“Usually people who are racist, or prejudiced, don’t have a very high self-esteem. They don’t feel good about themselves, so in order to make themselves feel better, they put other people down.”
I stop halfway through blowing my nose again. “No way,” I say. “Anastasia’s not like that at all. She has tons of self-esteem. Her family is super-rich, and she has all these expensive clothes, and all the girls in my class besides me and Gina and Elissa and Shannon think she’s really cool. She’s even going to have a formal party. With horse derves...or however you say that...and Shirley Temples and the hairstylist from Goldilocks Salon. Her parents actually hired her for an entire evening!”
Dad shakes his head at me, a strange smile on his face. “First of all, Tori, it’s hors d’oeuvres. And second...how do you know how Anastasia feels about herself? Having a lot of fancy things doesn’t make a person happy, after all. I can almost guarantee you that those other girls in your class are more impressed by Anastasia’s clothes and her formal party invitation than they are by Anastasia herself. Pretty soon, they’ll grow tired of her or see her for who she is, and move on.
“If you want to have friends, you’ve got to have a heart for them. And it doesn’t sound to me like Anastasia has much of a heart for anyone besides herself. Her parents obviously placed too much importance on money and material things and the color of people’s skin instead of on what really matters. Because of that, Anastasia doesn’t know how to truly make and keep a friend, so she tries to ‘buy’ friends by impressing them and inviting them to over-the-top parties. But that kind of friend doesn’t last long. Before you know it, Anastasia will be a lonely girl again. Now, that doesn’t sound like someone who’s very happy with herself, does it?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. I guess I never thought of it that way. But now that you said that...I feel almost sorry for Anastasia.”
Dad hugs me close again. “That’s because you, my princesa, have a very big heart. I love you, Victoria.”
His words send a shiver of happiness through me. I hug him back tightly and say, “I love you, Daddy.”
“I know you do. And I know something else you love, too.”
I sit back a little. “What’s that?”
Dad rumples my hair. “You love...” he pauses dramatically, then topples me off his lap onto the mattress and begins to tickle me wildly like he did when I was younger “...you love being half-Peruvian!”
I shriek and scream and giggle, reaching out my arms to push the tickles away. At last, Dad stops, and I sit up, out of breath, and think about what he just said. I think about Abuelita and Abuelito and their soft musical accents and Abuelita’s delicious Peruvian cooking and the old photo albums with pictures from Lima and how proud I am of myself for learning Spanish.
“You’re right,” I tell Dad. “I do love being half-Peruvian. And no one’s going to make me feel bad about it, either. Especially not Anastasia Adams!”
Dad stands up and pulls me to my feet. “That’s my princesa,” he says.
Epilogue
Outside, it’s cold and windy, with an on-again, off-again gray drizzle falling from the sky, and the trees are bare and black, and the grass is dried-up and dead-looking, and all the fall leaves have been raked up and bagged. But inside, it is warm and cheerful, with wonderful smells floating out of the kitchen and throughout the whole house.
One of my favorite things about living in a modernized farmhouse is that there is plenty of room for parties and family gatherings. All of the relatives are here from Dad’s side, except for Uncle Javi’s family, who live in California.
Abuelita is in the kitchen with Mom and Dad and Auntie Luz, putting the finishing touches on our Thanksgiving dinner. Uncle Gabe is chasing little Sofie around the living room. Abuelito is deep in conversation with Auntie Crista and her husband, Uncle Kevin, who are visiting from Ohio. My oldest brother Andrew and his very-pregnant wife Stephanie are chatting with Ben in the front entryway. Nate and Joey are watching a football game on TV with Auntie Crista’s seventeen-year-old twins, Michael and Jeff. And Gina and I are in the dining room, filling the glasses at everyone’s places with apple cider.
The dining-room table is spread with a burgundy tablecloth and accented by pale-yellow candles in Mom’s crystal candlesticks and matching pale-yellow napkins origami-folded to look like Thanksgiving turkeys (guess who did that?). There is a relish tray on the table, loaded with olives and pickles and carrot sticks, and a fresh pat of butter in the butter dish. Soon the rest of our feast will fill in the empty spaces--turkey and sweet potatoes and Hawaiian rolls and papas a la huancaina and more! My stomach growls at the thought.
“Done!” I say after filling the last glass. I screw the lid onto the almost-empty cider jug and carry it back to the kitchen, Gina right behind me.
“I am so hungry!” she cries, holding the refrigerator door open for me.
“Me, too.” I set the cider jug on a shelf inside, then swing the door closed and lean back against it.
“Hang in there,” says Dad from the kitchen table where he’s carving the turkey. “It’s almost time to eat.”
Abuelita winks at Gina and me. “Would you girls like a papa a la huancaina?” she asks with a twinkle in her eye. “Just one. It will be our little secret.” Of course, it isn’t a secret at all, with Mom and Dad and Auntie Luz right there, and Abuelita knows it, but we play along, each scooping a slice of boiled potato and cheese sauce out of the pan and onto a plate.
“Thanks, Abuelita!” we cry at the same time. I pull open the silverware drawer and grab two forks. Gina and I dig in.
At last, it is time to eat, and the whole family gathers in the big dining room. Auntie Luz puts Sofie in her highchair, and then we all join hands around the table while Abuelito asks the Thanksgiving blessing.
When he is finished, we begin passing the food, both American and Peruvian dishes, and I think about how fortunate I am and how much I really have to be thankful for. A great family (even the brothers, I guess), two amazing cultures, wonderful friends....My thoughts drift back a couple of weeks to the day Anastasia Adams handed out those party invitations.
So much has happened since then. After my long conversation with Dad, I decided to talk to Gina and Elissa about the racism issue and how we were being treated unfairly by Anastasia just because of our differences. As it turns out, they had both begun to suspect that was what was going on, and were feeling disgusted and humiliated. I shared with them what I had learned from Dad and Reid: how racism can affect anybody and how it’s up to us, as individual people, how we feel about ourselves and whether we decide to let others get us down. In the end, it made us all feel better to talk about it.
We filled Shannon and Emily in, and they were horrified. Even though Shannon had been invited to Anastasia’s party, there was no way she had even considered going, so us five girls had our own sleepover that night instead. We held it at my house, and let me tell you, it was way more fun than any party Anastasia Adams could hope to throw (even though we had pizza instead of hors d’oeuvres, 7-Up instead of Shirley Temples, and had to style each other’s hair and paint each other’s nails). We all really enjoyed getting to know Elissa better, and only wished that we had become friends with her sooner!
I’ve also talked with Reid and thanked him for helping me to understand and accept what happened with Anastasia. Ever since then, he has been hanging out with my friends and me, as well. I found out he loves to ride bikes and that he’s a total math whiz, which sure comes in handy for homework help. (Math is my worst subject.)
I feel like a much stronger and smarter person because of the hard lesson I was forced to learn. And what do you know? I came out of that mess with two cool new friends! On top of all that, we learned just before Thanksgiving break that Anastasia Adams is transferring to a private academy in the area and will not be back at Forest Grove Elementary. (Gina and I celebrated that news with a hot fudge sundae!)
But the very best part o
f all is that now I am free to be myself and to enjoy who I am: Victoria Michelle Salinas, half-Peruvian, half-Caucasian, one-hundred-percent American...and one-hundred-percent proud of it!
Tori’s Wish
Dedicated in loving memory of my grandparents,
Dwight and Jean Hooten,
who, through their warm hearts and open arms,
gave me the gift of a big family Christmas...
and memories to last a lifetime.
Chapter One
On the first Saturday of December, I’m awake before dawn. As hard as I try, I can’t go back to sleep, so finally, I sit up in bed, push the curtain away from my window, and look down at our big yard. There’s no snow yet, but there is frost, hard crunchy patches of it, like blobs of glue in the dead grass. The sky is gray, which might mean snow or might just mean that it’s still too early for sunlight.
I drop the curtain back in place, pull the covers up to my chin, and switch on my bedside lamp. I fold my pillow in half to prop myself up and reach for the library book I left on my bed table. As I settle in to read, I hear an angry screech. Sitting up quickly, I realize that I just lay down on my cat’s tail!
“Oh, Ebony, I didn’t see you! Sorry about that!” I say.
Ebony, who is a beautiful black-and-white mixed-breed with huge green eyes and a snotty personality, hisses at me and struts to the end of the mattress, where she curls up by my feet.
“Come on,” I say. “Can’t you be nice about it?”
Ebony doesn’t budge.
With a sigh, I open my book to the page where I left off, but it’s hard to concentrate on reading this morning. I keep glancing up at the digital clock on the bed table. Time seems to crawl. When will it ever be eight o’clock?
Each year, on the first Saturday in December, Dad drives out to Barrow’s Corners to bring back our Christmas tree. Barrow’s Corners is a big, family-owned farm with its very own evergreen forest where customers can “choose and chop,” as Mr. Barrow likes to say. It’s an adventure to ride out to the middle of the forest in a hay wagon (or a sleigh, depending on the weather) to find the perfect Christmas tree. My family has been doing it for as long as I can remember.
Barrow’s Corners is an almost-two-hour drive from Forest Grove, the Chicago suburb where we live. We like to get an early start and stop along the way at Shelly’s Place, a cozy diner about half-an-hour from the farm. It breaks up the trip a bit, and besides, the French toast there is amazing!
This year, only Dad and my seventeen-year-old brother Ben and (unfortunately) Ben’s girlfriend Jaine and I will be going. The rest of the family has plans, or (in the case of my brother Joey) just wants to sleep in.
Finally, I give up on reading and shove my bookmark back between the pages. I open the drawer where I keep my MP3 player and listen to Christmas music for awhile. But even that gets boring, so I decide to wash up and put some clothes on.
I dress quickly so I won’t get chilled. (We live in what used to be a big farmhouse, surrounded by acres of land, that was built back in the early-1900s, and it gets really drafty in the winter months.) I pull on an old pair of jeans that are scruffy at the bottom, a faded long-sleeved T-shirt, and my warmest hoodie. I add a pair of purple socks (the same color as the hoodie) and my Converse high-tops, not the new ones, but the worn-out ones I’ve had for awhile. It can be muddy and wet in the evergreen forest.
In front of my dresser mirror, I brush my long brown hair and put in my Christmas tree earrings, which don’t match my outfit at all but make me feel festive and happy. Then I glance at the clock again to see how much time has passed. Not enough. It’s seven on the dot, which means I still have a whole hour to wait before we head out to Barrow’s Corners!
There must be something I can do to make the time go faster. I think for a moment, and then I remember the Christmas cards I bought last weekend. I sit down at my desk, pull the cards out of the drawer, and take my red and green glitter gel pens from the mug that also holds a ruler, a pair of scissors, four other gel pens, and a bunch of stubby pencils.
I take my time with the cards, writing funny messages and drawing pictures of Christmas trees, poinsettias, snowmen, and elves. Finally, I slip them into envelopes and address one each to my cousin Gina (who is my best friend) and my other good friends, Shannon, Emily, Elissa, and Reid. I am in the middle of sticking stamps on the envelopes when I hear a knock at my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I say. I glance at the clock and do a double-take. It’s already seven-forty-nine!
Dad peeks his head around the door. “’Morning, Tori!” he says brightly. “I was just checking to make sure you were up, but I guess I shouldn’t have worried.”
“I’ve been awake since five-something. I was so excited, I couldn’t go back to sleep!” I hop up from my desk and wrap Dad in a hug.
He laughs. “That’s my princesa. Meet me downstairs in a couple minutes?”
“You bet!”
Ever since I was a baby, princesa has been Dad’s special nickname for me. (It’s Spanish for “princess,” in case you were wondering.) Dad’s parents, my Abuelito and Abuelita Salinas, were born in Lima, Peru, South America, and came to the United States soon after they were married. They settled down in Chicago to begin a new life for themselves, and before long, Dad, Auntie Crista, Uncle Javi, and Auntie Luz were born.
Only Dad’s side of the family is Peruvian-American. Mom’s side is Caucasian, which makes my four brothers and me half-and-half. We’re a mix of Dad’s dark features and Mom’s light ones, with olive-colored skin and brown hair and eyes. My hair is long and cut into layers that swing around my face. I’m somewhere between short and medium height for my age (ten-and-a-half), and I have pierced ears and at least a hundred pairs of earrings to wear in them.
My Christmas tree earrings are just perfect for today. I spin around a few times in excitement, my hair flying all around me, before I gather up my Christmas cards, turn off my desk lamp, and call goodbye to Ebony, who is batting at the window curtain. Finally, finally, finally it’s eight o’clock!
Dad, Ben, Jaine, and I set off for Barrow’s Corners in the dented Ford pick-up truck that my twenty-year-old brother Nate drives. (He agreed to let us borrow it for the day.) The truck is super-ugly, with peeling paint and rust spots (not to mention all the dents), but as Nate says, he’s on a college kid’s budget, and it was all he could afford. Besides, the truck has the perfect-sized bed for a Christmas tree, as well as a full cab (that means it has two rows of seats, unlike most pick-ups).
Dad and I sit in the front, Ben and Jaine in the back. Jaine, by the way, buckles herself into the middle seat so she can be as close as possible to Ben. Ick.
In case you couldn’t tell, I am not the world’s biggest fan of Jaine. For starters, I’m convinced that the sugary-sweet way she treats my family is a phony act designed to impress Ben. And then there’s the fact that she’s all Ben can talk about. (Trust me, it gets old.)
The one thing Jaine has going for her is that she’s pretty, with blue-green eyes and spirally dark curls to her shoulders. Today, she’s wearing a short white ski jacket, brand-new-looking skinny jeans, and boots with high heels. (It’s a cute outfit, but a little over-the-top for a trip to Barrow’s Corners, if you ask me.)
I tune the truck’s radio to a local light-rock station that plays nothing but Christmas music all season long. Then I crank the volume, to cover the low murmur of Ben and Jaine’s conversation behind me. If I can’t hear them, maybe I’ll forget that Jaine is with us.
“Tori!” cries Dad. “Turn that down!”
With a groan, I obey.
Jaine leans forward and peers around the driver’s seat at Dad. “Mr. Salinas,” she chirps (and yes, I do mean chirps), “Ben tells me you make this trip every year?”
“Sure do,” replies Dad. “Jake Barrow, the owner of the farm, is a friend of mine from college. Susan and I have been going to him since we were married. We get the trees half-price...and we get the experienc
e. Christmas on the farm, you know? For a city boy like me, it’s very enticing.”
“That is so romantic,” Jaine breathes. “Thank you for letting me come along.” (See what I mean?)
“Our pleasure,” says Dad.
Speak for yourself, I think. I use my finger to make circles on the frosted passenger window. It’s sure cold out, and the sky is still gray. I wonder if it will snow.
Ben and Jaine return to their conversation, and I lean back in my seat. The warmth of the truck heater rushes over me, and an old man’s voice warbling “White Christmas” drifts from the radio. My eyelids begin to droop and I yawn, suddenly remembering how little sleep I had last night.
Next thing I know, we’ve come to a stop and Dad is shaking me awake. “Tori,” he says, “you slept the whole way to Shelly’s Place. Come on. It’s time for breakfast.”
I open my eyes and rub at them with my gloved hands. Peering through the windshield, I see the diner with its red awnings and old-fashioned light-up sign. Even though the windows of the truck are rolled shut, I can smell the tempting aroma of French toast and syrup and crispy bacon, not to mention steaming hot chocolate piled with whipped cream. Or maybe it’s my imagination. Either way, I’m hungry!
I unbuckle my seat belt, swing open the passenger door, and slide out onto the parking lot. I follow Dad, Ben, and Jaine into Shelly’s Place.
“What a cute little diner!” squeals Jaine. “It’s so...quaint.” (Oh, brother.)
Ben loops his arm around her waist, pulls her close, and drops a kiss on her hair. (Cootie alert!) “You’re gonna love the food here,” he says. “Best French toast in the world, right, Tori?”
I have to agree to that.
The hostess seats us at a booth by the front windows. Like all the other booths in Shelly’s Place, the seats are covered with red vinyl, and the table with a checkered cloth. There’s a big metal napkin dispenser at the end of the table, next to the salt and pepper shakers. Along the edges of the ceiling runs a rope of miniature white lights wrapped around artificial evergreen garlands. Tinny-sounding Christmas music floats from the speakers. Everything’s so cozy and familiar. I love it here.
The Tori Trilogy Page 9