Chapter 8
My fingers tightened around the extra cookie cutter. I was tired of sweeping up crumbs and doing things that didn’t seem to matter, like writing. I waved the aluminum pig outline high in the air. “Can I help you, Dad? I already scrubbed the dishes?” I begged.
“Are your hands clean?” he asked.
I pushed my free hand up to his face. “My hands are just about clean. We’re only writing letters.” I couldn’t help complaining.
“Letters?”
“Yeah, boring stuff.”
“I’m sure Colonel Franco has his reasons.”
I looked at my dad for a second. I wanted to tell him all about Casey and the homemade neck brace, but I decided not to. I didn’t want to put the idea of me getting hurt in his head. It would just worry him. Then he wouldn’t want us at the park either.
“Don’t just stand there. Wash your hands.” My dad waved his rolling pin in a shoo away motion. “La, de, da…”
I moved to the sink.
The bell we put out when we left the front room unattended rang. My dad hurried out. I pushed the door a crack to see. Colonel Franco stood a few feet from my dad.
“Good afternoon, Tomás.” He nudged someone toward my dad. “This is a student of Dr. Vidales Casal. He’ll be staying with Jorge Peregrino at his warehouse for the summer.” I pinched myself. The boy from the park stood in the middle of the room wearing a red polo shirt this time.
“Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Felix Diaz.” Felix said. He grabbed my dad’s hand between his two hands and shook it. His voice was soft, not like Colonel Franco’s grating consonants and vowels.
“Dr. Vidales Casal’s university in New Mexico will give Felix school credit for volunteering. A couple of kids will be coming up from the school,” Colonel Franco continued.
“Masi, come here.” My dad pulled the door open. I was leaning against it. I lost my balance and stumbled into the room. “This is my daughter, Masi.”
I nodded at Colonel Franco, then wiped my moist palm on the leg of my pants. I pushed it toward Felix. My nose aligned with the tiny embroidered lizard on his shirt. I looked up. He was very good looking up close. He had cat eyes—pupils so large it was hard to tell what color his irises were. He blinked. Two curtains of lashes floated against his cheeks.
Felix squeezed my hand. He sauntered across the room, looking through the glass cases at the bread on the trays. The labels on the shelves read: conchas, cuernitos, bolillos, marranitos—aka conch-shaped sugar- topped loaves, croissants, white baguette style rolls, and ginger pigs.
“Have a taste, Felix,” my dad said.
Felix picked up a large fluffy conch. He tore off pieces and stuffed them in his mouth until it was nothing but sugar dust on his shirt. “Delicious. I wish I could make this myself.”
“You bake?” my dad asked with a grin.
Felix laughed. “I try every now and then. Nothing this good.” Felix went on about how he could make out the taste of lemon rind. He listed out other spices I was surprised he’d even heard of, like anise and cloves. “I decided to minor in chemistry when I discovered an ability to decipher the ingredients in almost anything, but my major is business.”
“Very nice. Speaking of business, will you kids excuse us for a minute?” My dad ushered Colonel Franco toward the door. “What’s all this business about these kids writing letters?”
“We’re reaching out to some of our public officials,” Colonel Franco said.
“Can’t Jorge Peregrino just make some phone calls? I know he knows some people in the Mayor’s office.” My dad was right. Peregrino was more than connected, and he was more than doing okay moneywise. He the richest man in Pig Park. He had made a fortune importing and distributing herbal supplements from south of the border. His customers and friends were everywhere. Big cities, small ones. Rich neighborhoods, poor ones.
Felix walked towards me. “You have an interesting name,” he said.
“My mom wanted to name me Tomasina after my dad. My dad didn’t like it, so they named me Masi for short. Spelled M-A-S-I, but pronounced Mah-see.” His lips parted. He smiled a bleached-tooth smile. Heat rose up my spine. I was suddenly nervous—or some other thing.
“So it’s a family name.”
“Yep. After my dad.”
“How long have you been in business?”
“Since before I was born. Well, my parents have been. I mean.” My voice cracked. It was city asphalt in the spring.
I excused myself and ran back to the kitchen. The kitchen door swung closed. I pressed my back against the nearby wall. The voices in the front room carried on a few more minutes.
I waited until I was sure that they were gone and walked back into the room.
My dad smiled like his face was about to split in two. He washed his hands and wrapped up the ball of masa sitting on the counter. “This thing seems to be catching speed,” he said.
“Yes.” I wiped down his work area.
My mom entered the room and headed for the register. I glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes past seven: closing time. “We had company?” she asked.
“Colonel Franco was here.” My dad drew the blinds. He turned the deadbolt on the door. “Dr. Vidales Casal sent a boy to help. Colonel Franco came to introduce him. He seemed nice.”
“You didn’t call me. I would like to have met him.”
“You were taking a nap,” my dad said.
“I was tired.” My mom pulled out the register’s tray with such force that a coin flew out. There were ten singles, two fives, four quarters and a roll of dimes in there—no more than we kept to make change.
I don’t know if it was from just waking up, but I could tell she was in a mood. I backed away and tiptoed upstairs.
I lay in my bed staring at my bedroom ceiling. I thought about Felix’s eyes, his lips and his skin the color of toast.
Chapter 9
“That’s my pencil,” Casey said.
“No it’s not,” Stacey said.
“I bought it!”
“No you didn’t!”
They talked non-stop, back and forth, their words flying everywhere, crowding the already small basement. I leaned into Josefina. “Did Colonel Franco visit you guys yesterday?” I asked.
“Sure did,” she said. “Colonel Franco walked HIM up and down the street and introduced him to my parents. Do you think the rest of them are that cute?”
“The rest of who?”
“He said more students would be coming to help us.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are New Mexicans supposed to be cute?”
“Same as old Mexicans.”
“Very funny.”
“I know.”
“Old Mexicans like the Colonel?” Casey interrupted.
“Ew.