Look Both Ways in the Barrio Blanco (25 page)

He stepped back, his eyes wide.
“What?”

“What’s your favorite ballet?”

His shoulders relaxed. “
Dracula
. It’s great. Lots of blood.”

I nodded. It did sound great.

“I want to show you something.” He led me to the porch and pulled a rusty pair of clippers from the box of gardening tools. With quick snips he cut several flower stalks with many bell-shaped blossoms and handed them to me.

Pink and purple. Hope and sorrow
. They looked like the flowers I’d painted on my picture frame. The day I’d met Miss.

Even nicer than the soft spring colors was the fragrance.

“Hyacinth,” he said.

The first time I’d been to the Dahl house, I’d been too late to see the hyacinths. They were ugly, I’d thought. I hadn’t
appreciated
them.

But it hadn’t been their time to bloom.

My eyes started to water.

“Yeah,” said Cody. “They do that to me, too. I can’t stop sneezing.”

MISS
didn’t make a speech before we drove away, telling Rosa and me to have a good life, study hard, and get scholarships. She just gave us each a quick hug. She even gave Mamá a hug.

Mamá leaned against me in the taxi, and pretty soon she was nodding. The jar of hyacinths was in my lap. Cody said he wanted me to have them so I’d recognize them when I saw them again. I couldn’t guess how long that’d be.

I thought Rosa might start asking me about our trip, but I didn’t think I could scrape together the words to explain. My emotions rolled around inside me like waves.

As though she heard me thinking, my sister reached over and took my hand. My pinkie wrapped around her index finger. A sad smile touched her lips.

She whispered in English, “It is better this way. Mamá needs us now.”

Rosa is right. We need to put Mamá first. To be there for her, until she’s strong enough to be there for herself
.

It’s what families do. And it’s not because we
have
to. It’s what we
choos
e to do.

But choices come with a price. I looked into Rosa’s eyes and let her see my soul.

She said softly, “You do not have to give up everything. You can take French in high school. The bus goes by the recreation center. You can show Suelita gymnastics, and I can teach her to swim.”

“We should start reading to her,” I whispered back.

“I will read in Spanish, and you read to her in English.”

“You need to teach
me
to read and write in Spanish,” I said.

Rosa smiled. “No way! I cannot let you get ahead of me!”

But I know she’ll teach me. She has to. I’m going to write French and Spanish translations for Hollywood movies.

And someday I’ll write my own screenplay.

Maybe Ethan will direct it.

By the time we crossed
la línea
— the line between the white neighborhood and our barrio — I felt better.

I will find the missing pieces of Mamá — even if only in the mirror.

If Papi doesn’t come back, I will use my power to rescue him, too.

And though I still want Miss, I no longer need her. I will be the one to make things happen in my life. I can do it better than Miss, because I have one foot in my Mexican heritage and one foot in the country where I was born and educated. That is something Miss can never have. I can walk
la línea
— the line between her world and that of my people.

I will be part of both.

A phone rang. Mamá sat up and looked around.

Reaching into her pocket, Rosa smiled an apology to me. “Miss got it for me. In case she needed to reach me.”

The claw of the beast, now scarcely more than a pinprick, nicked my heart. Rosa answered the phone, and I heard the tinny version of Miss’s musical voice. I couldn’t hear her words, but it was a question.

“Hang on. I’ll ask.” Rosa gave me a wide grin. “The youth center has tickets for the ballet.
Romeo and Juliet
. You want to go?”

The sting in my heart ebbed away. My smile slipped sideways. A smirk. “Could I talk to Miss?”

Rosa passed me the phone.

For once, I took a moment to
think
before opening my mouth. Then in my own musical voice I spoke.
“Oui, madame! Bien sûr! J’adore le ballet! Merci beaucoup!”

Rosa giggled, and Mamá smiled.

Through the phone I heard a snort.

Just as it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a metropolis to write a book. I need to recognize my first and best teachers, the authors of every book I have ever read, those who continue to reach out to me, bridging time and space, infecting me with their magic. They’ve taught me how to write, and more — they’ve made it plain why we must write. Most important, they’ve made me
want
to write.

Many thanks to the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, and Pikes Peak Writers for their exceptional conferences. A special shout-out to the literary agents, editors, authors, and other presenters who attend these events and are so generous with their knowledge.

I would not have made it to this point without my dear friends at Boulder Writers’ Workshop and my writing coach, Lori DeBoer. All my love to my critique groups, the Arapahoe Library District, and especially my own mentors, Kathryn Jens and Linda Baggus, who were with Jacinta from the start.

Warm appreciation to the community in northeast Littleton, the inspiration for the fictional town of Maplewood, including the City of Littleton, South Suburban Parks and Recreation, Littleton Public Schools, GracePoint Community Church, North Littleton Promise, Littleton Immigrant Integration Initiative, Save Our Youth, and Whiz Kids.

I am indebted to my talented agent, Sean McCarthy; the Sheldon Fogelman Agency; my gifted editor, Andrea Tompa; and Candlewick Press for faith in me and my work. A bouquet of colors to Sara Palacios for the stunning jacket art.

My gratitude flows to my husband, Larry, for putting up with me; my cousin Bruce Robbins, official photographer and unofficial “dad” to four giggly teenagers on the research trip to Carlsbad Caverns; my best friend and first editor, Vickie Robb; and the many others who’ve read and provided feedback on this novel — especially those who read it multiple times. I am particularly grateful to the readers who took the time to give me advice and insight on issues of cultural accuracy. Any issues that remain are my own.

This work is a testament to my mom, Carol Robbins, who always told me I could do anything I wanted to do.

Look Both Ways in the Barrio Blanco
is lovingly dedicated to Rubi and Perla for trusting a pushy white lady with their secrets and for continuing to allow me to “kidnap” them after that first scary time; their little sister, Esmé, who has stopped slapping me and now likes going out with Miss; their lovely mother, for her strength and gracious ways; and Forrest and August, now tall, handsome young men, who continue to come along for the ride.