Free Red Glass by Laura Resau

What if my boyfriend hears you say this?”
    I laughed.
    “Hmph!” Dika said. “Those girls, they think you are funny with your yellow hair.”
    “Funny?” I said. Why could I joke around with Dika about
her
hair, but the second my hair’s turn came, my stomach knotted up and I thought, Yes, I am ugly. “What’s funny about it?” I asked, hurt. “Am I ugly, Pablo?”
    Ángel looked at me and opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again.
    Pablo said, “You’re the most prettiest girl on the world.”
    “Thank you, little brother.” I’d never called him “brother” before.
    He slipped his hand in mine. “I want tacos for dinner.”
    I squeezed his small hand. “Then tacos you’ll have,
principito.
”
             
    After we dumped our bags in the rooms, we looked for a place to eat tacos. It was dusk, and lights were starting to turn on. We found a tiny restaurant that looked welcoming. COMEDOR HERMELINDA —Hermelinda’s Eatery—was neatly stenciled in red paint over the entrance, which was essentially a garage door. One whole wall of the restaurant was open to the street, the way most of the other restaurants here seemed to be. The TV in the corner blared a comedy show with slapstick skits that the customers loved. A few bare lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling and cast a stark light that somehow felt cozy because of all the people talking and laughing. Imagine if your neighbor stuck some tables and a TV in his garage and squeezed everyone on the street in there for an impromptu party.
    “Ahhh! Look!” Dika cried. “Only places for three people at this table!”
    “Pablo and I can sit at this other table,” I said.
    “Oh, no! Pablo sits here with Mr. Lorenzo and me! I must to help him select the food.”
    Dika was playing matchmaker again, which was fine with me, since I was obviously bumbling my way through whatever this thing with Ángel was. It seemed as if he’d crawled into his box and locked himself up with whatever was in there.
    I sat down at a table and he sat across from me, setting his box down between us. Ángel ordered three tacos and a Corona with lime. I ordered the same, glancing at Dika and Mr. Lorenzo to see if they’d noticed the beer part, but they didn’t seem to care. Corona was Mom and Juan’s beer of choice. Sometimes during their parties, I’d sneak a bottle and lie on the hammock and watch people laughing and talking as though they were on-screen, on a TV show with sets and lights, while I was hidden backstage.
    The waitress set down our Coronas, and after the first sip, I didn’t think I’d be able to finish it. The beer was warm and flat, maybe due to limited fridge space, or maybe the people here liked it that way.
    Ángel wasn’t talking, so I looked around the room, feeling awkward. An altar to the Virgin of Juquila—Oaxaca’s special Virgin, Pablo had told us—hung on the wall above our heads. Multicolored Christmas lights surrounded her, gold tassels dripped from her shiny gown, glitter sparkled in her hair, and her crown shot out gold rays with stars perched on the ends. It made me think of the lady who had saved Ángel when he fell down the ravine. Even if I didn’t have any magical ladies looking out for me, I appreciated that he did, that
someone
in this world did, that maybe there was hope for me yet. I wondered what his magical lady thought of me, whether she was rooting for me.
    Ángel put his extra lime slices on my plate, a small, silent present. I watched his hands and remembered how they felt braiding my hair. Heat gathered in the center of my body and spread out. I wanted him to braid my hair again. When he’d braided it, for the first time it hadn’t felt dry and thick and frizzy. It felt worshiped and full of sparkles and stars, like the Virgin’s hair.
    We ate without talking much at first, just a few comments about the mysterious spice in the beans, ginger or cloves, something you’d normally find in Christmas cookies.