Read Online The Chupacabra by Jean Flitcroft - Free Book Online Page B

walls. Could Frida have painted them? Vanessa still didn’t dare ask.
    â€œMaybe you could draw a picture for our next class and we could make up a story about it in Spanish,” Frida suggested.
    â€œOK,” Vanessa agreed reluctantly. There was no polite way out of this, really. “I’ll give it a try, but it might take me a couple of days.”
    â€œ
Hablamos solo español, por favor
,” Frida said. She wanted them to speak in Spanish only. An hour of this every day and her Spanish would certainly improve. Vanessa was trying her best to think positive.
    Later that day Vanessa drew a load of different pictures but was happy with none of them. Now she sat in front of a pencil sketch of “her” horse, Amigo, and stared at it critically.
    â€œHow can you say that’s a bad drawing, Vanessa?” Nikki said impatiently.
    Vanessa had spent ages on it after her riding lesson with Armado that afternoon. Things were going OK on that front at least. She had had no more weird visions, thankfully, and Armado was teaching her how to jump.
    â€œI suppose it’s not bad, but it’s not very good either.” Vanessa frowned at the drawing.
    Nikki pinched her lightly on the hand. “I’d give anything to be able to do that. Just show Frida that one tomorrow and stop agonizing over it. It’s only so we can make up a story and practice our Spanish, silly.”
    The next afternoon, Vanessa brought her sketchpad to the kitchen when she went to help Izel prepare dinner. It was her favorite part of the day. She loved Izel’s stories and the rambling way she told them. Sometimes Izel’s accent got so thick that Vanessa had to guess the details; other times she threw in Spanish and Nahuatl words. Vanessa never asked her to explain or translate them because Izel did not like to be interrupted. If she was stopped mid-flow she would often lose the thread of the conversation.
    While Izel talked Vanessa tried to sketch her face. She was curious to see if she could catch Izel’s good humor and kind heart with her pencil.
    Izel sliced and chopped pounds of fresh avocados and onions while Vanessa sat on a stool at the table and sketched.
    â€œFrida drew my face many times,” Izel said out of the blue. “She was so clever. At twelve years old she could draw my face and it look like a mirror for me.” Her voice lifted and a smile broke her heavy features.
    â€œI was young and beautiful then, like you, Vanessa. In love, too.”
    Vanessa was shocked. Beautiful and in love? Izel couldn’t be talking about her, surely?
    â€œDo you still have the drawings, Izel?” Vanessa changed the subject quickly. “Could I see them?”
    Vanessa really wanted to see them. For some strange reason she was pleased to think that Frida was an artist and that they might have something in common. Frida had smiled at her when Nikki mentioned that Vanessa was good at drawing.
    â€œNo, Vanessa. They are gone. All gone,” Izel said sadly. “She left her pictures in the house when she ran away. When she came back years later they had disappeared. He burned everything, her clothes too.”
    Vanessa realized that she was holding her breath. Who burned Frida’s clothes and pictures? She needed to ask the right question. Otherwise Izel could just as easily start talking about the pork
tabales
she was making for dinner.
    â€œBut … why, Izel?” Vanessa stuttered slightly.
    Then she buttoned her lip firmly and continued to sketch, waiting for Izel to reply.
    The silence stretched.
    â€œShe was only sixteen and so beautiful,” Izel said at last. “She was happy, full of laughing, and foolish but not wicked, as Don Miguel said.”
    â€œDon Miguel?” Vanessa prompted Izel.
    â€œThat was her father. He said Joseph was a bad man, but Don Miguel was wrong about that too. There was someone else who wanted Frida, you see, and he poisoned Don