“Who is this boy?” Sister Rachel asks. “This isn’t true, is it?”

I study my shoes and shake my head.

“This is more like a poem. The assignment was to write an essay. An essay is based on a true personal experience. Why would you make up such a terrible story when there are so many lovely things that have surely happened to you?”

I shrug and watch a trail of black ants walk across the floor.

“I tell you what, Isabel. I’ll give you another chance. Write an essay and this time choose something more pleasant.”

She makes me write it before I leave for home. Auntie Bernadette waits with Olivia in the hallway. Every now and then, Olivia peeks through the window on my classroom door. She sticks out her tongue, she crosses her eyes, she sucks in her cheeks to make fish lips. It doesn’t work. I don’t laugh. I write.

My Family’s Trip to Disneyland

by Isabel Moreno

It’s difficult to say what part I enjoyed the most, the ride on the airplane to Los Angeles or Disneyland. On the plane, I watched two movies. I washed my hands with hot wet rags that the flight attendant handed to me with tongs. The trip was so long, I ate two meals and ice cream.

One morning at Disneyland, we had breakfast with Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck, and Goofy. The pancakes were shaped like Mickey’s face. My mother pulled out her ukulele from its case and Donald Duck begged her to play while my father did the cha-cha with Minnie. Everyone clapped and clapped for my talented parents. They were the stars of the show. I will remember our trip to Disneyland for the rest of my life.

Sister Rachel reads my new essay and smiles. She even laughs, probably at the thought of Tata dancing with Minnie. That would have been funny.

Sister Rachel takes her red pen and marks on the top of the page. At home that night I wad up the paper and throw away the only A+ I’ve received in four years.

Bet

All week I wait for Teresita to come by the cabana and tell me her news. She never does. I have thought of every possible reason that Teresita would run for queen. I even wonder if she’s competing so her mother will be proud of her. I know she tries to act tough, like she doesn’t care about her mother, but I don’t believe her.

When my father returns from fishing on Friday, I take off for Teresita’s house. The empty chicken pens in her yard remind me of her uncle’s foolish sale to Lorenzo. Her uncle may have paid for the chickens, but they belonged heart and soul to Teresita. She fed them, trained them, sewed them up after wins, buried them after losses.

Teresita sits in front of the TV, playing a video game with her younger cousin, Joel. She looks up and frowns, then tells Joel, “Scram.” His eyes stay fixed on the television screen, his fingers punching the buttons on the controller.