figured that it was Ana’s grandmother. Miata asked if Ana would call her when she got home. The grandmother said that she would.
Miata went to the kitchen. Her mother was peeling potatoes. The radio was turned to the Mexican station.
“How was school?” her mother asked. “Here, you finish this.” She handed the half-skinned potato and the potato peelerto Miata. Miata started working, the skin of potatoes flying into the sink.
“School was okay,” Miata answered. “I got an
A
on my spelling test. Mrs. Garcia says that I have a good memory.” Just as she said this she remembered her skirt. If my memory is so great, she thought, why did I forget my skirt on the bus?
“Are you ready for the dance this weekend?” Miata’s mother asked. “Ana’s mother called and said you two should practice Sunday morning before church. But I told her we didn’t have time.”
Miata didn’t say anything. She worked faster, the peels flying like rubber bands.
“Your father will be so proud,” her mother said. She opened the refrigerator and took out a piece of meat.
Miata was peeling her third potato when the telephone rang. She dropped thepotato and potato peeler and screamed, “I got it.”
She raced through the living room to the hallway. On the fourth ring she answered the telephone. “Ana?” Miata asked, her heart pounding.
“Yeah?”
“Did you find it?”
“Find what?” Ana’s voice was confused.
“My skirt! It was on the bus. Didn’t you see it?” Miata’s voice was desperate.
“Your skirt?”
“I left my skirt on the bus. Didn’t you see it?”
“No. You mean you lost your
folklórico
skirt?”
Miata could hear sounds in the kitchen. The steak was sizzling in a frying pan. Water was running from the faucet. She could hear her father. He was home from work and laughing about something. But wouldhe be in a good mood when she told him that she had lost her skirt?
“Come over tomorrow morning,” Miata told Ana. “You have to help me out.” She hung up and returned to the kitchen to peel potatoes.
A t dinner, they had steak,
frijoles
, and
papas fritas
. They also had a small salad that was mostly lettuce. This was her father’s favorite meal. Everyone in the family, even Little Joe, called it
carne del viernes
. This was their father’s reward for a week of hard work: a large meal and then a baseball game on television.
Miata’s father, José, now worked as a welder. He worked mostly on tractors and trailers. The money was good, nearly as good as his pay in Los Angeles.
Her mother stabbed a tomato slice hiding behind a sheet of lettuce. She nudged Miata. “Tell
Papi
about your spelling.”
“I got an
A
,” she said, smiling. “Next week I could be spelling bee champion if Dolores doesn’t beat me.” Dolores was a small girl with a big brain.
“Qué bueno,”
her father said as he cut a
papa
with his fork. Steam rose from the parted
papa
. “Spelling is important,” he said between bites. “One day you will get a good job if you know lots of words.”
“You could be a doctor,” her mother said.
“
Mi’ja
, you could fix me up,” her father said. He rotated his aching arm. Her fatherwas always getting injured. Today a pipe had fallen from the truck and struck his arm. A purplish bruise had already appeared.
“Did you hurt yourself?” her mother asked. She put down her fork. Her face was dark with worry.
“Does it hurt?” Little Joe asked.
“Only when I do this,” José said. He stood up and punched Little Joe on the arm, softly.
Little Joe laughed and told his father, “That doesn’t hurt.”
The conversation turned to sports. Although they were living in the valley, José could pick up the Los Angeles Dodgers on television. It was a beautiful May. His Dodgers were two up on the San Francisco Giants. This made him happy. Last year the Giants had beaten them.
“Next year, Little Joe,” he said to his son, “you’ll be eight and you can start playing
Miata went to the kitchen. Her mother was peeling potatoes. The radio was turned to the Mexican station.
“How was school?” her mother asked. “Here, you finish this.” She handed the half-skinned potato and the potato peelerto Miata. Miata started working, the skin of potatoes flying into the sink.
“School was okay,” Miata answered. “I got an
A
on my spelling test. Mrs. Garcia says that I have a good memory.” Just as she said this she remembered her skirt. If my memory is so great, she thought, why did I forget my skirt on the bus?
“Are you ready for the dance this weekend?” Miata’s mother asked. “Ana’s mother called and said you two should practice Sunday morning before church. But I told her we didn’t have time.”
Miata didn’t say anything. She worked faster, the peels flying like rubber bands.
“Your father will be so proud,” her mother said. She opened the refrigerator and took out a piece of meat.
Miata was peeling her third potato when the telephone rang. She dropped thepotato and potato peeler and screamed, “I got it.”
She raced through the living room to the hallway. On the fourth ring she answered the telephone. “Ana?” Miata asked, her heart pounding.
“Yeah?”
“Did you find it?”
“Find what?” Ana’s voice was confused.
“My skirt! It was on the bus. Didn’t you see it?” Miata’s voice was desperate.
“Your skirt?”
“I left my skirt on the bus. Didn’t you see it?”
“No. You mean you lost your
folklórico
skirt?”
Miata could hear sounds in the kitchen. The steak was sizzling in a frying pan. Water was running from the faucet. She could hear her father. He was home from work and laughing about something. But wouldhe be in a good mood when she told him that she had lost her skirt?
“Come over tomorrow morning,” Miata told Ana. “You have to help me out.” She hung up and returned to the kitchen to peel potatoes.
A t dinner, they had steak,
frijoles
, and
papas fritas
. They also had a small salad that was mostly lettuce. This was her father’s favorite meal. Everyone in the family, even Little Joe, called it
carne del viernes
. This was their father’s reward for a week of hard work: a large meal and then a baseball game on television.
Miata’s father, José, now worked as a welder. He worked mostly on tractors and trailers. The money was good, nearly as good as his pay in Los Angeles.
Her mother stabbed a tomato slice hiding behind a sheet of lettuce. She nudged Miata. “Tell
Papi
about your spelling.”
“I got an
A
,” she said, smiling. “Next week I could be spelling bee champion if Dolores doesn’t beat me.” Dolores was a small girl with a big brain.
“Qué bueno,”
her father said as he cut a
papa
with his fork. Steam rose from the parted
papa
. “Spelling is important,” he said between bites. “One day you will get a good job if you know lots of words.”
“You could be a doctor,” her mother said.
“
Mi’ja
, you could fix me up,” her father said. He rotated his aching arm. Her fatherwas always getting injured. Today a pipe had fallen from the truck and struck his arm. A purplish bruise had already appeared.
“Did you hurt yourself?” her mother asked. She put down her fork. Her face was dark with worry.
“Does it hurt?” Little Joe asked.
“Only when I do this,” José said. He stood up and punched Little Joe on the arm, softly.
Little Joe laughed and told his father, “That doesn’t hurt.”
The conversation turned to sports. Although they were living in the valley, José could pick up the Los Angeles Dodgers on television. It was a beautiful May. His Dodgers were two up on the San Francisco Giants. This made him happy. Last year the Giants had beaten them.
“Next year, Little Joe,” he said to his son, “you’ll be eight and you can start playing
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