Free The Skirt by Gary Soto Page A

gum.
    Little Joe waved a dirty hand at Miata. Miata waved back and tried to smile.
    “Start us?” Joe asked. “We’re going to have a race.”
    Miata stopped and said, “Okay, but make it fast.”
    Little Joe and Alex lined up. Bodies leaning, they were ready to race. She counted,
uno … dos …
, and on
tres
they were off. Miata pressed her hands to her ears. The racket of the cans was deafening.
    Her brother was the first to touch the tree.
    “I won,” Little Joe said.
    But Alex argued because one of Little Joe’s cans had come off his shoe. “You cheated,” Alex yelled.
    “No, I didn’t,” Little Joe yelled back. His hands were doubled into fists.
    Miata left them arguing. She climbed the steps to her house. She was troubled. If Ana doesn’t pick up the skirt, shethought, I’ll have to dance in a regular skirt.
    It was Friday, late afternoon. It looked like a long weekend of worry.

M iata’s family had moved from Los Angeles. Their new home was in Sanger, a small town in the San Joaquin Valley. Her father had gotten tired of the bad air and the long commute to his job at an auto-parts store. One day when he returned home, he called his wife and children to the kitchen table. He asked whatthey thought about moving to a different place.
    At first Miata didn’t like the idea of moving. But now she was living in a house, not an apartment. Now she was in the dance club at school. Now she had a best friend, Ana. The move had been good for Miata.
    Her mother, Alicia, came into the living room just as Miata was throwing her book bag onto the floor. The book bag landed with a crash.
    “¡Ay, Dios!”
her mother chirped. “You scared me,
prieta
. I didn’t hear you come in.”
    Her mother was holding an old cloth diaper. It was now her cleaning rag. She was wearing jeans and a work shirt splotched with old paint. She had been cleaning the house. The piles of newspapers were thrown out, the magazines were neatlystacked, and the air smelled fresh as a lemon. The crocheted afghan on the couch was straight. The water in the aquarium was clear, not green. Her father’s ashtray had been emptied and wiped clean.
    Miata decided to tell her mother about the skirt later. She gave her mother a hug and went to her bedroom. She sat on her bed, counting the minutes until Ana would arrive. She looked down at her wristwatch. It was three thirty-five.
    Ana’s getting off the bus right now, she told herself. And I bet she has my skirt.
    In her mind, Miata could see Ana. Little Ana had curly hair and a galaxy of freckles on her face. Miata had known one other Mexican girl who had freckles. But that girl lived in Los Angeles, and she wasn’t as nice as Ana.
    Miata did her math homework, which took only ten minutes because math washer best subject, but still the telephone didn’t ring. Miata grew so impatient she counted to one hundred, backward and forward.
    Miata scooted off the bed and went to the hallway, where the telephone sat on a small table. She picked up the telephone; a long buzz rang in her ear.
    Miata hung up and returned to her bedroom, where she changed into her play clothes. She figured that by the time she had finished changing, the telephone would ring. It would be Ana calling.
    “Come on, Ana, just call,” she whined.
    The last button on her shirt was buttoned. She was completely dressed. Miata took off her earrings and wristwatch. She straightened her horse-print bedspread. She put away the clothes that were on the floor. She even sorted her crayons. But the telephone still didn’t ring.

    “Please call, Ana,” she whispered. She sat down on her bed and started poking at a sliver in her little finger. The sliver was from the bench where they ate lunch. It had been bothering her all day.
    Miata decided to call Ana. She tiptoed to the hallway. She dialed Ana’s house and heard,
“Bueno.”
    In Spanish, Miata asked if Ana was home from school.
    “Todavía no está aquí,”
the voice said. Miata