Free The Queen of Water by Laura Resau

guinea pigs, I run into Doña Mercedes’s daughters, Marina and Marlenny. They have crushes on a sexy singer named Chayanne and always carry little folded-up magazine pictures of him in their pockets. “Ohhh! Isn’t Chayanne gorgeous?” they moan. “Look at those muscles. Look at that chest.”
    I nod. “He’s good-looking. But he’s not as smart as MacGyver.”
    My heart belongs to MacGyver, the star of my favorite television show. He’s a handsome special agent, always solving mysteries and saving people and getting trapped in deadly situations and figuring a way out at the last second. He’s a genius. Even if he has only a match and a can of Coca-Cola and a stick of mint gum, he can use them to booby-trap the bad guys and escape. All the women on the show fall in love with him. When he kisses them, I pretend it’s me he’s kissing. Oh, Virginia, mi amor, he whispers, caressing my face. You’re so beautiful, so smart, such a fast runner. Will you be my secret-agent partner? For as long as we both shall live?
    “One day I’ll marry Chayanne,” Marina sighs.
    “One day I’ll marry MacGyver,” I sigh.
    Marina is twelve years old, and she figures that in six years she can find Chayanne and make him fall in love with her. And she just might: she has shiny, wavy hair that she wears back in glittery barrettes, and thick, naturally curly eyelashes, and full, pouty lips. “Don’t worry, Virginia,” she assures me. “You’ll have no problem making MacGyver fall in love with you. You have bright eyes and a quick mind. That’s how he likes his women.”
    I agree. I’d be the ideal girl for him if I were a few years older. I still don’t know exactly how old I am, but I figure I must be around Marina’s age.
    Sometimes Doña Mercedes and the Doctorita speculate on my age. “Well,” Doña Mercedes says, eyeing her daughter and me, “my daughter is taller than Virginia, but look into their eyes. Marina has the eyes of a child, but Virginia has the eyes of someone much older.”
    The Doctorita shakes her head. “Oh, no, my Virginia is younger.”
    I flinch whenever she says my Virginia, as though I’m her pet.
    She laughs. “Look, my Virginia barely has breasts.”
    I blush and fold my arms over my chest.
    “I still say Virginia’s older,” Doña Mercedes says, unconvinced.
    “Well”—the Doctorita shrugs—“either way, she’s definitely becoming a teenager, the way she primps in front of a mirror for an hour before she goes out. Even to buy a bag of eggs!”
    My face flushes hotter still. It’s true. Before I go on errands, I brush and smooth my hair into a perfect waist-long ponytail and try on three outfits before I find the right one. Once I tried to leave my hair loose, like some of the ninth-grade girls I’d seen at the colegio, but on my way out the door, the Doctorita snapped, “What do you think you’re doing?” and made me pull my hair back.
    Sunday mornings are best, because the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos sleep late and Jaimito watches cartoons with Andrecito. I can leave to buy the milk and bread without them knowing what time I’ve left. I get up early and put on my favorite pea green jacket. My other clothes are all a little too big or too small, but this jacket fits me as though I went to the store and bought it just for myself. I slip out of the house around eight o’clock and head toward the town square.
    Life feels as quivery-new as the morning air. I walk around the sparkling fountain slowly, taking my time, wandering through the crowds, past the people lined up to buy warm popcorn and steaming potato tortillas. Cumbia music floats out of the shops and fills me up, makes me feel part of the thrilling buzz of families and couples who’ve come from the villages to spend the day shopping and talking and strolling.
    I imagine MacGyver walking next to me, his arm around me, his hand resting comfortably on my hip. He brushes a strand of hair from my face and whispers words of