Free Dinosaur Boy by Cory Putman Oakes Page B

together in the center of a large dining room, and four men on ladders were painting the walls bright orange.
    â€œ Hola, mi hija !” came a loud voice with a heavy accent.
    I was enveloped in a big, squishy hug (along with Elliot and Sylvie) before I could see where the voice was coming from. When I could breathe again, I noticed that the hugger bore a striking resemblance to the woman whose picture was above the door, except that her smile was even brighter in person.
    â€œSit, sit!” she commanded, steering all three of us to one of the tables. “I’m so glad you’ve brought me some taste testers!”
    â€œSome what ?” Elliot asked, as four waiters appeared, each carrying a tray so heavily laden with food that the plastic was groaning with the weight. They spread the plates out on the table in front of us and then disappeared back into the kitchen.
    Elliot sat obediently and grabbed a fork.
    â€œMo- om ,” Sylvie complained, scowling down at the table. There was easily enough food there for ten people.
    â€œShush.” Mrs. Juarez kissed the top of her head. “You know it’s been a long time since I’ve done straight Mexican food. We’re finalizing the menu today, and I need opinions. Start with the tamales.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” said Elliot, who was already halfway through with the plate in front of him.
    Mrs. Juarez beamed at him. Elliot swallowed and seemingly remembered his manners.
    â€œI’m Elliot,” he said, sticking his hand out across a plate of enchiladas.
    Mrs. Juarez shook it.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to meet you, Elliot,” she said, and then turned to me. “And you must be Sawyer?”
    I shook her hand as well.
    â€œThat is a lovely tail you have there, Sawyer,” Mrs. Juarez complimented me. “Don’t you worry. I have a big salad coming for you. Do you like salsa?”
    I considered this for a moment.
    â€œI’m not sure,” I said finally. “I don’t think I’ve tried any since this summer.”
    She gave my shoulder a squeeze.
    â€œI’ll bring you out some, just in case you want to spice up your greens a bit.”
    â€œ All right, Mom,” Sylvie said pointedly, nudging a plate of chile rellenos to one side, to clear a spot for her notebook. “We’ll try all of the food, OK?”
    â€œ OK , Sylvie,” Mrs. Juarez said, in the exact same tone of voice. Then she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at her daughter. “Empty your pockets.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Sylvie asked. Her face was suddenly a mask of wide-eyed innocence. The expression looked really weird on her.
    â€œYou know what I mean.” Mrs. Juarez tapped a foot impatiently and held out a hand, palm up. “Pockets. Now.”
    Sylvie’s innocent face melted, replaced by an annoyed scowl. Sighing, she dug into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and deposited two handfuls of candy corn into her mom’s hand.
    â€œ Sylvia ,” Mrs. Juarez scolded, shaking her head at the candy. “You know what your father thinks about this.”
    â€œDad’s not here,” Sylvie said quietly.
    Mrs. Juarez started to say something and then stopped. Instead, she reached out and patted her daughter’s head through her orange hoodie.
    â€œI’m sure you’ve had enough sugar for the day,” she said finally. “Time for some real food. Pop your head in the kitchen when you’re ready to leave, OK? I’ll give everybody a ride home.”
    â€œOK,” Sylvie said, scowling at a bowl of chips.
    Mrs. Juarez disappeared around a corner.
    I sat down and took a sip of water while I studied Sylvie. She was still staring at the chips.
    Sylvie’s mom wasn’t what I had pictured at all. From Sylvie’s description, I had expected a mean woman who cared only about her restaurant. The real Mrs. Juarez hadn’t seemed like that at all. What was