The Tequila Worm

by Viola Canales

  The three comadres and Papa started laughing. He put his arm around Mama and gave her a kiss on her rouged cheek, which matched her pretty red dress.

  “Take a big bite, Sofia!” Berta said, unwrapping a Hershey’s chocolate bar.

  “Only if you put your fingers at the tip!” I said, and bit down. Mama and Papa walked on ahead of us, arm in arm.

  “And, Sofia,” Berta said, “here’s my advice to you: one, comb that crazy hair of yours; two, always, always button your buttons straight; and three, kick that girl Terry out of your mind.

  “Oh, and also remember our promise to Tía Petra about getting good at becoming faraway comadres.”

  “With me, too!” said Lucy.

  “Yes, Lucy, of course, you too!” I said, touching her head. “And remember to write me about your quinceañera.”

  “Quinceañera? Whose quinceañera?” said Mama, turning around.

  “Mine, Mama! I’m starting to plan it!” said Lucy, beaming.

  Papa laughed. Mama shook her head. “Ay, mi’ja, now, that’s a record. You need to tell Clara so . . .” Mama stopped. “Sofia, what story do you want Clara to tell as she goes around with her story bag? And don’t say none.” Even with her stroke, Clara was still telling her stories, though now the stories were written on paper and attached to the things in her bag, and we all took turns reading them for her.

  “That my dream came true, Mama . . . thanks to you all.”

  “Okay. Now come here,” she said as she pulled a pair of scissors from her big purse. “And stand still.” Before I knew it, Mama had cut off a three-inch lock of my hair.

  “Mama! What are you doing?”

  “Now give me one of your socks.”

  “What?” Students and parents were passing by.

  “Hurry!” Berta and Lucy pulled off my sneaker, then my sock, tossing it to Mama.

  “Good! I’m going to make a Sofia doll from this sock. I’ll attach your hair to it and give it to Clara for when she tells your story.” They all laughed.

  I kissed everyone good-bye. When I heard Papa’s door slam, I felt very much alone. I stood there waving until the car disappeared. Then, with my heart and head pounding, I slowly went up the stairs to my room. Was this the right time to open Papa’s secret cascarone?

  I stopped and reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the little wooden carving of Saint Sofia. I suddenly remembered Papa’s words of many years before, that our side of town had its own wealth and warmth. I finally understood what he’d meant.

  I started climbing the stairs again, with Saint Sofia back in my shirt pocket, wondering if this strange world would somehow help me understand better not only the other side but my side as well.

  SainTS aT SainT Luke’S

  TERRY was on Brooke’s bed, crying, and Brooke was saying, “Everything will be okay.” I started to leave, but Brooke caught my arm and mouthed stay.

  I went to my desk, took out Tía Petra’s plastic-covered notebook, and started writing my first letter home. After about ten minutes, Terry left, still weepy.

  “She’s something,” Brooke said, sitting on her bed with her back against the wall.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s already obsessed about getting into one of the big three.”

  “The big three?”

  “Yes, you know, Harvard, Yale, or Princeton.”

  “Oh . . . is Terry a scholar?”

  “No!” Brooke said, laughing. “She’s average, at best. Now, don’t get me wrong. She’s not dumb, either. But she’s, well, a headmaster’s choice.”

  “A what?”

  “She got in because her parents make a lot of money.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. “But why is she so obsessed about getting into the big three?”

  “Because she wants what she thinks comes with it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Privilege. Money. Power. Her wedding in the New York Times social pages. All that.”

  “But . . . why was she crying?”

  “Well . . . Terry got dumped here. See, her parents are going through this messy divorce. And she wants to room with me because she likes my brother, Tiff, who’s graduating this year.”

  “I thought his name was Chris?”

  Brooke started laughing. “His name is Christopher, but we’ve always called him Tiff. I don’t know where Terry got Chris. Go figure.”

  “I see,” I said, thinking that there was a whole lot more I didn’t see. And I had thought getting the five new dresses was going to be the hard part.

  The cantina doors flew open. It was Terry. “Hey, Sofia, I hear you’re here on a scholarship. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there’re three other Mexican Americans on scholarship too?”

  “Yes.”

  “So where are they?”

  “In the boys’ dorm.”

  “Oh,” Terry said as she walked over to my bookcase and picked up the wooden crucifix with the bleeding Christ. “You’re also Catholic, right?”

  “Yes.” My head was starting to hurt.

  “Don’t you think Mexicans are obsessed with death?”

  “Terry!” said Brooke, taking the crucifix and putting it back. “And aren’t parvenus obsessed with money and status and marrying old money?” Terry turned red and stormed out.

  “What’s a parvenu?” I said.

  “New money. What Terry is all about.”

  “Oh.” I was more confused than ever, and school hadn’t even officially started yet.

  The next morning, I woke to the sound of a loud, clanging bell. I thought about the student who’d been assigned the job of ringing the school bell for the entire week—for each wake-up; for each class; for chapel; for mail call; for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and even for milk and cookies after evening study hall. We all had jobs.

  Mine were to clean room twenty-four every morning and to put out the student mail.

  Living by bells turned out to be only the first of a long string of surprises.

  There was the total lack of privacy. I realized this as I was dressing for my first dinner. Brooke seemed used to it, quickly slipping into a tan cotton dress with brass buttons, and white pumps.

  I stood there in my jeans. I didn’t mind being naked in my room at home with Lucy. But I didn’t even know Brooke. Could I go change in one of the bathroom stalls? No! Why was I so modest? Because I was Catholic? Because I was Mexican? Both?

  The bell for dinner started clanging.

  “Sofia, aren’t you coming to dinner?” Brooke said.

  “Eh . . . yes. I was just . . . wondering what dress to wear.”

  She looked into my closet. “How about this one? It’s gorgeous.” What? The bedsheet?

  “Okay,” I said, laughing. I changed in a wink.

  While walking to the dining room, Brooke said, “That’s such a pretty dress, really. Think I can borrow it?”

  “Oh, sure.” I couldn’t wait to tell Berta.

  A seating chart was posted outside. I was at table nine.

  The long table stood by a window overlooking the Colorado River. There were four chairs on each side and one at each end.

  I stood by a chair as others did. Then Marcos walked over.

  “Sofia! Are you at table nine too?”

  “Yes!” I said, smiling. I hadn’t seen him since suffering through those tests in Harlingen. Marcos looked like Felix the Cat in his dark coat and tie. He already resembled a cat in his quick and light-footed ways.

  “Terrific! Is Mr. Smith your faculty advisor too? This is his table, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  A chime sounded. Students and faculty hurried to their seats. Mr. Smith took his spot at the head. He was tall, with curly black hair. His wife took the chair at the other end. She was wearing a suit and an elegant silk scarf. Our table had four boys and four girls, and Marcos stood next to me.

  The headmaster said a prayer. Then everyone took their s
eats. The table was set with linen, silver, and china. The food was brought over on a big silver platter. Steak! And everyone got one. I had never eaten a whole steak before. I remembered Papa’s saying, “Sofia, beans are better than any steak.” I missed Papa’s beans, but the steak was really good too!

  “Sofia, how was your summer?” Mr. Smith said.

  Silence.

  “Excuse me, Sofia. I was asking about your summer. Charles here spent it biking in France.” Charles was blond and tanned, and he was staring.

  “Eh . . . fine. It was fine, Mr. Smith, thanks.” Imagine telling them about the cucumber shed!

  Mr. Smith smiled.

  After supper, Marcos walked me to my dorm. I started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, when Mr. Smith asked about my summer, I was about to say that I’d spent it sorting cucumbers at a packing shed.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “They would have choked on their steak, especially that Charles guy.” Marcos laughed.

  “How’s your dorm?”

  “Like a monk’s cell. They should at least let us have a refrigerator. I’m going to starve before school even starts.”

  “I have a big bag of empanadas and a box of Mexican chocolate. Want some?”

  “Ibarra’s Mexican chocolate? Sweet or semisweet?”

  “Semisweet.”

  “You said the magic words! I love that stuff.”

  “But how are you going to make it? Hot plates aren’t allowed.”

  “Make it? I eat it by the disk. I used to eat three a day.”

  I ran upstairs and brought Marcos three disks. “Thank you, thank you! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.” He unwrapped one and took a huge bite. “Wow! This stuff makes me feel like I’m back in McAllen.”

  I laughed. “Have you met the other valley students?”

  “Yeah, they’re in my dorm. One is Paco, from Brownsville. And Carlos, from Edinburg. But that dorm is something else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the senior guys rule. Last night this new ninth grader mouthed off to a senior guy. The next minute he was outside naked, begging to be let in. The senior guys finally let him, but only after he apologized. How are things in your dorm?”

  “Okay, so far.”

  Then the bell for study hall started clanging. Marcos ran to get his books, waving.

  My English class was in a room with a big round table with eleven chairs. Brooke sat next to me. She said, “Mr. Maxwell is brilliant, but tough, really tough.”

  The door flew open and in stumbled a stooped man smoking a pipe and wearing a squashed hat and a rumpled tweed jacket, with a chocolate cocker spaniel at his side.

  “Eh . . . good morning, class! This is my dog, Hemingway. He . . . he loves, yes, really loves books . . . novels, especially . . . and writing, reading . . . well, you can . . . learn a lot . . . from Hemingway . . . my dog . . . but . . . he’s on sabbatical, you know . . . so he’ll just be sleeping . . . yes, sleeping there in the . . . corner. . . .

  “Yes, yes. The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald.” Mr. Maxwell looked at his wrist, searched his pockets, opened his jacket, took off his hat. “Eh . . . lost my watch . . . again. No matter. Class! Listen up! You have exactly fortyfive minutes to write an essay on the significance of the green light in The Great Gatsby. Now, go!”

  We froze. I must’ve turned as white as a ghost. Then, in a split second, notebooks snapped, papers flew, pens popped, and the class tore into writing. My heart pounded, my adrenaline pumped as I wrote. I felt terrified and electrified at the same time.

  “Stop!” Mr. Maxwell said. The bell started clanging. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a dog biscuit shaped like a bone. Hemingway started chomping.

  “I’ll grade these tonight. Get them back to you tomorrow. Tomorrow’s assignment is to read To the Lighthouse. Virginia Woolf.” He took the papers, rolled them up, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, and slammed his shoulder into the doorframe on the way out.

  Sports were another surprise. It was field hockey term. Monday through Friday, from three to five in the afternoon, we whacked each other’s shins, knees, and worse with those blasted hockey sticks. I was black and blue all over.

  Brooke and I were getting along well off the field, but there were times when I wanted to slam her with my hockey stick and kick her even harder. She was good, but too often she ran with the ball when she ought to have passed. We lost our first game because of her.

  At practice the next day, Brooke did the exact same thing. As we were dressing for dinner, I said, “Brooke, why don’t you ever pass the ball?”

  “Sofia, your problem is that you always pass the ball. How do you plan to ever score, to stand out?”

  That night, Brooke slept soundly, while I stared at the glow-in-the-dark rosary. I thought about how much I missed my family. Papa, Berta, even Lucy would’ve passed the ball. That was how teams worked, that was what I’d been taught. I glanced at Brooke. She was nice and all, but we’d never get as close as I was with Berta.

  Chapel was different too. When I entered for my first weekday service, I found not only no Virgin of Guadalupe there, but no saints, either—not even Saint Luke. There was only a thin wooden cross hanging suspended at the front. So this is the main difference between being Episcopalian and Catholic, I thought.

  Imagine my shock when I walked into chapel for Sunday service and found my Virgin of Guadalupe all lit up at the very front of the chapel. When the Episcopal priest walked up to begin the service, he immediately unplugged her and hid her behind a big plant on the floor.

  An hour later I was summoned to see my advisor, Mr. Smith. “Sofia,” he said, smiling, “is this yours?”

  I wanted to die. He flipped the plastic Virgin over and pointed to my name in big black letters on the bottom. I mumbled, “Yes, sir, she’s mine, but I have no idea how she got into the chapel.”

  Mr. Smith smiled again and handed her back to me. “Sofia, try keeping her in your room.”

  A week later the chipped saint made his way into the chapel. He was soon returned to me, as were eventually the votive candle, the glow-in-the-dark rosary, and the Guardian Angel, who took turns appearing at Sunday services. This was even after I’d put them all back in the box and then hidden them inside my suitcase.

  I missed my room altar, especially at night, when I thought of home most. I liked looking at the glow-in-the-dark rosary and remembering my last birthday. I especially missed Lucy and hearing her giggle at the crazy stories I told her before going off to sleep.

  I wanted to kick whoever was taking my saints. This was worse than when our dorm woke to find every single one of our bras missing. We later found them all hooked together and festooned across a classroom—with mine being the only ones bearing my name in bold black letters—something Mama had insisted upon.

  One afternoon I went into my room and found Brooke and Terry arguing. Terry was bright red and Brooke was holding a piece of paper. A bottle of tequila stood on my bookcase, where my room altar used to be. I froze. I could get kicked out for having liquor in my room!

  “Come on, Terry, apologize to Sofia, or I’ll tell her and everybody else, including Tiff,” said Brooke, staring at Terry.

  “Tell me what?” I said. Terry kept her eyes fixed on the stone floor. She was turning redder and redder.

  “Okay! Here, Sofia,” Brooke said, handing me the paper. Terry stormed out.

  I took the piece of paper and read it, then reread it: Everything from Mexico—including tequila—has worms. So why don’t you and your morbid saints wiggle back across the border?

  Brooke said, “I’m really sorry, Sofia! It was Terry’s idea of a cool prank, one she thought would make her popular. But it was just as dumb as she is. Don’t take it personally. She is just mean, mean, mean.”

  I walked over and picked up the tequila bottle. I shook the bottle and stared as the white worm slowly settled ba
ck to the bottom. So it had been Terry all along. The one who’d plugged in my Virgin at Sunday chapel and later made all my other santos appear as well. Rooting around in my things! And now this, this note. I started to laugh, remembering Taco Head. Time to kick Terry’s butt.

  I took a deep breath, crumpled up the stupid note, and then kicked it across the hall to Terry’s room. She was sitting on her bed, paging through a teen magazine. “Hey,

  Terry, my family didn’t cross the border; it crossed us. We’ve been here for over three hundred years, before the U.S. drew those lines. And here’s a little secret: only a bottle of mescal has a real worm inside.” I dropped the bottle next to her on the bed. I went back to my room and took down my suitcase, and Brooke and I put all my santos back on my bookcase.

  News of Terry’s mean prank was all over campus the next morning. She found her mailbox jammed with hate mail and had to report to the headmaster.

  I found a card from Marcos in my mailbox: Sofia, you kicked that girl good! And for all of us! How about kicking the soccer ball with me on Saturday? And please, please bring a disk of your Ibarra chocolate. We can share it and dream about being back in McAllen. I smiled.

  As mail monitor, I just kept kicking hate mail into Terry’s box, enjoying it more and more.

  The PanTY-HoSe BaBY

  “It’s like being in a pressure cooker,” I said to Brooke as we raced back to the dorm after field hockey practice to shower and dress for dinner. “I mean, I hardly find time, or the energy, to even think of my family.” And there were still hours of study hall before lights out. Then the same every-minute-filled cycle started too early the next morning with the clang, clang, clanging of the wake-up bell.

  “So it’s working,” Brooke said, tossing her hockey stick in the air and catching it.

  “What’s working?”

  “These sunup-to-sundown-filled days. Take Tiff. It’s gotten to the point where the back-and-forth from here to home makes him feel awkward at home. It’s as though his school friends are his new family.”