Free The Tequila Worm by Viola Canales Page B

Berta?” Mama laughed. “Okay, mi’ja, you have my blessing.” Mama had tears in her eyes.
    We kissed when the
vals
ended. As we sat at the table, I winked at Papa and turned to Lucy next to me.
    “Lucy, is it all right if I go to that school? Mama and Papa say it’s okay, if it’s okay with you.” Lucy looked at Mama, who nodded.
    “Okay,” said Lucy quietly. I moved closer and squeezed her hand. “I’ll come home as often as I can,” I whispered.
    “So let’s celebrate!” Papa said. “I’ll be right back.” He returned with Berta in one arm and a tiny bottle of mescal in the other.
    “Sofia!” Berta beamed. “I told you our dreams were connected.”
    Papa poured five
copitas
of mescal. Mine was a drop.
    “To Berta’s and Sofia’s dreams!” Papa said, toasting. He gulped his down. I gulped. Coughed.
Whoa!
Everyone else took a sip.
    “And, Sofia, always remember Clara’s cure for homesickness—the tequila worm.” Papa fished the worm out, dangled it between his fingers, then bit it. He started chewing it,
slowly
.
    “Yuck!” we all said.
    “Sofia, here’s your half,” Papa said. “I left the best part for you—the head. And remember to chew it slowly. It won’t dissolve like a holy host.”
    Yuck!
    “Berta, want a big bite?” I said.
    “No way!”
    I took the head of the tequila worm.
Squishy
. I put it in my mouth.
Squishy
. And started chewing. It felt . . . I swallowed.
Squishy
.
    “Gross, Sofia!” Everyone laughed.
    “And,” Papa said, “once you go, I’ll be sure to send you a whole tequila worm in the mail.” I laughed, but anxiety flooded me.
    I’d been so intent on getting my parents to let me go that I hadn’t thought about actually leaving.

Five “NeW”DReSSeS

    The phone rang early the next morning. Berta. “I can’t believe you ate the tequila worm.
Gross!
How did it taste?”
    “Terrific! But it didn’t cure my problems.”
    “A tequila worm cures homesickness, not problems.”
    “Well, I’ve got two big ones.”
    “What are they?”
    “How to get those five new dresses and the four hundred dollars,” I said. “I told Mama that you and I had a plan. I even called you my
comadre
.”
    Berta laughed. “You’re quick, Sofia. Let me come over and show you the
quinceañera
pictures. Then we can talk and talk about a plan like real
comadres
.”
    “You mean your
zillions
of pictures are back already?”
    “Yeah, and I made extras of you and your mama dancing!”
    “And how many did you make of you and Jamie kissing? A
zillion
?”
    “
Two
zillion!”
    The most daunting thing about going to Saint Luke’s was not that it was over three hundred miles away, or that it was Episcopalian, not Catholic, or even that it was way up on a hill, away from anything and everything. No. It was having to dress up every evening—Monday through Friday—for a formal sit-down dinner.
    This had worried Mama, too: “So even if we decide that you can go, Sofia, what are we going to do about your clothes? You only have one decent dress—the one you wear to Mass.” I thought of the piggy bank Papa bought me years ago in Mexico. It contained about three dollars, not enough for even
one
dress.
    I kept having the same nightmare over and over again: I was sitting down to dinner in my Sunday dress, and there were seven other students at the table, which was set with the finest silver, china, and crystal. They all stood up and started pointing and laughing at me. I looked down and was horrified to find that my nice white dress had turned into one taped together with pieces of Tía Petra’s rolls of plastic. I woke up in a sweat, remembering “Taco Head!”
    Mama and Lucy were visiting the
abuelitos
across town. Papa was on the front porch, watering his Mexican jasmine and listening to his singing canary. I made a fresh pot of coffee and was putting out a plate of pumpkin empanadas when Berta came into the kitchen carrying two huge photo albums and a big bag.
    “Wow!” I