by Lulu Delacre
“Look at you!” exclaimed Mamá, coming down the steps to get a closer look. “What a great bike you earned yourself!”
Marla told Mamá all about the Día de los Muertos event and how much she would love to participate.
“Well, if it’s during the day and you ride with someone I know, maybe it would be okay,” said Mamá. “I’d love to go to the Self Help Graphics fiesta for Day of the Dead. The last time I went I was younger than you!”
“You mean you would actually let me go?” asked Marla. But then she remembered the condition. She needed to ride with someone Mamá knew. She slumped over the handlebars of her bike. “Who am I going to ask?”
“You’ll find someone,” said Mamá.
The first chance she had, Marla sought out Ms. García.
“Ms. García, thank you!” Marla cried. “I have my own bike!” Marla told Ms. García she had finally finished her volunteer work at the co-op. She told her about Abuelo. She said her dream was to join the Day of the Dead ride on November 1.
Ms. García said she understood and would probably join the ride herself.
Marla got all flustered thinking about the possibility of riding alongside her favorite teacher and, after waving good-bye, left to talk to Keisha and Tina.
“Do you think I can ask her?”
“I don’t know,” Tina replied as they walked around the school grounds during lunch.
“Of course she should!” exclaimed Keisha. “This is her only chance! It’s not like her mom is going to let her ride with one of the cool tattooed guys Marla talks about.”
“Hmm,” said Marla, biting her lower lip. “I’m not sure I can ask. What if she thinks it’s weird? She’s a teacher.”
On October 23 Ms. García did a unit on the Day of the Dead. Marla listened intently. And as she heard Ms. García’s closing words—“It’s not about skull candy or dressing up, but about honoring the dead and remembering we all turn to dust”—Marla made up her mind. She would ask her teacher after class. For Abuelo, for herself.
“Ms. García,” said Marla. “You know how I really want to go to the Day of the Dead ride?”
“Yes?” said Ms. García.
“Well . . .” Marla hesitated. “My mom won’t let me go if I don’t ride with someone she knows. . . .” Marla looked down.
“She’s right,” said Ms. García.
“Yeah,” said Marla, her eyes still downcast. “I know, and . . . ah.” Marla bit her lower lip.
“We could ride together,” said Ms. García.
Marla couldn’t believe her luck! She was going to actually do the nine-mile ride! And—with her favorite teacher!
Sunday, November 1, the Day of the Dead, had finally arrived. Marla slipped into her comfy black leggings and the black sweatshirt that Keisha and Tina had painted for her with bright flowers and white skulls. She brushed her hair into a low ponytail that she could wear with her helmet. She filled her water bottle and placed it in its rack on the bike. Ms. García was picking her up at 2:40. It was twelve thirty now, and Marla was stapling marigolds around the border of a collage of photos of Abuelo that she and Mamá had made together. Marla had returned to the Bike Lab a few more times, and Mr. Ben had helped her attach a rack to carry her memorial. She took selfies with the finished memorial, and with Mamá and Kevin and her by the bike. She couldn’t wait to be picked up. Then the phone rang. It was Ms. García.
“Hi, Marla,” Ms. García said in a serious tone. “I need to talk to your mom, please.”
“Sure,” said Marla, handing her cell phone to Mamá. Marla started to fidget.
“Sí, sí. I understand,” said Mamá. “Oh, well. I don’t know. Let me think about it. Marla will call you back.”
Mamá told Marla that Ms. García had a family emergency and would not be free in time for the ride. She had talked to a friend who could take Ms. García’s place.
“Some friend called Emma,” Mamá said.
At first Marla slumped. She wouldn’t be riding with Ms. García after all. She looked at every photo in Abuelo’s memorial. Accomplishing the ride was more important than anything. Emma . . . Emma? Marla remembered the woman who had helped her with the melons.
“We’ve met Emma!” exclaimed Marla. “Way back at the Food 4 Less.”
“How do you know it’s the same Emma?” asked Mamá.
“Yeah, I don’t.” Marla sighed, hunching over in defeat. She reached for her water bottle and took a long drink.
“Well,” said Mamá, “if Ms. García trusts her to ride with you, and I can talk to Emma before you leave, I guess it’s okay.”
Then Marla felt the urge to do something she should have done weeks before. She hugged Mamá tight and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It was mean. What I said to you at the store.”
“It’s okay,” said Mamá, leaning her head against Marla’s. “I love you.”
At 2:35 Marla took her decorated bike down the stairs to the parking lot. It turned out that the Emma who came to pick up Marla was the same Emma they had met at the grocery store. Mamá chatted with Emma briefly and gave Marla the thumbs-up. Marla blew a kiss to Mamá. She knew she would see Mamá later at the Self Help Graphics party. Mamá didn’t want to miss Marla’s first big ride and had told her she would be there waiting. Marla set off on her bike, following Emma to the meet-up point in front of the Food 4 Less.
There were about forty people waiting when Marla and Emma arrived. People chatted with one another. Marla pulled out her phone and shot many pictures of the bikers’ decorations and outfits. She met a few of Emma’s friends before they all took off for the Parque de Mexico six miles away. There another cycling club would join them for the remainder of the distance.
The first couple of miles were hard. Marla worried that she wouldn’t be able to keep up with the group’s pace down Huntington Drive. But then she noticed that whenever she fell behind, Emma or one of Emma’s friends cycled back to encourage Marla. That made her feel better. For the next few miles Marla was able to ride smoothly. She loved the feeling of riding with a bunch of people, of being part of something bigger than herself. She felt both free and totally embraced. She was in the middle of the pack when they got to the park. There was a blur of bicyclists waiting, maybe a hundred. Marla was tired and hoped they would rest a bit. But the club leaders stopped only long enough to greet one another and continued on. They needed to get to the Mariachi Plaza in time to join the Day of the Dead procession at five o’clock.
Marla rode right behind Emma, trying not to lose sight of her. Pedaling up a slight hill, Marla felt too out of breath. Her mouth was dry. She had never biked this distance all at once. How much more to the plaza? She stopped to rest and drink water. When Marla looked up, Emma had blended into the pack. Riders kept swishing by. Marla panicked. She didn’t want to be left behind. She rose up to pedal harder and get ahead just as the pack was making the turn onto Gallardo Street. When she turned, she hit the curb. She lost her balance and fell off her bike.
A cute boy from the other club stopped. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Marla felt dizzy. “It’s okay; I just scraped my hands,” she lied, embarrassed.
Soon Marla heard Emma calling, “What happened?”
“I’m okay,” Marla said, getting back on the bike. She felt weak and shaken after the fall, but she had worked too hard not to accomplish this ride. So she willed away her fear of failing by thinking of Abuelo’s steadying hand.
They rode into the Mariachi Plaza a little before five. Hundreds of people were in calacas and calaveras costumes. The skeletons and skulls mocking and honoring death packed the square, spilling onto Bailey Street. Marla was scanning the crowd for Mamá when she felt someone pinch her side.
“Gotcha!” said Kevin, his face painted white with large black circles for eyes and black stitches across his mouth. She punched him lightly in his stomach, glad to see him. Keisha and Tina came right behind Kevin, wearing face paint over half of thei
r faces. It was unique.
“Oh, I want my face painted just like that!” Marla exclaimed, wiping sweat off her face with the small square of terry cloth Mamá had given her for good luck.
“The best face painters are at the art center,” said Tina.
“Yeah, but we couldn’t wait,” added Keisha.
Soon Mamá appeared, walking alongside Ms. García, who waved to Emma.
“Mamá, Mamá! I did it!” Marla called.
“¡Felicidades!” Mamá exclaimed as she got closer. “I knew you would!”
“You should be proud of yourself,” said Ms. García. “I’m glad I was able to take care of things on time to see you at the finish line.”
“Thank you,” Marla said. She felt herself blush a little and turned to join Keisha and Tina, who had bumped into someone from school. As she left, Marla overheard Mamá thanking Emma for riding with her. She also heard Ms. García tell Mamá what a great daughter she had. Marla felt warm inside. All her favorite people had come to see her finish her first big ride.
In the short procession afterward, Marla walked her bike alongside Mamá, Kevin, Keisha, and Tina. They arrived at the Self Help Graphics & Art event to find people in Aztec costumes and huge papier-mâché masks. There were calaveras everywhere: painted on people’s faces and clothing, carved into jewelry and candy. In the center’s galleries, the altars to departed loved ones were lit by candlelight and covered in brilliant orange marigolds. Outside, people danced to live music.
Tina and Keisha found a face-painting booth for Marla, and she had her face painted by a true artist. He painted one half white, her eye with black eye shadow at the center of a big red heart outlined with sparkling jewels. Her mouth became a black wavy line stitched across and curling at the cheek. The other half of her face was made to look like Frida Kahlo’s. He finished by crowning her head with red paper flowers.
“I look beautiful!” Marla exclaimed when she looked at herself in the camera of her phone. Then she took a group selfie with Mamá and Kevin and Keisha and Tina all surrounding Abuelo’s collage.
On Monday, Marla got up extra early to wash off any leftover makeup from the night before. And as she dried herself, Marla tilted her head in front of the bathroom mirror and looked at her clean, glowing face. That’s when she noticed it. The ring around her neck was gone.
Marla smiled wide, proud and strong.
GÜERA
Las apariencias engañan.
Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta-ra-ta-ra . . .
I rush for the Brook Avenue station to catch the 6 train to Brooklyn Bridge. I need to get on it by five thirty or I’m gonna be late! I’m meeting Cousin Tita at La Casa Azul on 103rd Street for my songwriting class. Just five stops. Ten minutes and I’ll be there. I run down the stairs, pulling up my long curls with all my fingers into a tight colita. Tying the ponytail up quick with the rubber band on my wrist. Plaid bag across my shoulders, cell in the pocket of my tight new jeans. Oops! It’s vibrating. Must look. I stop in my tracks, right in the middle of the stairs, to take out my iPhone, just like I know I should never do. It’s annoying . . . I get it. But I have to see! A text: #coolfiesta! Instagram link. Yeah! Pictures from this weekend’s party at Auntie Angie’s house. Tapping fast I find—La Familia.
Laughs are coming from behind: Someone bumps into me; I almost stumble and catch my plaid bag. “Hey, keep moving!” a man in a suit screams as he zooms past me, briefcase in hand. I know, I know! I wiggle the phone back into my pants, slide out the MetroCard, zip through the turnstile. I show up at the southbound platform at the same time as the chrome-y train. Walk in right behind an army man. Makes me feel safe. Don’t know why. The train swallows all of us up in its sticky hot summer mess. In the corner a woman clips her toenails. Disgusting. I hold on to a pole. At 5:31, first stop, two guys get in. One is a chaparro, a shorty. I’ve seen the other one—he’s wearing a muscle shirt and gold chain. From Mott Haven High? Kind of cute. Behind me, an old man gets up. I slide into his seat, peer at my phone to check—La Familia.
There they are: Rita, Tita, Clara, Laura, Guada, Mari, Fabio, Artur, Ana, and me. All the cousins on top of each other, laughing, teasing, elbowing, fighting for the front spots. Tall, short, heavy, thin, older, younger, shy, and bold. All of them with skin the color of Auntie Angie’s craved-by-all-cousins hot chocolate, tinged with cinnamon, spiced with chili.
Cho-co-cho-co-con-ají . . .
All belong—but me. Me sticking out like a sore thumb. Me with peaches-and-cream legs, like ghost legs next to Rita’s. Me with copper hair, like bleached-from-the-sun hair next to Mari’s jet-black-like-azabache hair. Mari would give anything for my hair, she says. I roll my eyes when I hear that. I want to change places with her so bad! And Guada wraps her ivory scarf around my arm just to show that her scarf and my skin are the same shade. Artur jokes that I was found in a trash can, and that’s why I’m so different. And that makes Fabio bend over laughing. But Tita gets all worked up and sticks up for me: “Don’t bother Güera!” Sí, I’m Güera for all nine cousins, Güerita for tíos and abuelos. La Familia say it’s just de cariño they call me that way. ’Cause they love me so. I’m the blonde one; I’m the güera. When strangers ask my name, I answer Vicky, my given name. But who am I, Vicky or Güera?
Cho-co-cho-co-cho-co-güe-ra . . . I have a new song dancing in my head.
At 125th Street I can feel someone staring. It’s just that subway sense. I look up. Muscle guy and the chaparro are now standing close. Too close. I put my earbuds on. Muscle guy fixes his hair, flexes his muscles. Oh, God—not so cute anymore. The chaparro fakes a cough. They see me looking and glance away like they’re wanting to hide something. But I see them. I stare at my phone and turn off my music. I’m listening to what they say. They talk in fast Spanish. They don’t whisper, because they figure it’s some secret language I don’t understand. But I do.
“A que no se da cuenta la güerita,” says muscle guy. “She won’t notice. Go talk to her. Vé, charla.”
Why do they want to talk to me now? Creepy. I glance at the LED display sign inside the train. We’re at 116th Street. The chaparro meets my eyes and smiles a crooked smile. He leans toward the other guy and mutters, “Tú se lo quitas.” My ears perk up. They want to steal something from me. But what? Chimes. It’s a text from Tita, who’s already at the bookstore. Can’t wait for me to be there. And then I know. My phone! That’s what they want. I check and see the army guy is right across from me. The doors open for 110th Street. The woman on my left gets up, and the chaparro eases into her seat. Gross. I inch away from him. His nasty cologne invades my space. I keep my cool.
“Hey,” he says to me. “I’m JT. You?”
I feel my temperature rising, like these two are dumb enough to think I’ll fall for it. How annoying. The voice on the loudspeaker announces 103rd Street. My stop! But I stay put. Don’t leave my seat yet. Wait until the doors are just about to close.
Now.
I slide my cell in my bag. I dash to the exit. The doors creak to close. Just before stepping out, I turn, stare down the sleazy guys, and say,
“My name is Güera. And I understood cada palabra.”
Their jaws drop. Like this girl with skin the color of hot white chocolate doesn’t belong. But I do—I have chili too.
I run up the stairs and into East Harlem.
Cho-co-cho-co-cho-co-DUL-ce
Cho-co-cho-co-cho-co-SWEET
Cho-co-cho-co-cho-co-GÜE-ra
Cho-co-chi-ca-con-a-JÍ
BURRITO MAN
Nadie sabe el bien que tiene hasta que lo pierde.
I stood once again at the corner of Seventeenth and K in downtown Washington, DC, Papi’s corner. This time I was alone. I knelt down to lean the sign against the tall elm and licked a salty tear running down my cheek.
A flock of sparrows swirled above me, triggering a rush of memories from years ago . . .
“M’hijita.” I hear my father calling, sounding as close as if he were next to me. “
Come down already, I’m going to be late for work!”
I wash my sleepiness away with a splash of cold water. It’s four in the morning. Today is Take Your Child to Work Day. I don’t want to go. If only I could have gotten out of it. I wish I were Tania. Her dad is a doctor’s tech. Or Marisa. Hers is a big-time lawyer, so she’ll probably get to spend the day swiveling in a plush leather chair in an air-conditioned office. Even Mami works in an office. She’s a school secretary. Not Papi, though. He’s just a food-cart vendor. He sells burritos. I’ll be stuck standing at the corner of Seventeenth and K, all day, in the traffic and hot sun. At least none of my friends will see me.
By the time we pull into the downtown warehouse parking lot, birds are chirping—soft chirps that grow into a full-blown chorus. Nature wakes up. Not me, not yet. I yawn big, and the clanking noises Papi makes hooking the burrito cart to his old rusty truck shake me up. He slides back in, and we rumble down the street to his assigned corner.
“Alex,” he says to me. “Por favor, take the sauces and condiments out of the box and set them up there.”
“Okay, okay,” I mumble as I sweep back the long strand of hair blocking my vision. I take my time lining up the jars and bottles on the counter in the shade of the cart’s green-and-white-striped awning.
“It’s going to be a great day with you here!” Papi adds.
“Really?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Sí, sí, m’hijita, ya verás,” he says. “You’ll see.” He starts to whistle his favorite folk song from El Salvador. And I force myself to remember why I am here instead of chatting with my friends on the school bus. At the back-to-school night, Ms. Chu encouraged parents to take their kids to work today. And Papi liked the idea. Really liked it. I tried to get out of it and said I should go with Mami instead. No luck.
Papi turns on the propane gas and starts to simmer the vats of beans. Black beans, pinto beans, and refritos. No meat. Meat is too expensive and sometimes spoils, Papi says. Beans are better. And rice. And cheese. And guacamole. I like my burrito with meat, though.