The Skirt (2 page)

“¡Ay, Dios!”
her mother chirped. “You scared me,
prieta
. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Her mother was holding an old cloth diaper. It was now her cleaning rag. She was wearing jeans and a work shirt splotched with old paint. She had been cleaning the house. The piles of newspapers were thrown out, the magazines were neatly
stacked, and the air smelled fresh as a lemon. The crocheted afghan on the couch was straight. The water in the aquarium was clear, not green. Her father’s ashtray had been emptied and wiped clean.

Miata decided to tell her mother about the skirt later. She gave her mother a hug and went to her bedroom. She sat on her bed, counting the minutes until Ana would arrive. She looked down at her wristwatch. It was three thirty-five.

Ana’s getting off the bus right now, she told herself. And I bet she has my skirt.

In her mind, Miata could see Ana. Little Ana had curly hair and a galaxy of freckles on her face. Miata had known one other Mexican girl who had freckles. But that girl lived in Los Angeles, and she wasn’t as nice as Ana.

Miata did her math homework, which took only ten minutes because math was
her best subject, but still the telephone didn’t ring. Miata grew so impatient she counted to one hundred, backward and forward.

Miata scooted off the bed and went to the hallway, where the telephone sat on a small table. She picked up the telephone; a long buzz rang in her ear.

Miata hung up and returned to her bedroom, where she changed into her play clothes. She figured that by the time she had finished changing, the telephone would ring. It would be Ana calling.

“Come on, Ana, just call,” she whined.

The last button on her shirt was buttoned. She was completely dressed. Miata took off her earrings and wristwatch. She straightened her horse-print bedspread. She put away the clothes that were on the floor. She even sorted her crayons. But the telephone still didn’t ring.

“Please call, Ana,” she whispered. She sat down on her bed and started poking at a sliver in her little finger. The sliver was from the bench where they ate lunch. It had been bothering her all day.

Miata decided to call Ana. She tiptoed to the hallway. She dialed Ana’s house and heard,
“Bueno.”

In Spanish, Miata asked if Ana was home from school.

“Todavía no está aquí,”
the voice said. Miata figured that it was Ana’s grandmother. Miata asked if Ana would call her when she got home. The grandmother said that she would.

Miata went to the kitchen. Her mother was peeling potatoes. The radio was turned to the Mexican station.

“How was school?” her mother asked. “Here, you finish this.” She handed the half-skinned potato and the potato peeler
to Miata. Miata started working, the skin of potatoes flying into the sink.

“School was okay,” Miata answered. “I got an
A
on my spelling test. Mrs. Garcia says that I have a good memory.” Just as she said this she remembered her skirt. If my memory is so great, she thought, why did I forget my skirt on the bus?

“Are you ready for the dance this weekend?” Miata’s mother asked. “Ana’s mother called and said you two should practice Sunday morning before church. But I told her we didn’t have time.”

Miata didn’t say anything. She worked faster, the peels flying like rubber bands.

“Your father will be so proud,” her mother said. She opened the refrigerator and took out a piece of meat.

Miata was peeling her third potato when the telephone rang. She dropped the
potato and potato peeler and screamed, “I got it.”

She raced through the living room to the hallway. On the fourth ring she answered the telephone. “Ana?” Miata asked, her heart pounding.

“Yeah?”

“Did you find it?”

“Find what?” Ana’s voice was confused.

“My skirt! It was on the bus. Didn’t you see it?” Miata’s voice was desperate.

“Your skirt?”

“I left my skirt on the bus. Didn’t you see it?”

“No. You mean you lost your
folklórico
skirt?”

Miata could hear sounds in the kitchen. The steak was sizzling in a frying pan. Water was running from the faucet. She could hear her father. He was home from work and laughing about something. But would
he be in a good mood when she told him that she had lost her skirt?

“Come over tomorrow morning,” Miata told Ana. “You have to help me out.” She hung up and returned to the kitchen to peel potatoes.

A
t dinner, they had steak,
frijoles
, and
papas fritas
. They also had a small salad that was mostly lettuce. This was her father’s favorite meal. Everyone in the family, even Little Joe, called it
carne del viernes
. This was their father’s reward for a week of hard work: a large meal and then a baseball game on television.

Miata’s father, José, now worked as a welder. He worked mostly on tractors and trailers. The money was good, nearly as good as his pay in Los Angeles.

Her mother stabbed a tomato slice hiding behind a sheet of lettuce. She nudged Miata. “Tell
Papi
about your spelling.”

“I got an
A
,” she said, smiling. “Next week I could be spelling bee champion if Dolores doesn’t beat me.” Dolores was a small girl with a big brain.

“Qué bueno,”
her father said as he cut a
papa
with his fork. Steam rose from the parted
papa
. “Spelling is important,” he said between bites. “One day you will get a good job if you know lots of words.”

“You could be a doctor,” her mother said.

“
Mi’ja
, you could fix me up,” her father said. He rotated his aching arm. Her father
was always getting injured. Today a pipe had fallen from the truck and struck his arm. A purplish bruise had already appeared.

“Did you hurt yourself?” her mother asked. She put down her fork. Her face was dark with worry.

“Does it hurt?” Little Joe asked.

“Only when I do this,” José said. He stood up and punched Little Joe on the arm, softly.

Little Joe laughed and told his father, “That doesn’t hurt.”

The conversation turned to sports. Although they were living in the valley, José could pick up the Los Angeles Dodgers on television. It was a beautiful May. His Dodgers were two up on the San Francisco Giants. This made him happy. Last year the Giants had beaten them.

“Next year, Little Joe,” he said to his son, “you’ll be eight and you can start playing ball.”

Little Joe looked at his father but didn’t answer. His cheeks were stuffed with tortilla.

Miata’s father finished his meal. He patted his stomach and went to the living room with a glass of iced tea. Miata helped her mother in the kitchen.

“That was great, Mom,” Miata said. She scraped the plates and put them in the sink.

“Thank you,” her mother said. Her mother was happy as a singing canary. She turned on the radio. “I’m going to be so proud on Sunday.”

“What’s happening Sunday?” Little Joe asked. A milk mustache gleamed on his lip.

“Miata’s dancing,” her mother said.

Miata swallowed hard. She thought of
her skirt. Will I be able to get it by Sunday? she wondered.

While they were drying the dishes they heard a loud sigh from the living room. Miata looked at her mother. Her mother looked at her and asked,
“¿Qué pasó?”
Miata shrugged her shoulders.

“The game is rained out,” her father groaned over the sound of the television. “How could it rain in San Diego? And on a Friday.”

Disappointed, her father came into the kitchen with his empty glass. He rinsed it out and placed it on the drainboard. He told Miata, “Let’s go get some ice cream, then.”

Miata nearly jumped into her father’s arms. She dried her hands on a dish towel and pulled her father to the front door. She hoped he would buy cookies and cream, her favorite.

They got into his truck. It was a ’68 Chevy with windows that rattled. The old truck could get up to sixty miles per hour. Three red wires dangled from the broken radio. The speedometer was broken. Its needle leaped like a flea now and then, but it always fell back.

The Ramirez family was new in town, but made friends easily. A woman watering her flower bed waved at the passing truck. Miata waved back with both of her hands.

“It’s nice here,” her father said as he looked around the neighborhood. “The air is clean as a whistle.” He turned on the broken radio and began to whistle a song.

Since moving to Sanger, Miata’s father seemed happier. He had gotten tired of Los Angeles. He had grown up on a farm in Mexico. City life was not for him.

At the gas station a friend from work
waved. Her father stopped whistling. He waved, tooted his horn twice, and yelled, “The game’s rained out.”

“But the Giants are on channel twenty-four,” the man yelled. He was inflating an inner tube.

“Los Gigantes,”
her father sneered, and shook his head. He was a loyal Dodgers fan, through and through.

They passed the school. Miata was reminded of her
folklórico
skirt. She had been talking loudly over the roar of the engine, telling her father about Little Joe and the cans on his shoes. But she stopped her chatter and bit her lip. She stared silently at the fenced parking lot. The buses were kept there. They passed the buses and Miata got on her knees. She looked back at them.

It’s in one of them, she thought. Me and Ana have to get it tomorrow.

At the store her father bought a carton of Neapolitan ice cream. It was strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla. All three different flavors would dance on her tongue when they got back home.

I
t was Saturday morning. Miata and Ana were sitting on the front steps of the library. The day was clear and beautiful. A single white cloud cut across the sky. A bird hopped on the lawn.

“Just tell your mom,” Ana said. “She won’t get mad.”

“I can’t,” Miata said. She wagged her head, and her hair swished against her shoulders. “She’s always telling me that I lose things.”