Stef Soto, Taco Queen Read online

  “Not all at once,” Mr. Salazar jokes. Then he says he’s sorry if he shocked us. “I thought that you were all mature enough to talk about this sort of thing—and I still do. I know that, together, we’ll come up with a plan. So let’s brainstorm: What do you think? What are we going to do to get enough art supplies to see us through this year and next?”

  Maddie speaks up first. Twirling her hair around her finger, she says, “Maybe we can ask the art store to give us some stuff?”

  Mr. Salazar nods. “The store made a large donation at the beginning of the year—that’s where your new charcoal pencils came from. But, yes, Maddie, that’s a good thought. We can ask whether they can help us out with some more supplies.” He writes ASK FOR DONATIONS on the whiteboard. “What else?”

  Christopher suggests we ask our parents for money.

  “That’s certainly an option. All of you have very generous parents,” Mr. Salazar says. “But I was hoping you all could really take ownership of the problem.”

  Amanda raises her hand. When her soccer team needed to raise money to travel to an out-of-town tournament, she explains, they sold candy bars door-to-door.

  I remember that. Mami and Papi bought a whole box that we ended up giving out for Halloween.

  Mr. Salazar adds SELL CANDY to the whiteboard. “Any more?”

  Amanda nudges Arthur. He thinks for a second, then remembers that when his church choir needed to buy new robes, they wrote letters to shops and restaurants asking for contributions.

  “Good,” Mr. Salazar says, scribbling WRITE LETTERS on the board.

  Jake suggests a car wash. That’s how his swim club raised enough to pay for repairs at their pool.

  I think about how hard Mami and Papi and I worked to buy Tía Perla. The saving, the extra jobs, my piggy bank. I’m not sure how any of that would help our art class, though. Maybe if we all brought in our spare change…

  But before I can say anything, Julia jumps off her stool, looking like whatever she has to say is about to bubble over like a shaken-up bottle of soda. “Okay. Guys. Those ideas? They’re great and everything, but I’ve got it. I know what we should do.”

  She pauses, eyes sparkling as they flit from face to face. When she’s sure she has everyone’s attention, she bursts, “A dance! In the gym! We can charge admission.”

  The art studio begins to whir.

  “We can sell cupcakes!”

  “We can make decorations!”

  Even Arthur is out of his chair. “I’ll do a playlist.”

  I have to admit, it’s a pretty good idea. “I can draw some posters,” I offer.

  Mr. Salazar holds up his arms to quiet us down. “This wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

  We groan, and he holds his arms up again. “Hold on, hold on. Let me finish. It wasn’t what I had in mind. But it’s your class, your art supplies. I’ll have to get approval from the principal, but it sure sounds like we have a winning idea.”

  Mr. Salazar dismisses us, promising to have an answer from the principal by the time we meet again next week. “You better be prepared if she says yes,” he warns. “You’re in for a lot of work.”

  chapter

  13

  Outside in the parking lot, Tía Perla is missing again. That’s two days in a row. Not to jinx anything, but this feels like a good sign.

  When I get to the gas station, Papi is helping someone at the window, so I let myself into the cab to drop off my backpack. There, on the middle of the bench seat, is a small package wrapped in the comics section of the newspaper. Taped to the top is a tag with my name printed across it in block letters. Curious, I peel away the paper and find a cell phone. I turn it over, part of me thinking it might be a toy. But no. It’s real. I can’t believe it. I had wanted one for my last birthday but didn’t think it was even worth asking.

  It’s not as nice as Julia’s. But still, it’s a phone. It seems to be mine, and it’s not even my birthday. What could have prompted a gift like this? I’m trying to make sense of it when I remember that Julia’s parents gave her a phone for safety reasons—so she can check in with them when she gets to school and when she makes it back home. My heart starts thudding. Is that why Mami and Papi got me a phone? So I can check in with them? From the concert?

  I leap from the cab, run around to the back of the truck, pull open the kitchen door, and throw my arms around Papi’s waist as he’s sprinkling cheese on an order of tacos.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I squeal as he hands the dish through the window to the customer below. “I can’t believe this is actually happening!”

  Papi thanks the customer, with an apologetic smile, then turns around to face me.

  “M’ija, I’m so glad you’re happy,” he says, grinning.

  “Happy? This is the best day ever. I have to tell Amanda. And don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. You can trust me.”

  Papi’s smile droops at the corners. “Trust you?”

  “Amanda’s sister will take us straight to the arena, and she’ll pick us up right after. You’ll hardly even notice I’m gone. And, of course, I’ll have the phone! I’ll check in! As many times as you want!” I scream. “I can’t wait until Saturday!”

  “Wait, m’ija, wait,” Papi starts, but I’m too excited to listen.

  “I wish I could tell Amanda right this second. Wait! I have a phone! I can!”

  Papi puts his hands on my shoulders. “M’ija, please. Stop.”

  Oh no. My stomach goes hollow.

  “It’s like your mami said the other night.” He’s almost whispering. “We think you’re just too young for this. Maybe in a few years… but, for now, we wanted you to have something special. This phone is a privilege. You’ve earned it. You have to keep it turned off during the school day, of course. And we don’t want you calling your friends late at night, but we trust you. Plus, this way, if there was ever an emergency—”

  I had stopped listening, but that catches my attention. “It’s not even for me! It’s for you! So you can keep hovering!” My heart is still racing, but now its thump, thump, thump is low and furious.

  My eyes sting. I push past Papi, jump down from the truck, and take off, dropping the cell phone on the pavement. Papi yells, “Estefania! Stef! Wait!” But I don’t stop. After a few moments, I hear him start the engine to follow me.

  It doesn’t take him long to catch up. But when I hear Tía Perla’s horn, I don’t stop. I don’t even turn around. I keep walking, Tía Perla crawling along behind me, until I realize with irritation that I can’t make it all the way home from here. I have nowhere to go. I’m stuck with Tía Perla. I stop and slump down on the curb. There’s no way I can get back in that truck, not yet.

  Papi opens his door. He’ll come sit down; his voice will be gentle; he’ll try to make me feel better. Or maybe he’ll tell me this has gone on long enough and drag me back into the truck.

  He does neither. Instead, he walks around to the kitchen. I hear him opening doors and pulling drawers. Then there’s a minute or two of quiet before he gets back in the cab and just sits there. I guess it’s up to me to end the standoff. I swipe my hand across my teary face, get up, and open the door without a word and without looking at Papi. On my seat is a skinny, foil packet. I know without opening it what I’ll find: a tortilla rolled up with butter inside. Just looking at it makes me want to cry again, so I shove it aside and slam the door shut.

  The next time Amanda asks me about the concert, I just shake my head, and she understands. “You don’t even want my mom to try calling them?” she asks.

  “It won’t help.”

  Arthur gives me a poster that had been stapled inside one of his magazines. It’s a blown-up picture of Viviana Vega performing at a concert, hundreds of arms reaching for her as she strides across the stage.

  That’s the last time either of them brings up Viviana Vega for the rest of the week.

  chapter

  14

  On Saturday, t
he day of the concert, I hear Mami and Papi in the kitchen, getting ready for the farmers’ market. I don’t get up to join them. I don’t plan to leave the house. I might not even leave the bedroom. Still, I’m a little surprised when neither of them comes to wake me and Papi drives off on his own.

  It’s after ten o’clock when I finally get out of bed. I stretch and yawn and bury my bare toes in the shaggy brown carpet. I reach for the glass of water on my dresser and notice the cell phone sitting on top of it. I haven’t seen it since that afternoon at the gas station and figured it was lost or broken or both. Papi must have snuck it inside my room overnight. For a second, I’m embarrassed about my taco truck tantrum. Then I look up at Arthur’s Viviana Vega poster taped to my wall and realize this is as close as I’m ever going to get to her.

  My eyes start to water all over again. I take down the poster, open up my desk, and pull out a sheet of drawing paper and a box of colored pencils.

  I do what I always do when I feel like drawing but don’t know where to start: Spill the colored pencils over my desktop, close my eyes, and pick a color without looking.

  Orange.

  Orange like a carrot? Meh.

  Orange like… the sun? Maybe.

  Orange like a blaze of angry flames? That’s it. I start drawing.

  Orange flames… shooting out from a rocket? No. Not a rocket, but a flying… taco truck. I roll my eyes. Not even in my imagination can I ditch old Tía Perla. But maybe, at least in my drawing, she’ll fly out of my life for good.

  Soon, cottony blue clouds swirl above Tía Perla on the page. And beneath her, bright green vines with curlicue tendrils stretch to catch hold of her tires but don’t quite reach. Here and there, yellow birds and purple butterflies dart over and under the flaming truck.

  After what seems like only a few minutes, I hear a cautious knock on my bedroom door. I look over at the clock. More than an hour has passed since I started drawing, and by now, my page is nearly filled and screaming bright.

  “Yes?” I answer. Mami comes in and stands over my shoulder.

  “M’ija, it’s beautiful,” she says. “It’s Tía Perla, no?”

  “I guess.” If she’s trying to make me feel better, it’s going to take a lot more than that.

  She sits on my bed and smooths the quilt with her palms. “Stef, I know you’re angry.”

  “Whatever.” I’m not going to make this easy for her.

  “And what I’m about to say is going to make you even angrier.”

  What? Not possible. I spin around in my chair to look her in the eye.

  “The assistant manager just called in sick, and they’ve asked me to fill in at the store. It’s a good opportunity, Stef, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to drop you off with Papi and Tía Perla so I can go to work. You still have a few hours before we need to leave.”

  She has to be kidding. There’s no way that, on top of missing the Viviana Vega concert, I’m going to spend my Saturday with Tía Perla. “Why can’t I just stay here? I’m sick of you treating me like a baby, and I’m really sick of that stupid taco truck.”

  Mami raises an eyebrow but not her voice. She takes one of my pillows and hugs it in her lap. “I know you think we’re overprotective, but can you imagine what it was like for us, for Papi and me, when we first got here? We were older than you, but not by much. We didn’t speak the language. We knew almost no one. We had almost nothing. Can you imagine what it’s like to settle down in a place where you feel so… lost? To send a child into a world that still seems so far from home?”

  “But…” I start to interrupt her. The world might be a big and scary place to them, with their just-good-enough English. But that’s not me.

  Mami shushes me with a pat on the hand. She stands up, then finds my hairbrush on the dresser and holds it out to me. “As for that taco truck, she helps pay for those pencils in your desk, those books in your backpack, that uniform in your closet, that paint in your art box. Have some respect for poor Tía Perla, Estefania. She’s an important part of this family, and she will be for a long time if we’re lucky.”

  Lucky? Not the word I would use. But it’s no use arguing. I get dressed and pull my hair into a ponytail.

  chapter

  15

  We catch up with Tía Perla at the flea market. She looks the same as ever, of course, but something about her seems different and a little unfamiliar. Her open canopy had always seemed to say, “Welcome!” Now it doesn’t say anything. Mami leans over to kiss my forehead, then waves good-bye to Papi before she drives away. Here we go again, I guess. I climb inside the truck to start taking orders.

  When the flea market winds down and the line outside Tía Perla finally dwindles, Papi packs up the folding chairs while I wipe down the countertops. “Where to next?” he asks. It doesn’t seem possible, but they’re the first words he’s said to me all afternoon.

  “The park?” I suggest.

  But the fields are mostly empty when we get there. We watch the first few innings of a softball game, but when no one comes to place an order, we decide to move on. It’s the same at the convenience store and even at the gas station.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  Papi frowns. He taps his fingertips against the steering wheel and turns right at the next signal. The commissary, I think. At least we’ll be home early and I can get back to my drawing.

  But then he makes another turn and we’re heading downtown again. What can he be thinking? We already tried the convenience store—all those downtown offices are closed for the weekend. We would have been lucky to get even a few customers this afternoon. Now that it’s early evening, there’s no chance at all.

  It takes me a few more blocks to realize where we’re going, and I don’t believe it. A boulder lands in my stomach as Papi parks Tía Perla on the narrow street between a four-story parking garage and the arena where, in just a few hours, Viviana Vega will sing for everyone but me.

  “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Estefania, I’m sorry, but we really need the business. Who knows what’s going to happen with these new regulations? We have to sell as many tacos as we can for as long as we can. We’re lucky we got here before anyone else did.”

  I’m beginning to think my parents and I must have completely different definitions of “lucky.” This isn’t lucky. This? This is a total nightmare. I can only hope that no one going to the concert notices me, the Taco Queen, stuck with Tía Perla. But, really, how can you miss us?

  We serve a steady dribble of customers as the sun slowly sinks—early birds hoping for a glimpse of Viviana Vega and maybe even an autograph, desperate fans on a quest for last-minute tickets, even if it means paying a fortune. A little after five o’clock, Papi says he’s going to cook the two of us an early dinner so we won’t need a break when the real crowd shows up a little later. I want to tell him I’m not hungry, but the truth is, I’m starving. Just thinking about one of Papi’s super burritos makes my stomach growl.

  I stay at my post in the window while Papi cooks. Looking out toward the arena, I can just make out what I imagine is Viviana Vega’s tour bus. I wonder what she’s doing this very second. Warming up for her show? Posing for pictures with Julia Sandoval and anyone else who’s actually lucky enough to have parents who don’t worry so much?

  Just then, a customer clears her throat outside the order window. “Hello?”

  It startles me.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I was kind of out of it. Can I help you?”

  “This is probably going to sound crazy,” she says. “But is there any chance you have anything on the menu that’s wheat-free, dairy-free, egg-free, nut-free, and meat-free?”

  Behind me, Papi laughs. “Órale,” he says. “Specialty of the house.”

  I squint through the order window, half expecting to see Arthur. But it’s just some lady with the hood of her sweatshirt pulled low over her forehead. “Sure. We can do that,” I tell her.

  Papi drops handfuls of tom
ato, onion, and bell pepper onto the grill, then squeezes half a lemon over them, conjuring a little cloud of steam. While the veggies sizzle, he unfolds a giant lettuce leaf, bigger than my hand, on the countertop. He spreads layers of guacamole, then rice, then beans over it, and heaps the vegetables on top. After adding a drizzle of salsa, he rolls it up like a burrito and wraps it in crinkly yellow paper.

  I drop it into a bag along with a napkin.

  “Four dollars, please,” I say.

  The lady pulls a bill from her wallet and hands it to me. “Thanks a ton. Keep the change, okay?” She’s gone before I can ask if she wants a lime wedge.

  I open my palm expecting to see a five-dollar bill. It’s a fifty. This has to be a mistake. I open up the window as wide as I can and lean out. “Wait!” I shout. “You left too much!”

  But the woman just waves over her shoulder as she jogs back toward the arena. “Wow, she must have really needed a burrito,” I mutter. I show the bill to Papi.

  His forehead wrinkles until, finally, he gives up trying to figure it out. “Well, you heard what she said, m’ija. Keep the change. You’ve earned it.”

  He must be feeling really bad about dragging me out here. It’s a lot of money, and I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. Maybe a few more posters for my bedroom? I might as well start decorating, since I’m never going to get to leave, I think resentfully. Or maybe I’ll give it to Mr. Salazar. I wonder how many tubes of paint you can buy with forty-six dollars. Not enough for a whole class, I guess. But some anyway.

  Then I remember what Papi said about business and needing to sell as many tacos as we can. I know I complain about Tía Perla. A lot. But I guess I’ve never really thought about what we would do without her. I punch the cash button on the register, and when the drawer slides open, I leave the fifty-dollar bill inside. “You might as well take this, too,” I whisper to her.

  chapter