He looked around the auditorium for Raquel, but she wasn’t there. He didn’t understand why she’d gotten all steamed up during Texas history class. Why did she have to challenge Mrs. Pruitt? Then get mad at him for not siding with her? Raquel wasn’t even in the United States legally.
She’d never told him that, but he knew. At home, Marco’s dad sometimes talked about the guys at work. A couple of them, he said, were illegal immigrants. One of them was a man named Gustavo Sánchez. Everybody called him Flaco. The other one was Emilio Flores, Raquel’s father.
Not that it mattered to Marco. He didn’t care if Raquel was here legally or not. It was none of his business. But sometimes she got on his nerves, especially when she brought up touchy subjects—like immigration. Raquel had blathered on and on about the protest march in Dallas. Marco pretended to be interested, but the rally hadn’t really meant anything to him.
“You can’t possibly understand how I feel, Marco. But then, why should you? You were born here!”
Maybe there was some truth to that, he thought.
“Okay, that’s fine for now,” Mrs. Frymire told the group. “Keep working on your part, Agatha. Now let’s go back to Scene Three. This is where the Mexicans first arrive.” She called Billy Ray, Moe, and Marco to the stage.
Billy Ray: “Well, they finally made it. Take a good look, men. That’s our opposition out there.”
Moe, as Davy Crockett, aimed his imaginary rifle. “Which one’s Santy Anny? Ol’ Betsy here’s just itching to get to know ‘im better.”
Marco as Jim Bowie: “Colonel! A group of ‘em’s heading this way! Get ready!”
Billy Ray: “Wait! Don’t shoot! They’re waving a white flag of truce. Let’s see what they want.”
Izzy and Orlando walked upstage and stopped in front of the Texans.
Orlando: General Antonio López de Santa Anna, de President of Mexico, sends dees messich to de commander off de Alamo.”
Izzy: “Jew are hereby ordered to leef dees meeshun at once. Eef dees order ees not obeyed, we weel deestroy de Alamo and all off de occupants een eet.”
Billy Ray hee-hawed. “The only thing you guys are gonna destroy is the English language.”
Izzy sneered at him. “Maybe so, but you’ll still be a buck-toothed, bald-headed orangutan!”
Everybody laughed.
Izzy crouched down, scratched his sides, and made monkey sounds.
“You’re a real funny guy, aren’t you?” Billy Ray said. “Let’s see how funny you’ll be without any teeth!”
Marco quickly stepped between them. “I told you to leave Izzy alone.”
“Shut up, Marco, unless you want some of this, too.” Billy Ray pounded his fist on his palm.
Mrs. Frymire threw her hands up in the air. “Stop it! All of you. I am not going to tolerate any threats.”
“Then tell him to stop calling me that!” Billy Ray cried.
“You mean a buck-toothed, bald-headed orangutan?” Izzy laughed hysterically.
Marco yanked him by the arm and whispered, “Cut it out, man!”
“Okay, that’s it!” Mrs. Frymire said. “Rehearsal’s over. I’ll see all of you again tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll escort the boys out of the building,” Mr. Watts offered. “Billy Ray, you wait here. Marco, you, Izzy, Orlando, and Felipe come with me.”
As they walked out of the auditorium, Izzy turned around and wiggled his fingers at Billy Ray. “Bye-bye, you buck-toothed, bald-headed orangutan!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Knock, knock.” An attractive, slender woman with short blond hair stood at Ms. Martínez’s door. Chiseled face with high cheekbones, an upturned nose, and a delicate chin, she resembled a life-sized Barbie doll. She wore a lilac-colored blazer with a white blouse underneath and a lime-green skirt. The skirt, which was high above her knees, would have found her in violation of the school dress code if she were a Rosemont student. The woman held a white wicker basket in her hand. Lilac and lime-green tissue paper partially hid lilac and lime-green plastic bottles inside the basket.
“Hi, I’m Darlene Hornbuckle, Agatha’s mother.”
Ms. Martínez rose from her desk. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hornbuckle. Thank you for coming.”
Mrs. Hornbuckle handed her the wicker basket. “I brought you a small gift I thought you might enjoy. It’s from the Trudy Carlisle Collection. You know, Trudy Carlisle? Skin Care with Style? I’m a Trudy Carlisle beauty consultant.” She pointed to a gold pin on the lapel of her blazer. The pin had a T and a C separated by a picture of a tube of lipstick.
Ms. Martínez peered inside the basket.
“There’s a body wash, a moisture lotion, and a fragrant spray,” Mrs. Hornbuckle pointed out. “Do you use Trudy Carlisle?”
Ms. Martínez smiled. “No, but I will now.”
“A number of teachers here at Rosemont, including Mrs. Frymire and Mrs. Pruitt, are clients of mine,” Mrs. Hornbuckle said. “Miss Mac, too, before … ” Her eyes took on an appropriate, sorrowful look. Then she composed herself. “Here’s my card. And a brochure. Let me know if I can assist you with any of our products.”
Ms. Martínez placed the card, the brochure, and the gift basket on her desk. She scooped up the test papers she had been grading and placed them, face down, on the far end. Then she invited Agatha’s mother to sit down.
“Ms. Martínez, I want you to know that Agatha is very excited about having you as her teacher. As I’m sure you can imagine, we were devastated by Miss Mac’s untimely death. She was a great person. Then we worried about who was going to replace her. But after Agatha’s first day in your class, she came home raving about you.” Mrs. Hornbuckle flashed a big, wide, Trudy Carlisle beauty consultant smile. “About how pretty you looked and what a sweet disposition you have.” Her smile turned sheepish. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Ms. Martínez, but Agatha had been a little concerned at first because … well, she’s never had a Spanish teacher before and … ”
“I’m not a Spanish teacher, Mrs. Hornbuckle,” Ms. Martínez corrected her in a half-serious, half-kidding tone. “I’m an English teacher. Mr. Segovia is the Spanish teacher at our school. But I don’t think Agatha is taking Spanish this year.”
Mrs. Hornbuckle’s eyes became blank, as if someone had suddenly flashed a bright light in her face. “Uh, well, no. What I mean to say is …” A nervous giggle escaped from her mouth. “Anyway, Agatha’s had nothing but nice things to say about you.”
Ms. Martínez folded her hands on her desk. Then in a sober tone she said, “You received the potential failing notice, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Hornbuckle crossed her legs and adjusted her skirt. “Ms. Martínez, Agatha’s never been much of a reader. I mean, it’s not as if she doesn’t know how to read. But with cheerleading practice and her babysitting jobs, she doesn’t have a lot of time to sit down with a book. Plus, she also helps me with my beauty shows.”
Ms. Martínez said, “I understand how busy Agatha is, Mrs. Hornbuckle. Unfortunately, her problem is more than just cracking open a book. Agatha has four missing reading assignments. She had a 75 to begin with, but now, with four zeroes, she’s in grave danger of failing.”
Mrs. Hornbuckle uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again. She tugged at her skirt and placed her hands on her lap. “You say she had a 75?” Another Trudy Carlisle smile spread across her face. “Well, there you go. That shows you Agatha can do the work. And after all, isn’t that what you’re trying to find out? To see if Agatha can read? Why don’t we just leave her grade at a 75? What do you say?” She gave the teacher a conspiratorial wink.
Ms. Martínez shook her head. “I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work that way, Mrs. Hornbuckle.”
“Then what about her part in the Alamo play? Agatha’s done a lot of reading for that. Mrs. Frymire has told me that Agatha’s been working very hard to learn her lines. I’m sure you can give her extra credit for it.”
“The play has noth
ing to do with my English class,” Ms. Martínez said with a sigh.
Mrs. Hornbuckle frowned. “It did when Miss Mac was the teacher. She used to give extra credit to any student who participated in one of her plays. I should know. I was in one of them. Did Agatha tell you that Miss Mac was my teacher when I was a little girl?”
Ms. Martínez gazed impatiently around the room. “No, she didn’t.”
“When I was in her class, Miss Mac wrote and directed a beautiful Christmas pageant. I played the part of the angel who announced to the shepherds the birth of baby Jesus.” She turned her eyes to the ceiling. Then she lifted her hands in the air like a football referee signaling a touchdown. “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” She paused and waited for Ms. Martínez’s reaction, but the teacher remained silent. “Of course, you can’t do plays like that anymore, not with everybody trying to be politically correct.” She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “And last year, my daughter Brenda played Titania in Miss Mac’s marvelous presentation of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She had to memorize pages and pages of dialogue for her role. She did it in such a short time, too.”
“Mrs. Hornbuckle, if Agatha wants to pass this grading period,” Ms. Martínez said bluntly, “she will have to stay after school with me every afternoon to make up her work. Otherwise the four zeroes will be averaged in as part of her final grade.”
Mrs. Hornbuckle’s lips tried for another Trudy Carlisle smile, but this time they malfunctioned. “But if she does that, Agatha won’t be able to attend the rehearsals for the play.”
Ms. Martínez shrugged with indifference. “Then perhaps she shouldn’t be in it. Right now I’m more concerned about her grade than her part in the show.” She rose from her chair. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Hornbuckle, but I need to get ready for my next class. My students will be arriving at any moment.”
Agatha’s mother stood up, her face flushed with indignation. “Don’t you think you’re being unfair to everyone involved in the play? I mean, if Agatha’s not in it, who’s going to replace her?”
Ms. Martínez motioned toward the door with an open hand. “Thank you for coming by, Mrs. Hornbuckle.”
The friendly façade on Agatha’s mother’s face was now replaced with a cold, venomous stare. “You’re not pulling Agatha out of the program, you hear?” she bellowed. “She’s going to be in it whether you like it or not. I’m going to have a talk with Mrs. Frymire about this!”
She snatched the Trudy Carlisle gift basket from the desk and bolted out of the room.
Ms. Martínez stood at the door with her arms crossed and watched her storm down the hallway. I wonder how many Trudy Carlisle products it cost you to buy Agatha the part in the play, Mrs. Hornbuckle.
CHAPTER TWENTY
People in Texas are fond of saying, “If you don’t like the weather here, wait five minutes and it’ll change.”
It took a little longer than five minutes, but not much more.
Sunday, the high had been a balmy 69 degrees, unseasonably warm weather for February.
On Monday morning, however, a blast of Arctic winds slammed into the area, packing a wintry mix of snow, sleet, and ice. It dropped temperatures to a frigid 18 degrees, with wind chills dipping into the single digits.
Izzy Peña was out of bed early. He wrapped himself in his blanket and sat on the couch in the living room with his feet tucked under his legs. He turned on the TV to Channel Eight “The News That Can’t Wait.” He crossed his fingers and waited anxiously for reports of school closings.
The night before, Dana Shackelford, the Channel Eight weather forecaster, had predicted the drastic changes in temperature. She said to expect icy drizzle and freezing rain mixed with snow by morning.
Izzy knew icy drizzle and freezing rain meant icy road conditions. And icy road conditions probably meant school buses would not be running. And no school buses running surely meant no school.
On television, Izzy watched a news reporter named Melinda Trice, dressed in a heavy, black, wool coat standing alongside a highway. She pointed to sanding trucks and explained that maintenance crews had been working all morning to cover the slippery roads with a mixture of salt and sand, giving special attention to bridges and overpasses.
The news switched to another reporter, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair named Ron Cowart. He was at the scene of a five-car pileup, describing how treacherous the driving conditions were. One of the vehicles, a green SUV, was flipped upside down with its air bags deployed. Ron Cowart urged motorists not to leave the house unless they absolutely had to.
Izzy thought the car accidents looked cool. But that wasn’t why he was watching the news. All he cared about at the moment was whether or not he would have to go to school.
The studio switched back to Melinda Trice, who repeated what she’d already stated about the sanding trucks.
It then showed another reporter flying in a helicopter. The reporter offered a bird’s-eye view of traffic conditions around the city. The sun had not risen, and the cars looked like twinkling stars against a black, patent leather highway.
The weather forecaster appeared next. Dana Shackelford gave an update on weather conditions, using words that made no sense to Izzy. Words like barometer, dew point, and Doppler radar. She pointed to a gigantic map of the United States. It was decorated with pictures of snowflakes, clouds, and giant H and L letters. The weather forecaster swept her hand across the map in a circular motion and used more words Izzy didn’t understand. High pressure system. Air mass. Humidity.
“Who cares?” Izzy said aloud. “Is there going to be school today? That’s all I want to know!”
Finally, fifteen minutes after he turned on the television, Izzy was rewarded with the news he’d been waiting to hear.
“Yes!” He bounced off the couch. “Mami! Blanca! Come here. Hurry! There’s no school today!”
Ms. Peña rushed into the living room. She held her robe tightly around her waist as she reached for the ends of her belt to tie it together. Her dark-brown hair stood straight up as if she’d stuck her finger into an electric socket.
“¿Qué pasó, muchacho? ¿Por qué estás gritando?”
Izzy pointed at the TV screen. “Mami, they just announced on the news that there’s no school today!”
Ms. Peña groaned. “Ay, m’ijo. I knew that. I heard it on the radio about thirty minutes ago.”
“You did? Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to let you and Blanca sleep a little longer.” She walked barefoot across the cold linoleum floor to the window and drew open the curtains. A white sheet of snow blanketed the tiny front yard. The limbs on the trees, having been stripped of their leaves since early December, were coated with translucent layers of ice. A mild breeze pelted the window with tiny specks of sleet.
The sun was beginning to rise, revealing a dirty gray sky that would fade to a lighter tint as the day progressed.
Staring at the icy street in front of her house, she considered calling her boss to say she wouldn’t be able to make it to work. It might even be true. She didn’t know if her car, a 1997 Ford Taurus, would start.
Izzy’s mother worked as a waitress at a Mexican restaurant called La Paloma Blanca. She clocked in at ten in the morning and worked until two o’clock. After that, she went home for a short break. She returned to the restaurant at five o’clock and worked until the restaurant closed at ten.
Izzy and Blanca sometimes waited up for her. She’d come home at the end of the day, exhausted and smelling of Mexican food and tortilla chips. The three of them would gather at the kitchen table. Izzy and Blanca marveled as their mother dug into the pockets of her waitress uniform, a red pleated skirt with a white blouse, and brought out wads of dollar bills and coins, the evening’s worth of tips. Piled on top of the table, the mon
ey looked like a small fortune. But the harsh reality was that it barely paid the bills.
On her days off, she worked at home as a seamstress, repairing torn clothing and making alterations. Occasionally, she sewed dresses for proms and quinceañeras. Most of her work came from friends and friends of friends.
If she stayed home, she could work on the costumes for Izzy’s Alamo program. She had already sewn about half of them.
Ms. Peña changed her mind about calling in sick. Her boss, Mingo Salazar, would be counting on her to show up. On days like this, business was impossible to predict. Either it would be dead, with most people heeding the weather forecaster’s warning to stay home, or the restaurant would be packed with customers hungering for hot Mexican food.
Izzy joined his mother at the window. This was the first real snow they’d seen this winter. Back in December, a few snow flurries had fallen. There was even talk on the news of a possible white Christmas. Unfortunately, by Christmas morning, the snow had melted completely.
But today there was enough snow to build a snowman. A good-sized one, too.
“Go back to sleep, m ‘ijo,” Ms. Peña said. “Maybe later, you and Blanca can go outside and play.”
Izzy glanced at the clock. It was almost seven o’clock. There was no need to be up, now that he had learned what he needed to know. He retreated to his room and stayed in bed for the next three hours.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was the dead silence in the house that stirred Izzy from his sleep. He sat up in his bed and listened for sounds of movement outside his door.
Nothing.
It took a moment for him to remember that there was no school. He looked at his window. It was covered with frost, blocking his view to the outside. He got out of bed and walked to the living room. He expected Blanca to be sitting on the couch watching television. The room was empty.
He checked the kitchen. Nobody was there either.
He stopped outside his mother’s bedroom door. “Mami?” No response.
Alamo Wars Page 8