off to other things. The men wore white undershirts with baggy pants, green or khaki in color; their hair fell down around their ears, and many of them sported trim moustaches. The women, in cheap dresses, sat on steps and watched their men, and the babies ran around naked.
    One day I realized I was looking for the boy from school. Then, not long after, I came out of school and found one tire flat. The boy I’d seen in the library was coming toward me. He wore a tight black knit shirt and jeans, shiny black shoes, and a chain with a medal around his neck. He said he had a pickup, he was on his way to work. “I’ll take you there and patch your tire,” he offered. “The Texaco on Sixth. I’ll put your bike in the back, okay?” His voice was soft.
    â€œI see you around school,” he said as he pulled out of the lot. “Are you a junior? Senior?”
    â€œJunior. What about you?” I couldn’t have guessed his age.
    â€œSenior,” he said. “Justaboutout,” he added, in a slur.
    â€œWhat then?” I asked, for something to say.
    â€œNo more school. Like, you know. I mean, you just go on making it, huh?” He kept glancing back and forth from his driving to me. “What’s your name?” he asked. When I told him I’d been named for the song, “Abilene,” he didn’t react at all. Of course Mexicans are named for Jesus, and saints, heroes, and states of grace.
    â€œI’m Eddie,” he volunteered.
    â€œEddie?”
    â€œDoncha like it?”
    I was embarrassed. I saw hostility flash across his face.
    â€œAll right. Eduardo. My family calls me Lalo. But my friends, Eddie. Anglo. Better for getting by.”
    I wondered what I ought to do. Was he being bold? Would he flirt with other Anglo girls? (Was he flirting with me?!) Maybe he thought I was easy! I sat with my legs closed tight until we arrived at the station. He patched my tire while I stood by watching in silence. He checked the bike all over and got a grease gun to work down around the pedals. Then he wheeled it off to the side and propped it up. “Good as new,” he said.
    I didn’t want to leave. I stepped in front of him to take the handlebars, and I could feel the warmth of him coming off like steam. Somebody called out from inside the garage, “Hey Eddie, qu-hubo, mano?” There was nothing to do but ride away.
    That night I rode a long time through the streets near home. I looked at people sitting on their steps in the dark, or under the yellow glow of porch lights. I heard televisions blaring, and fast bouncy Mexican songs. I wished there was someone at my house to sit with. When I went into my room, I thought about Mr. Morales with his hair slicked down and his nylon shirt tight across his chest, and I thought again of Eddie. (Lalo, I rolled on my tongue.) I thought how he would sweat in the heat, how his breath would make a pillow damp. I bet he wouldn’t tell, I thought.
    I saw Natty Mooster coming out of the gym one day. She had lavender hair and a skirt six inches