The Skirt (5 page)

S
unday morning. The family sat down early to
chorizo con huevos
. They ate happily in silence, pinching up their breakfast with ripped pieces of tortilla. The radio in the kitchen was softly playing Mexican songs.

Miata’s mother took a sip of her coffee.
Then, getting up, she said, “Miata, I have a surprise for you.”

Miata looked up. She had a little stain of ketchup in the corner of her mouth. Her mother went to the hall closet and returned with a crinkled bag.

“You have some stuff on your mouth, Miata,” Little Joe said. His cheek was flecked with ketchup and the corners of his mouth stained white with milk.

Miata pressed a napkin to her mouth and ignored her brother. She was curious about the bag in her mother’s hand.

“Now close your eyes,” her mother said. Her smile was bright.

Miata closed her eyes. Maybe it was a new jacket, she thought. Maybe it was a Nintendo. Maybe it was a pair of new shoes. Her mother had been promising her new shoes.

When her mother patted her hand, she
opened her eyes. Her mother was holding up a skirt. A beautiful new
folklórico
skirt. The shiny lace rippled in the light. It smelled new. It was still stiff from not being worn.

“It’s pretty,
mi’ja
,” her father remarked. “You’ll be the prettiest girl at the dance.”

Miata forced a smile. “But I have a skirt, Mom.”

“That old thing?” her mother said. “Stand up.”

Her mother pressed the skirt to her waist. “It’s a little long, but you can wear it just for today.”

“It looks neat,” Little Joe said. He now had ketchup on his elbows.

“Thanks, Mom,” Miata said. She hugged her mother and went to her bedroom.

As Miata dressed for church she thought of all the trouble she went through to rescue
her old skirt: slipping through the locked gate, rolling off the hood of the bus, getting scraped up. She remembered how they hid behind the oil barrel, and how Rodolfo just slurped on his soda while they were so scared.
Qué
bother! What a waste of time.

But it
is
pretty, she thought. She admired the new skirt that was fanned out on the bed. She liked the bright new colors and its fresh smell. She liked the rustle that sounded like walking through knee-high weeds. She pictured herself twirling in the middle of her friends.

She felt sorry for her old skirt. It was like a flower dead on its stem. She folded it carefully and put it in her bottom drawer. She brushed her hair and then stopped. She felt sad for her old skirt. It had belonged to her mother when she was a little girl.

She took it out of the bottom drawer. Next to the new skirt it looked faded as an old calendar. A blue stain darkened the hem. A piece of red lace was loose and falling off. The button was cracked. The skirt was smudged from time and wear.

“I’m going to take you both,” she said. “I won’t play favorites.”

She pushed both of the skirts into her backpack. She finished combing her hair and put on her
milagro
earrings.

“Andale,”
her mother called from the living room. “We’re going to be late.”

Miata picked up her backpack and gave it a soft pat. “We’re going dancing,” she said to the skirts.

Miata’s father was outside warming up their car. Little Joe was stomping on an empty soda can. He was trying to hook it onto the bottom of his shoe. His father called Little Joe to get in the car. Miata
and her mother came hurrying down the steps. A bloom of perfume and beauty trailed behind them.

Miata went to church with her family. The priest talked and talked, but Miata yawned only three times. Tears of sleepiness came to her eyes. Her mother seemed happy. She kept looking down at Miata and Little Joe.

After church the dancers raced to the rectory, where they changed and practiced.

“Do your best,” Mrs. Carranza, the dance teacher, said. “And remember to smile.”

“Here we go,” Miata said to Ana.

The six girls marched out to the courtyard. Their faces were bright. Their hair was coiled into buns. They stood in a circle with their hands on their hips. As the cassette music played, Miata spun around the courtyard. The grown-ups and kids all ate donuts and watched.

Miata twirled like a pinwheel, the old skirt showing under the new skirt. Miata was wearing both of them. Her mother recognized the old skirt and clapped and smiled proudly at her daughter. And everyone, even the babies, clapped for the spinning colors of Mexico.

When I write, if the corners of my mouth lift up in a smile, if I hum, if my fingers fly over the keys of my computer, then I’m certain that whatever I’m working on will crack up readers. My body tells me that I’m in a groove and reminds me that writing, while often tiring and worrisome, can be fun. I had all of them—smiley face, song, and dazzling finger action—when I wrote
The Skirt
. I imagined it would entertain a few readers, but I never really thought about the life of the book.

Since its publication sixteen years ago,
The Skirt
has found readers from the soft beaches of Southern California to the rocky shores of Rhode Island—and in cities, towns, and suburbs in between. Sometimes I think it is because of the main character, namely the spunky Miata Ramirez, a girl with a problem that she created herself: she has lost her ballet
folklórico
skirt and must retrieve it in time for her dance troupe’s performance, or she’ll just
die
of shame.

Aside from the main character and the element of dramatic time,
The Skirt
brings up the anxiety of losing something precious. We adults pat our pants for keys and wallets and push our hands into purses as we check for cell phones. Young people may fear losing bicycles, skateboards, jackets left on playground structures, baseball caps, iPods, Game Boys, jewelry, and what little money they own. Somehow these things get lost, and young
people shake with fear at reporting the losses to their parents. But young people aren’t alone. I lose things, or should I say “misplace” things, daily. For instance, I once was certain that I had left my watch on the coffee table, but when I stood very quietly in the kitchen I heard its
tick-tick
coming from the half-open junk drawer.

The Skirt
offers a cast of characters—Miata’s best friend, Ana; the two knuckleheaded boys Rudy and Alex; and Miata’s warmhearted parents. We get to know them, and get to like them—and we may see a little of their likable characteristics in our own friends and parents. In short, this story is realistic, meaning
true
, meaning
it could have happened
.

Also, at the heart of the book, the
folklórico
skirt represents ethnic culture—in this case, Mexican culture. Miata, who speaks English
and
Spanish, who loves hot dogs
and
enchiladas, is really pursuing her culture. She wants to honor her heritage by continuing to participate in it—not by losing it!

A scholar once said that happy literature has no history, that literature that bubbles with fun may not last. I think that grouchy person is wrong.

Now, for the fun of it, list all the things you’ve ever lost, while I get back to what I was doing: hunting for my reading glasses.

November 2006