Free America's Dream by Esmeralda Santiago Page B

taking her sweet time about it. Correa points to the place next to him, so that she’s sitting between him and América, trapped against the glass-fronted cupboard.
    América serves the soup in the tureen from the vajilla, and Correa looks at her quizzically. She ladles soup into their bowls, giving him the bone with the most meat.
    “Where’s the bread?”
    “It’s warming in the oven.”
    Rosalinda stares into her soup. América sets the crusty bread in the middle of the table. Correa rips up a chunk, passes it to América, then another to Rosalinda, who ignores it. “Take it!” he growls, and she does, setting it on her plate. He puts a piece in his mouth and watches his daughter as he chews, as if considering what to do or say next. She doesn’t budge. Her eyes cast on the pattern the noodles make at the bottom of her bowl, Rosalinda is as imperturbable as a cemí. Correa studies her for a

    minute, tries to meet América’s eyes, shakes his head. América avoids his gaze, sips her soup delicately. The only sound is Cor- rea’s chewing, his restless body making the chair creak and groan with every twitch. He takes a few spoonfuls of soup, looks at the two females in front of him, one as still as a stone, the other avoiding his gaze at all costs. He slams his hand down, pushes his chair sprawling behind him.
    “Maldito sea,” he bellows, “a man can get indigestion eating with you two!” América freezes, Rosalinda looks up fearfully but doesn’t move. Correa studies them for a moment, considering their alarmed expressions. He shakes his head as if refusing to listen to some internal voice, then strides out of the house, climbs into his Jeep, and is gone.
    América and Rosalinda exchange a look of relief. The girl picks up her spoon, fills it with the steaming broth, and blows on it quietly, as if she were whispering a secret only the spoon can hear. América resumes her eating. Ester shuffles in chuck-ling, a bowl and spoon in her hand.
    “You really know how to push his buttons,” she laughs in between spoonfuls. “It’s remarkable how well you both do that.” América and Rosalinda look at each other. For the first time in days, América sees the tiniest smile flicker across her daughter’s
    face.

    The next morning, when América comes out to make breakfast, Rosalinda is in her school uniform, sitting at the table, reading a thick history book as if she were posing for a picture.
    “I already made the coffee,” she says.
    América goes to wash up. She hates it when Ester or Rosalinda or Correa disrupt her morning routine. She likes to make the coffee. Ester makes it too strong and Rosalinda too weak. She likes having the house to herself while she dresses, sips her coffee, and eats her toast as she does her hair and applies makeup. It is her quiet time, and it throws her off when her day begins with conversation or a variation from her morning dance between bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.

    “I should probably send a note for your teachers,” she offers on her way back.
    Rosalinda winces. “I think the whole island knows why I was gone.”
    “Let me know if they need one.”
    She goes into her room to dress. It’s a good sign that Rosalinda is going back to school without being told. América was not looking forward to another battle with her today. But her stomach churns and her face flushes when she imagines Rosalinda facing her schoolmates, some of them wearing her clothes and jewelry. Some of them will avoid her, will whisper behind their hands at the girls next to them, all the while looking slyly in Rosalinda’s direction. They will make comments about Taino, will ask about him in front of her, will drop his name in conversation when she can hear it. The teachers will try to be kind, will pretend nothing has happened because, when a girl runs away with her boyfriend, it’s a family matter, not the school’s. Rosalinda will be estranged from everyone she knows, will be a subject for