Stef Soto, Taco Queen

by Jennifer Torres

  “Exactly!” Mr. Salazar claps. He tells us to spend a few minutes planning before practicing the technique ourselves. But I already know what I want to paint: parking lights glowing against the dark purple sky over the commissary at night.

  chapter

  7

  As usual, Tía Perla is waiting for me when school is dismissed, but this time, Papi has her parked just across the street. Progress. I wave to show him how much I appreciate it. Instead of waving back, Papi points his finger up and down the street and then points at his eyes, which I take as some signal to look both ways. So much for progress. Amanda follows me out, talking so fast about Viviana Vega tickets that it’s hard to keep up. I’m surprised when she starts crossing the street with me.

  “Hold up.” I clamp my hand on her shoulder so she’ll stop and take a breath. “Don’t you have practice?”

  “We have to run an extra lap for every minute we’re late.” She checks her watch and shrugs. “Worth it.”

  Papi is standing next to the truck holding sodas when we get to the other side. Amanda shakes her head. “No, thanks. Practice.” Then she launches right back into concert talk.

  “Okay, so I know Mom and Dad aren’t going to just give me money for Viviana Vega tickets, but maybe, like, an advance on my allowance? Orrrrr, I don’t know, a yard sale? I could get rid of all those stupid stuffed animals. And your drawings! You could sell some, Stef. That’s at least a few bucks.”

  “Yeah,” I say weakly, wishing she wasn’t doing this right in front of Papi. I need some time to prepare my case, even if it is hopeless.

  I feel Papi staring at me. If I can’t keep up with Amanda, he must be completely lost. “What’s all this about?” he asks in Spanish. “Who is this Viviana Vega?”

  Amanda answers for me. “Mr. SO-to, everyone knows Viviana Vega.”

  “Es una cantante,” I say quietly.

  “Not just a singer. Pretty much the best singer ever,” Amanda continues. “And there’s a concert coming up, and Stef and I have to be there.”

  Papi nods but doesn’t say anything. He just gets back in the truck.

  Over the next few days, Amanda tries everything she can think of to raise the ticket money. I go along with her thinking wishfully, Papi hasn’t said no.

  At lunchtime, she goes without milk every day for a week—she even talks Arthur into giving up his orange juice—but when we count the change, it adds up to less than four dollars. Amanda teaches me to make her handmade headbands, and we sell a couple to girls on her soccer team but have to stop when we run out of old T-shirts. Amanda offers to babysit her little brother for five dollars an hour, but since she already has to do that for free, her parents just laugh.

  By the time tickets go on sale, we’re not even close.

  There’s really no way we could just forget about the concert, but it would be a lot easier if Julia wasn’t reminding us all the time, wondering—too loudly, considering we’re in the library—what she should wear and whether she should give Viviana flowers or a teddy bear when she goes backstage. Because, of course, she gets to go backstage.

  With the concert sold out, Amanda and I try to decide what to do with the money.

  “You have enough to download her new album at least,” Arthur whispers. “I mean, if you don’t mind listening to pop trash.”

  “Hey, Amanda,” I say slyly.

  “Hey what?”

  “I think he wants us to download the album for him.”

  Amanda considers for a moment. “No,” she says very seriously. “Give Arthur some credit. I think… he already has it!”

  “And knows all the songs by heart?”

  “Yeah, and sings them in the shower!”

  We’re trying so hard to hold back our giggles that they come out as tears. Arthur blushes, groans, and puts on his earphones, but not before the librarian catches him and gives him a stern look. Sheepishly, he slides them into his backpack.

  I sock him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t be such a music snob.” He socks me back.

  chapter

  8

  It’s been so long since I’ve slept in on a Saturday morning that I don’t really need to set an alarm clock anymore. Most days, my eyes just open at five o’clock. I stretch, change out of my pajamas, twist my hair into a lazy bun, and find Mami and Papi already in the kitchen. She has the newspaper open. He’s pouring coffee into a thermos. Lots of parents spend Saturdays at ballparks and festivals and flea markets. Papi does, too. Only, he’s there to sell tacos and burritos, tortas and tostadas. Saturday is his busy day, and it takes all three of us to make sure he’s prepared.

  The farmers’ market is our first stop, and we leave as soon as I gulp down a bowl of cereal. Papi pulls a notebook from his shirt pocket and leafs through it to find this week’s grocery list while Mami walks over to a food stand. She comes back with three steaming cups of hot chocolate and hands me one. The first sip burns my tongue, but it’s worth it. “So, what do we need?” I ask, feeling warmer and finally awake.

  We gather onions, garlic, lettuce, tomatoes, and beans. We have everything else we need back at the commissary. When we get there, I head straight for one of the enormous refrigerators in the prep kitchen, my reflection fuzzy and warped on its stainless-steel door. I find the drawer assigned to Papi, pull out a bunch of cilantro, take it to a counter, and start chopping. Meanwhile, Papi, wearing disposable gloves, ladles salsa into teensy plastic containers. We leave the onions to Mami. They never make her cry. No one else is in the cavernous kitchen yet. The only sounds I hear are the soft thuds of knives on cutting boards until, after a while, Mami starts to hum.

  “Estefania,” Papi says finally, clearing his throat. “If you don’t have any other plans, I’d like for you to come and help me today.”

  I don’t have any plans, but if I did, they wouldn’t involve Tía Perla.

  “Well, I mean, there’s homework, and I…”

  “Órale,” he insists. “I can really use your help, m’ija. We’ll start at the park. Maybe you’ll see Amanda play.”

  I guess I don’t have a choice. “Fine.”

  Finished in the kitchen, we pack up Tía Perla and drop Mami off at home. It’s still morning when Papi and I get to the park, but already the sun is beginning to bake the grass fields. “Good thing we restocked the soda,” I say.

  “Órale,” he answers. I take orders while he cooks on the flattop grill—first, eggs and sausage for breakfast burritos, and a few hours later, chicken and steak. He wipes sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and whistles along to the radio on the counter.

  “Two super burritos, no beans, and one chicken taco, extra jalapeños,” I call back to him. “Eleven fifty, please,” I tell the lady standing at the order window. “Any lime or salsa?” She fans herself with a baseball cap while waiting for her order.

  Between customers, I watch Amanda’s game at the far end of the park. From here, the players are just blurs of orange and green, but I recognize Amanda’s two brown braids flying out behind her. I figure she’s spotted Tía Perla, too—who can miss her?—and that later she’ll jog over for a postgame bottle of cherry soda. I bury one way down at the bottom of the ice chest so it’ll be slushy-cold when she gets here.

  Amanda started coming to Saint Scholastica in fifth grade, but since we weren’t in the same class, I didn’t really meet her until sixth grade, when my parents signed me up for soccer. Amanda and I ended up on the same team. I had hardly even kicked a ball before, but Amanda had been playing soccer almost since she learned to walk. She was fast, and her passes always landed exactly where she wanted.

  Scrimmaging at practice one afternoon, Amanda broke away at the half line with no one but me between her and the goal box. As she dribbled past, I turned, flustered, to our coach. “Catch her!” he yelled.

  I took off, running as hard as I could, Coach yelling, “Go! Go!” behind me. I closed some of the gap between us, but I could tell I wasn’t going to get out in front of A
manda—she was just too fast. We ran a few strides side by side, and then, just as she was about to speed off again, I kicked blindly, hoping to find the ball and send it out of bounds.

  Instead, I found Amanda’s cleat, knocking her legs out from under her. She landed with a smack and a howl and had to sit out the rest of the season. I figured she would stop showing up for games and practices after that, but she was there for every one, glaring at me from the sideline, her broken arm resting on her lap. I tried to avoid her. But one morning, as I was shuffling off the field at halftime, she said, “Hey.” I looked over to where she was sitting, still suited up in our team uniform, complete with shin guards, even though she wasn’t going to play. I was surprised and a little scared.

  “You’re kicking the ball with your toe,” she said, picking at the grass instead of looking at me.

  “So?”

  She looked up. “So, you’re supposed to kick with your shoelaces.”

  “My shoelaces?”

  Amanda stood, found a practice ball, and demonstrated. “When you kick with your shoelaces, it’s easier to make the ball go where you want.” She kicked, sending the ball straight to my feet.

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  Amanda shrugged.

  “It’s cool you got a blue cast,” I blurted. I had noticed it right away, of course, but had been too afraid to say anything until then. “Was it to match our uniforms? If you want, I can draw a soccer ball on it after the game.”

  She smiled. “Okay.”

  “And I’m sorry I knocked you over.”

  “I know.”

  I didn’t play soccer anymore after that season—our Saturdays were just too busy with Tía Perla—but Amanda and I stayed friends.

  Now, as the referee blows his whistle long and loud at the end of her game, I see the teams huddle and cheer, then line up to shake one another’s hands.

  “I’m going to take a break. Okay, Papi?”

  “Stay close, m’ija,” he says, still pushing bite-size chunks of chicken around the grill. I grab the radio and Amanda’s soda and wait for her outside the truck. Her parents say she can hang out with us until her little brother’s game is over and it’s time for them to go home.

  We sit cross-legged in the grass, Amanda sucking the juice out of an orange wedge as I twist the radio dial, listening for a break in the static. I finally find a clear station playing, naturally, Viviana Vega. I sigh, pick up a twig, and start tracing little pictures in the dirt while Amanda chatters about her assists and the fouls the referee should have called but didn’t.

  Then I hear something that makes me sit up straight and hold my hand out to shush her.

  “What?”

  I shake my head and point to the radio. “Listen.”

  “Oh, I know. Viviana Vega? I’m starting to think Arthur’s right. I’m so over it. I just want her stupid concert to be done with already so we can talk about something else for a change.”

  “No, listen!” I snap.

  Amanda stops talking as the DJ announces he’s about to give away two tickets to the sold-out Viviana Vega show. “Be the fiftieth caller, and the tickets are yours.”

  “A phone!” Amanda barks.

  I jump to my feet, scramble into Tía Perla’s cab, and yank Papi’s cell phone from the glove compartment. I should probably ask first, but there isn’t time.

  I dial the radio station, my fingers shaking, then press the speaker button. We listen: Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Busy.” I sigh, hanging up.

  “So try again!” Amanda orders.

  This time it rings. And rings, and I don’t believe what I finally hear on the other end.

  “Congratulations, Caller Fifty.”

  No way.

  “Hello? Caller?… Anyone there?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Oh my god!” I mouth soundlessly as Amanda snatches back the phone to talk to the DJ. My mind is racing as I hear Amanda say, “Is this for real?… Thirteen.… Oh, my mom can do it!… Thank you!”

  She taps a button to end the call. “That’s it,” she says. “We’re not eighteen, so my mom has to go pick up the tickets at the box office. Can you believe this? We’re gonna see Viviana Vega!”

  I pull her up from the ground by both arms. “We’re gonna see Viviana Vega!”

  We scream so loudly that Papi comes running out of Tía Perla, a spatula raised in his right hand.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, looking frantic and eyeing his cell phone where we tossed it on the ground. “Qué pasó? What happened? What’s wrong? Estefania, is everything all right?”

  I stop jumping and frown. Why does he always have to worry so much?

  I let go of Amanda’s hands. “Nothing’s wrong.” I huff. “We’re just happy.” I pause and take a breath. I’m going to have to be careful about how I explain this. “You know that concert? The one next weekend? Amanda just won a ticket! She gets to go!”

  Papi squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “Qué bueno, Amanda,” he says, relaxing his shoulders.

  “Yeah, but what’s really great is we have two tickets!” Amanda bursts before I can stop her. “Stef can come, too, right? You have to let her.”

  I look at the ground and erase my little dirt drawings with the toe of my sneaker. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to my parents—to convince them that everything would be fine—before Amanda had said anything. But maybe, just this once, they’ll understand what a big deal it is. Maybe they’ll trust me enough to let me go. I look up at Papi.

  He is already looking at me, confused and maybe a little sad. I seem to be getting that look a lot lately.

  “I see,” Papi says slowly. “We’ll have to talk about that. For now, m’ija, it’s time for us to go. Good game, Amanda. Come on back to the truck and take some tacos for your parents.”

  Papi walks back to Tía Perla, and Amanda whispers, “They’re going to let you go, right? I mean, Stef, this is, like, once in a lifetime.”

  After Papi hands Amanda a brown paper bag stuffed with tacos and salsa and tortilla chips, he and I leave the park and drive to the flea market. His lips are pressed together in a tight, straight line. Once, at a stoplight, I look up at him. I want to tell him I’m smart enough, mature enough. But the words feel like paste in my mouth, and I swallow them all back down as the light turns green.

  chapter

  9

  We spend the rest of the afternoon at the flea market parked next to a truck called Gyro Hero. Our menus are so different, Papi had explained, that we’re not really competing with each other, just giving customers more options. Late in the afternoon, he sends me over with two carnitas burritos. I come back to Tía Perla with two pitas stuffed with chicken souvlaki.

  The line outside our window is never very long, but orders are steady enough to stay put. Not until we’ve sold out of carne asada do Papi and I leave the flea market and head back to the commissary. It is after dark, but still warm, when we finally pull in. I can’t help daydreaming about the Viviana Vega concert: I’ve never won anything in my whole life—not even a goldfish at the school carnival. It was obviously meant to be.

  And then I remember how hopeless it is, and my chest goes tight.

  Papi shuts off the engine. “M’ija,” he says, “you can wait here until I’m finished if you want.”

  A break from cleanup duties? I’m about to say yes, but I have a second thought.

  “Nope,” I say, straightening up and unbuckling my seat belt. “I can help.”

  I have only a week to show my parents I’m not a little kid anymore. I have to make them see how responsible I am, to convince them I’m not too young to go to that concert.

  Papi looks surprised, but he nods. “Órale,” he says, leading the way. I restock napkins and empty the trash. As I’m carrying a tub of sour cream from the truck back into the commissary refrigerator, I notice Papi and some of the other drivers huddled around a bulletin board, squinting at a letter that must have been tacked there
sometime this afternoon.

  “Regulations?” asks the owner of Tacos al Grullense. “Regulations mean they want to drive us out of business.”

  “Es nada,” Vera Padilla insists. She swats at the letter as though shooing a fly. She and her sister, Myrna, drive Burritos Paradiso. Usually parked outside the gym, it’s famous for Myrna’s caramel-topped flan. “They try this every few years. Nothing ever happens. Trust me; don’t worry.”

  Papi sees me watching and waves me over. “Estefania, ven.”

  I join the others in front of the bulletin board, and he points to the letter. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to know he wants me to translate. He speaks good-enough English, but when it comes to important conversations and official-looking paperwork, he doesn’t trust himself. He always asks me. I translate at doctor visits and parent conferences, when letters come in from the bank or from the electric company. I’m used to it, but it still leaves me with a nervous pins-and-needles feeling in my stomach. When Papi says he needs my help with Tía Perla, I know he just wants some company. When he asks for help with English, it’s like he really needs me.

  I look up at the posting. MEETING NOTICE is printed across the top in bold capital letters. “It’s from the city,” I confirm. “And it’s about new rules. It looks like…” I scan farther down and read “renewable every year” and “clean and free from damage.” Doesn’t sound like a very big deal to me. Tía Perla might not be the prettiest truck in the parking lot, but she’s clean enough.

  I step back from the bulletin board. “There’s going to be a special meeting. All of you can go if you have something to say.”

  “Ah, don’t bother,” Vera grumbles. “Like I said, nothing ever happens.”

  Papi pulls out a notepad—the one he uses to jot down which ingredients and supplies are running low—and copies the date and time of the meeting.

  “All done, Estefania,” he says. “Vámonos?”

  chapter

  10