Flor and Miranda Steal the Show

by Jennifer Torres

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called an owl pellet,” I said, standing at the front of the class, trying to speak up the way Ms. Matsumoto was always reminding me to. “After an owl eats, everything it can’t digest, like bones or fur or feathers, gets turned into one of these pellets, and the owl coughs it up.”

  It was one of the most interesting things I had ever seen. “If we open it, we can find out the last thing this owl ate. Papá says there is usually a skull inside!”

  Nobody gasped in excitement the way I had. No one fought over who would get to tear into the pellet first.

  “You like to play with owl puke?”

  “Ewww,” they all groaned.

  Things would be different when I could join those kids who raised the farm animals, I told myself.

  When I was finally old enough to enter the competition, Papá and Mamá said I couldn’t raise a calf after all. They said we didn’t have enough room—even though we still had a barn back then and a pasture for grazing. I wondered if maybe it was because we didn’t have enough money. I had started paying attention to things like that by then. The way Mamá would sew patches over the holes in my jeans instead of buying me a new pair like she used to. The way she started giving Papá haircuts at home in the kitchen. The way they both stood outside, looking gloomily up at the dark gray storm clouds that gathered over our cherry trees. Too much rain could ruin the crop.

  They still let me pick out a rabbit to raise, though. I chose a New Zealand White and named her Primavera. I wrote down everything I fed her in a spiral notebook. Every day after school I changed her straw bedding and checked her ears for mites. I scrubbed stains out of her snowy coat with vinegar and warm water. I learned how to lift her out of the wood-and-wire hutch that Dad built in the backyard, and how to position her for judging. See, you don’t lead a bunny around the show ring like you do the bigger animals—even though you can train one to walk on a leash. Instead, you set her on a mat with her legs tucked underneath so she looks just like a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I fed her apple slices when she cooperated. Apples were like candy to Primavera.

  But that was the summer we joined the carnival, so I never did get to show her and win a ribbon. At least Primavera got to come along with us and be part of the petting zoo. I still snuck her apple slices sometimes.

  The auction schedule was stapled to a wooden post outside the show ring. I ran my finger down the edge and stopped at 4:30. The rabbit auction was about to start. Back on the midway, when Randy said she wanted to go home, I was worried I wouldn’t be able to stop her. The deep-fried pickles hadn’t worked, and neither had the Gravitron. All I could do now was keep her distracted, and the animals seemed to be working.

  “Do you want to watch the auction?”

  “Sure,” Randy said. “For a little while. But I should get back to Wanda after that.”

  “Wanda?”

  “She’s our motor home.”

  I nodded and hoped the auction would be exciting enough to change her mind.

  We found seats near the top of creaky wooden bleachers. Randy picked up an auction paddle someone had left behind, No. 210, and fanned herself with it.

  “So how come you don’t bring any of your animals out here? Chivo’s sweeter than any of the goats we saw back there. He’d win all the prizes.”

  Chivo was no showman. He was scrawny and scruffy and would rather play hide-and-seek than follow me around a ring. But it wasn’t just that.

  “You have to enter in your home county. We’re never in one place long enough to have one. Anyway, they don’t give prizes for being sweet.”

  A boy carried the first rabbit to the middle of the ring.

  “First up,” announced the auctioneer, “is Christopher Joseph with a five-and-a-half-pound fryer.”

  The auctioneer’s voice revved: “Let’s! Start! With! Five!”

  Then burned rubber: “I see five, that’s five. Who’s gonna show me six? Now six? Six! Now seven, looking for seven, who’s gonna show me seven?”

  Only, it sounded more like horseflies do when they’re stuck between the screen and the window and buzzing wildly to get out.

  Randy wrinkled her nose and leaned forward. “What is he even saying?”

  “He’s trying to make the price go higher.”

  The auctioneer pointed into the audience as paddles popped up like groundhogs. “I have eight, that’s eight. Now, nine. Who’s gonna show me nine?”

  Randy still looked confused, so I tried to explain. “A lot of times friends and family work it out beforehand who’s going to bid and how much. That way, pretty much every kid gets a good price. They can use the money to buy another animal next year.”

  “Parents are always trying to work things out beforehand.” Randy shook her head. “But maybe he could’ve figured it out on his own. Maybe he could’ve figured it out better.”

  I thought about Mamá and how she had decided for me that I should go back to school. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Christopher cradled his bunny, staring straight ahead as the price rose.

  “And sold!” the auctioneer announced finally. “At twenty-one dollars, a record for Dinuba. Congratulations, young man.”

  The bleachers rocked as the whole crowd, Randy and me included, stood up and cheered.

  With everyone still clapping, Christopher left the ring, shoulders drooping. He wiped a tear off his cheek with his white shirtsleeve.

  “What’s the matter?” Randy asked, sitting back down. “Didn’t he just set a record?”

  “It’s probably because the rabbit is not his anymore. Someone else bought it.”

  It was all part of the process. You knew it going in. Some kids didn’t even name their animals. They didn’t want to get too attached before it was time to sell them.

  Still, knowing you’re going to lose something doesn’t always make it any easier when you finally do.

  A girl stepped into the ring, stroking the ears of her golden-brown Palomino.

  “Next up is Lucinda Mendez with a four-pound fryer. Let’s start the bidding at five, do I see five?”

  An auction paddle sprouted up from the second row.

  “Must be her parents,” Randy said, as though she had suddenly become a junior livestock expert.

  Lucinda’s long, dark hair was pulled back in a braid that hung over one shoulder. She looked at her feet. She kicked some pebbles with the toe of her boot.

  “We’re at five, I have five,” the auctioneer chanted. “Who’s gonna show me six? What about six?”

  People fidgeted with their paddles, but no one bid. Lucinda looked up at her parents with wide, glassy eyes. She scratched the rabbit behind its ears.

  “How about five and a quarter, then? Five twenty-five, now, five twenty-five. Let me remind you folks that this is all for a good cause. Every cent goes back to the children. Five twenty-five.”

  Randy learned so far forward I thought she might topple over.

  Lucinda’s white shirt was big and blousy on her, shoulder seams halfway to her elbows, cuffs folded over twice. Mamá used to buy all my clothes too big like that—so I wouldn’t grow out of them so fast.

  The green uniform scarf fluttered out behind her like a tiny cape. I remembered how badly I wanted to wear that uniform, how much I wanted to belong.

  And then I just could not help it. I could not let her stand there feeling like everyone was watching and no one was on her side.

  I snatched the auction paddle that Randy was holding and stood up, waving it. “Right here!”

  The auctioneer pointed. “Good! I have five twenty-five, five twenty-five. Now five fifty. What about five fifty? Who’s gonna show me five fifty?”

  Lucinda’s parents stood up and stared into the audience, trying to figure out who had raised their bid. But by then, I had sat back down and covered my face with my hand. Peeking through my fingers, I saw Lucinda’s dad raise his own paddle again.

  “That’s five fifty, now five seventy-fiv
e.” What a relief.

  Just as I was starting to stand up to leave, Randy grabbed the paddle off my lap. “Six fifty!”

  The auctioneer’s low, steady cadence stopped short. “Six fifty?” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and started up again. “Looks like we skipped ahead to six fifty, folks, six fifty. Do I have six seventy-five? Someone show me six seventy-five.”

  I caught Randy by the elbow and pulled her back down. “What are you doing?”

  She didn’t answer. Lucinda’s parents had raised their paddle.

  “That’s six seventy-five. Now, seven. How about seven?”

  Randy sprang up again. “Seven!”

  Lucinda smiled. She held her rabbit up a little higher.

  “How about seven twenty-five?”

  Lucinda’s parents looked at each other. They looked at the auctioneer. They shook their heads.

  “We’re still at seven, I have seven. Do I see seven twenty-five? Going once, twice, and sold! That’s seven dollars to Number 210, way up in back. Seven dollars to Number 210. Thank you for supporting our young people.”

  I took back the paddle before Randy could cause any more trouble. “We have to get out of here.” I put my head down and tottered across the bleachers. Randy pranced down after me.

  “What were you thinking?” I asked when we were back outside. The auctioneer had just announced the next rabbit.

  “Same as you. We couldn’t leave her hanging there, not when that boy before her set a record. Great idea, by the way.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.

  “But, Randy, that was a real auction. If you win, you have to pay.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stuck her thumbnail in her mouth. “So what do we do?”

  I flipped the auction paddle over, front to back, back to front, then flipped it into a trash can. There wasn’t much we could do. “Let’s just hope whoever had this paddle likes rabbit stew, I guess. Come on.”

  Since we couldn’t stay at the auction, I thought I could try to stop Miranda with food again. Maybe one of the Cantaloupe Fair specials like cantaloupe gazpacho or shrimp tacos with cantaloupe salsa.

  “Wait, what do you mean, rabbit stew?”

  “I mean, I hope they enjoy the rabbit you bought them.”

  “Enjoy having a new rabbit to cuddle, or…” Her black eyebrows were almost touching.

  “No. Enjoy having the rabbit… for dinner. Now, we should really get out of here in case anyone noticed us.”

  She did not move. “They’re going to eat the rabbit?”

  “Someone is going to. Why do you think they called it a fryer?”

  She cringed. “No.”

  Kids visiting the ranch always made faces like that when Dad told them we ate some of the animals. Like we’d done something terrible. It was not fair. “Where do you think your chicken nachos came from?”

  She bit down on her thumbnail again. “Well, I know. But it’s different. I didn’t know that chicken.”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but the thing of it was, I understood what she meant. If there was one good thing about never taking Primavera into the show ring, it was that no one else ever got to put her in a stew pot.

  “Why can’t we just pay for it? I still have nine dollars in quarters left.” She patted her pocket, and they clinked.

  “If I hadn’t found you when I did, Mikey would have made sure you spent every last one at the Water Gun Derby.”

  She was bouncing on her toes again. “Still, it’s enough, isn’t it? I only bid seven.”

  “No, you bid seven dollars per pound.”

  She slumped.

  Joe might still be willing to pay us to carry those giant stuffed animals around. But this late in the afternoon, it wouldn’t be his usual fee. We could go back to the Water Gun Derby and help Mikey and Johnny. At fifty cents a customer, it would take us until closing time to even come close to earning enough—which could be exactly what I needed to stop Randy from performing. She seemed pretty serious about making sure that rabbit stayed off the menu, and to be completely honest, I sort of wanted to save him too.

  But before I could tell her my plan, Randy clapped her hands in front of her nose. “Wait, I’ve got it. I know what to do. We have to hurry, though. It’s getting late.”

  Miranda

  (4:50 P.M.)

  Lunchtime would have been better and dinner would have been best, but this would work. There were still enough people eating on the patio. Enough couples on dates, families having a snack, or friends deciding what to do next.

  Everything would be fine. I hoped.

  We would be out of there in half an hour—less than that. Maybe. And I’d only be a little late getting back to Wicked Wanda.

  As long as the restaurant managers didn’t kick us out. That was what I needed Flor for.

  “I don’t know,” she said for about the fiftieth time, just staring up at the Carolina’s Cantina sign like we had all day. “Going out there in front of everyone? Strangers?”

  “So pretend you know them like you know everyone else around here!” Flor could be just as stubborn as Dad. I took a breath and calmed my voice. “Listen,” I said for the fifty-first time. “You know animals; I know singing. You don’t have to get up in front of anyone. All you have to do is see if the manager will let you have an empty cup. Explain what we’re trying to do, and say that if we have any money left over, we’ll split it. Trust me. My brother and sister and I do this all the time.”

  “I… don’t know.”

  I tapped my foot. She just stood there.

  “Just go!” I gave her a light shove between the shoulder blades. “All you have to do is stand there. Leave the rest to me.”

  Finally, she took a limping step to the counter, twirling the ends of her hair around a finger.

  “And see if they have some lemon wedges and a little hot water,” I added, remembering my voice. If we couldn’t find tea it was the next best thing.

  I watched her get in line and move closer and closer toward the window. When I was certain she’d go through with it, I stuck the very edge of my thumbnail between my teeth and hummed.

  It would work. Probably.

  But I wasn’t as sure as I’d just told Flor I was.

  I was used to singing for tips. I was great at singing for tips. Singing for tips was how we saved up enough to buy Wicked Wanda so that when an opportunity came rolling into town, we were ready to roll along with it.

  Only, I always had Ronnie and Junior standing right behind me. We always had Mom sitting in the audience, pointing her fingers at the corners of her mouth to remind us to smile. And we always had Dad telling us what to play. I didn’t know if I could do it all without them. But I knew I had to try.

  My plan was to go from table to table, taking requests. Flor would follow me with the cup, collecting change, and if everything went the way I hoped, we would earn enough to buy that rabbit before it ended up in someone’s belly.

  And I could get back in time to rehearse for the show that night.

  “Think of it as a warm-up,” I said to myself.

  I closed my eyes and imagined Junior’s bass and Ronnie’s accordion. I even pictured Dad with his arms folded across his chest as he counted through every bar, listened for any stray note so that, later, he could make sure we practiced until it was perfect. I imagined myself singing. And then I was ready.

  I opened my eyes and moved to the center of the patio so I could take a better look at everyone eating there under the red and green umbrellas.

  A woman sitting by herself with a Diet Coke and a quesadilla. No.

  She probably didn’t want to be interrupted, and anyway, it might make her uncomfortable. Although, if she was really uncomfortable, she might pay me to stop singing. I changed the no to a maybe.

  Four boys about Junior’s age. Definitely no.

  A couple. Matching white hair. Matching Windbreakers. Matching sunglasses. Sharing a super burrito. Definitely yes. Th
ey wouldn’t be too busy or too serious. I would remind them of a grandkid.

  “Excuse me?” I said. “¿Perdón?”

  They put down their forks. I smiled. They smiled back.

  I turned to the man. “Well, I was only wondering, sir, would you tell me her favorite song?”

  He was going to say “Volver.” I knew it would be “Volver.”

  I was five when Dad taught us “Volver” so we could sing it at Nana and Tata’s big anniversary party. By the time we were finished, everyone was crying. I mean, everyone. Tías, tíos, cousins, neighbors. Even the waiters who had been carrying cake to all the tables.

  “You know, I think these kids have something,” Dad told Mom on the drive home. He was looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  The woman on the patio chuckled. She covered her mouth with a napkin.

  The man looked at her and put his hand over his heart. “‘Volver,’” he said.

  “I think I know that one.” Of course I knew that one.

  Flor was back from the counter by the time I got to the final verse. I held out that last note long and sad and broken, just like we practiced with Dad. When it finally faded away, the woman lifted her sunglasses to dab her eyes with her napkin. The man tipped his head at me. The people at the next table over had stopped eating to listen too. They clapped politely. I took a step back so Flor could move in with the cup.

  But she didn’t move.

  I nudged her with my shoulder, still grinning at the man and woman at the table. “Cup!” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.

  “Oh!” She held the cup out but didn’t make eye contact. We would have to work on that. Eye contact was everything. Even so, the old man stood halfway up to pull his wallet from his back pocket. He peeled off two one-dollar bills and tucked them into Flor’s cup. Not a bad start.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. I curtsied and moved on.

  Over at the counter, the manager watched us from behind the order window.