Fittings

Teresita gripes when Auntie Bernadette calls her over for another fitting. She gripes to me, not Auntie Bernadette.

“I have to stand on a chair while she pins and makes me turn slowly, then if a customer comes by, she makes me wait. Or if your uncle Fernando needs her to get him a cup of coffee, she stops pinning. Always something.”

You should have thought of that before, I want to tell her, but of course, I don’t. I’m just glad it’s her instead of me. I wouldn’t want to parade in front of all of Malesso in a fancy blue dress, no matter how beautiful it is.

I’ve sold forty tickets for Teresita so far. And no telling how many Auntie Bernadette sold at bingo. Plus she sells to the customers who come for treatments. They buy, hoping their good deed will make them heal quicker. Even Mrs. Camacho bought two tickets when she had Auntie work on her back. And Mrs. Camacho’s chubby granddaughter, Margarita, is running for queen.

Ticket Sellers

Auntie Bernadette shakes her head. “You could have been queen the way you sell those tickets.”

“I’m selling tickets for Teresita.”

Auntie Bernadette takes a stack of ticket booklets with her to bingo and I know she’ll come back emptyhanded. Those people at bingo will bet on anything, even if it means they might end up with three hundred cans of tuna.

Roman buys four more tickets from me. “You should have ran,” he says. “You would have won. If you could remember how to smile.” He winks.

Maybe if Roman didn’t bug me about smiling so much, I would smile. And maybe if Roman didn’t hang around Tata so much, my father would see Frank with clear eyes.

Scars

Last night we ate snow cones in the cabana. Olivia accidentally broke the head off her spoon, then dropped it on the ground before running off to play. Frank picked up the spoon. He studied the broken plastic, running his finger over the sharp ridges. Over and over, he rubbed the edges until he caught me staring at him. He squinted at me, then tossed the spoon in the garbage along with his half-eaten snow cone.

I don’t know if there’s a God anymore, but tonight I pray for more words on Frank’s walls. More words, no more cuts.

Bikini Blues

“I hate my mom!” Mary Kelly tells us at recess.

“Why?” Tonya asks.

“She’s crazy!”

“Kaduka?” Delia asks, then steals a quick glance at me like there’s a picture of my mother next to the word in the dictionary.

“Yeah, kaduka,” Mary Kelly says. “She won’t let me wear a bikini. No two-piece swimsuits. And Mike wants me to wear a bikini.”

Mike is Mary Kelly’s boyfriend. He’s in the navy and she carries a picture of him in her wallet and wears his senior class ring on a chain hidden under her white shirt.

“Would you like to stay over at my house on Friday ?” she asks.