Free Look Both Ways in the Barrio Blanco by Judith Robbins Rose Page A

around me like popcorn on a stove. Miss
beamed
from the bleachers, but I didn’t smile back.
Why did I want this?
    With a splat, then another splat, two girls landed on the mat. One on each side of me.
    “Are you in the beginner class, too?” asked the girl with freckles and skinny brown braids.
    I looked from her to the other girl. Her hair was frizzy and yellow. Her eyes bulged in a cute-but-ugly way. They both grinned. I wasn’t sure what to do. But Cody and Ethan were white, and they were nice. I forced myself to smile and nod.
    “It’s my third time,” said the freckled girl.
    “Your third time? In the
beginner
class?”
    As soon as they hit the air, I knew they were the wrong words. She looked at the ceiling so the water pooling in her eyes wouldn’t roll down her face. “I’m never gonna be good at gymnastics.”
    Careful to keep my voice gentle, I asked, “Why do you keep taking it if it makes you sad?”
    “My mom thinks I’m fat.”
    I felt the ache in her throat. Like it was my own.
    The other girl rolled her bug eyes. “Your mom’s anorexic. My mom says I’m clumsy. This is supposed to make me graceful.”
    I felt sorry for them.
Mamá would never call me fat or clumsy
. Then I remembered my
mamá
wasn’t around to call me anything at all.
    “Why’d your mom bring you?” asked the girl with the bug eyes.
    My stomach lurched. I glanced into the stands at Miss. She smiled and waved. The other girls’ eyes followed my look.
    The girl with braids said, “Is
that
your mom? Isn’t she on the news?”
    My hand went right to my hair, my finger twisting and pulling. Like I was trying to yank it all out. Then I nodded.
    The bug-eyed girl said, “She’s pretty. Come on. Let’s jump in the tumbling pit.”
    That night — like so many others — I lay awake, counting my lies. Each lie was a little thing. Like a toothpick. A
tower
of toothpicks I kept building taller. One more toothpick, and the whole thing might collapse.
    I’d lied saying that Miss was my mom. I’d lied to keep Miss from taking Rosa swimming with us, and I kept lying so Miss wouldn’t know Papi had to work all the time. Then there was the big lie, the one that felt the most dangerous — the one about my parents having papers.
    And because I’d told so many lies, I had to lie to
myself
.
    I told myself everything would be all right.

MISS WAS ANNOYED that I wasn’t ready when she got to our apartment. But we were the last ones to arrive at the youth center’s Back-to-School Night for kids in the Amigo-Amiga program, so I was happy about the way it turned out. Miss had to park a few blocks away. No one saw her wheezy brown van.
    I’d told Angélica she drove a red convertible.
    The parking lot was crammed with food booths and a bouncing castle. It was my first time at Back-to-School Night. Angélica had bragged about how much fun she’d had with her Amiga for the past three years.
    Now that
I
had an Amiga, it was my chance to get even.
    People stared at Miss. Even if you didn’t know who she was, with her sunglasses and her hair glowing in the afternoon light, you’d guess she was a TV star.
    I slipped my arm through hers.
My
Amiga. She looked at me and smiled. I saw myself grinning back in the twin reflections of her dark lenses.
    Mrs. E. stood at the registration table. “Kate!” Her eyes flicked over to me, then back to Miss. “Have you —?”
    From the corner of my eye, I caught the tiniest movement of Miss’s head. I turned to look at her, but couldn’t see past her sunglasses.
    I was
uneasy
.
    Miss put her hand on my back. “We need to get Jacinta set up for seventh grade.”
    Mrs. E. reached into a stack behind her and grabbed two backpacks. “Green or purple?”
    “Can I get a pink one?”
    “Those are for elementary school.”
    Green or purple — not much of a choice. Purple is pretty, but it’s too sad. I don’t want to carry sorrow around all year. But there’s already too much jealousy in my life.