Breaking Through (10 page)

"No," I said, wondering what the word
wrath
meant.

"I'd like for you to read it." She handed it to me. "I think you'll enjoy it. You can read it for your book report."

When am I going to find time to read such a thick book?
I thought, running my fingers along it's spine. I was planning to read a smaller book for my report. Miss Bell must have noticed the pain in my face because she added, "And you'll get extra credit because it's a long book." I felt better.

"Thanks!" I said. "It'll give me a chance to improve my grade." Her gentle smile reminded me of Mamá and the blessing she gave every morning when I left the house.

After my last class, I picked up the books and binders I needed from my locker and walked to the public library to study before going to work at five o'clock. I double-checked to make sure I had the novel with me. On the way, I kept thinking about how I was going to get through such a long book. I felt it's weight on my shoulders and the back of my neck. I quickened my pace, passing students left and right. The honking of car horns from students cruising by sounded far away. I rushed into the library and
went straight to my table in the left back corner, away from the main desk. I piled my books and binders on the table.

I took a deep breath, picked up the novel, and placed it in front of me. I grabbed my worn-out pocket dictionary from the stack and set it next to it. I muttered the title, "
The Grapes of Wrath.
" The word
grapes
reminded me of working in the vineyards for Mr. Sullivan in Fresno. I looked up the word
wrath
and thought of the anger I felt when I lost my blue notepad, my
librito,
in a fire in Orosi. I began reading. It was difficult; I had to look up many words, but I kept on reading. I wanted to learn more about the Joad family, who had to leave their home in Oklahoma to look for work and a better life in California. I lost track of time. Before I knew it, five o'clock had passed. I was late for work.

When I got home that evening, I continued reading until one o'clock in the morning. That night I dreamed that my family was packing to move to Fresno to pick grapes. "We don't have to move anymore! I have to go to school!" I kept yelling, but Papá and Mamá could not hear me. I woke up exhausted.

Saturday night I skipped the school dance and stayed home to read more of the novel. I kept struggling with the reading, but I could not put it down. I finally understood what Miss Bell meant when she told me to read for enjoyment. I could relate to what I was reading. The Joad
family was poor and traveled from place to place in an old jalopy, looking for work. They picked grapes and cotton and lived in labor camps similar to the ones we lived in, like Tent City in Santa Maria. Ma Joad was like Mamá and Pa Joad was a lot like Papá. Even though they were not Mexican and spoke only English, they had many of the same experiences as my family. I felt for them. I got angry with the growers who mistreated them and was glad when Tom Joad protested and fought for their rights. He reminded of my friend Don Gabriel, the
bracero
who stood up to Díaz, the labor contractor, who tried to force Don Gabriel to pull a plow like an ox.

After I finished reading the novel, I could not get it out of my mind. I thought about it for days, even after I had turned in the book report to Miss Bell. She must have liked what I wrote, because she gave me a good grade. My success made me happy, but, this time, the grade seemed less important than what I had learned from reading the book.

I did not have a lot of free time to make close friends and do things with them on weekends. Papá allowed us to go out only once a week, and we had to be home by midnight. I did meet many nice classmates at school, and some of us hung around together at lunchtime in the cafeteria. Most of them bought their lunch, but I always brought mine from home. I asked Mamá not to make
taquitos
for my lunch, because a few guys made fun of me when they saw me eat them. They called me "chile stomper" or "tamale wrapper." I pretended not to get upset. I knew that if they saw me get mad, they would make fun of me even more. So Mamá made baloney sandwiches instead. I ate jalapeño chiles with my sandwiches to give them flavor.

I also made friends, many of them girls, at school dances, which took place after football or basketball
games. Because we had to work, Roberto and I usually skipped the games on Friday nights and went only to the dances. They were held in the school cafeteria, and like the Vets dances, the girls stood on one side and the boys on the other. I thought it was strange that some boys drank to get the courage to ask girls to dance. I spent more time on the girls side, dancing one song after another. The faster the song, the more I liked it. Listening to music and dancing made me forget my troubles.

At one of the dances, I saw Roberto standing on the side, next to a girl who was slightly taller than he was. I did not think anything about it. The room was warm and stuffy, so I walked out to cool off and to get a drink of water. When I returned, my brother was dancing a slow dance with the same girl. I watched him as they danced past me. He caught my eye and moved his cheek away from hers. As they swirled around, I saw that he had his eyes closed. At the end of the song, they strolled across the floor, holding hands, and stood on the side, away from the crowd. I did not want to lose sight of them, so during the next fast song, I purposely moved closer to them, swung around, and bumped into Roberto. "Sorry!" I said. He gave me an annoyed look. The girl I was dancing with did too. As the song was about to end, I quickly walked my dance partner back to the girls side, thanked her, and raced back to the boys side, where Roberto and the girl were standing, holding hands. "What do you think you're
doing, Panchito?" he whispered, placing his left hand on my left shoulder and digging in his fingers. His large hand felt like a vise.

"Nothing," I said, wincing. "I just lost my balance." Roberto sneered at me. The girl stood behind him, looking around the room, pretending not to pay attention to us. She was slender and had short brown hair, large, droopy brown eyes, a small mouth, and thin lips.

"Well?" I said, gesturing to him to introduce me. Roberto let go of the girl's hand and moved to her side.

"Susan, this is my brother."

"Hi," she said softly.

"You and my brother are good dancers," I said. She smiled and blushed.

Roberto continued dancing with her until we had to leave. The next day I saw them together at school between classes. On our way home from work he told me that he had asked her out to the movies for next Saturday. "That means you won't be going to the dance Saturday?" I was disappointed. Roberto and I did everything together. I did not like the idea of being apart.

"Don't worry, Panchito. I can drop you off at the dance before I go to the movies."

"Wouldn't you rather go dancing?" I insisted.

"No! I am going to the movies with Susan," he said sharply.

I was so upset with my brother that I decided not to go
out at all. I stayed home that Saturday night and tried to study, but I did not get much work done.

Roberto was happy all day at work on Sunday. He whistled and sang while we cleaned offices. "You must've had a good time last night," I said, still feeling hurt because he did not go to the dance.

"I did. And I think I am in love!" he exclaimed.

"Sure, after one date! Are you crazy?"

"I know it's weird," he said, "but I have this strange feeling; it's hard to explain." He placed his right hand on his chest and added, "It's like nothing I felt before. I can't stop thinking about her!"

I liked seeing my brother happy, but I was upset that we were not going to dances together anymore.

Roberto continued going out with Susan once a week. Eventually he asked her to go steady. She wore his jacket at school as a sign that she was his girl. But it did not last.

One rainy Monday evening when Roberto came to pick me up from work, he looked weary and sad. "What's wrong?" I asked as we drove home.

"Susan's parents don't want her to go out with me anymore," he said, teary-eyed.

"Why?" I asked, putting my arm around him.

"Because I am Mexican," he said, raising his voice and hitting the steering wheel with both hands.

"Because you're Mexican! What do you mean?"

Roberto took a deep breath and explained. "Well,
Susan invited me to dinner at her house last Saturday. She said her parents wanted to get to know me. I was very nervous, but once we sat at the table and started talking, I felt better. During the conversation her father asked me what my nationality was."

"Why did he ask you?" I said, recalling the time I met Peggy's parents.

"He wanted to know where the name
Jiménez
came from. I told him."

"You didn't tell him..."

"No, I didn't tell him I was born in Mexico," he said, anticipating my question. "But when I said I was Mexican there was dead silence. After a while we continued talking, but they seemed uncomfortable and less friendly. I thought it was strange, but I didn't think much about it until Susan told me today at school. She couldn't stop crying. I felt terrible." Roberto choked up. "Her father even promised to buy her a car if she stopped seeing me. Can you believe it?"

Then, like a flash, it became clear why Peggy stopped seeing me. I felt angry and insulted, but most of all, confused. I could not understand why anyone would not like us because we were Mexican. Mamá told us everyone was equal in the eyes of God and Papá told us we should respect everyone.

"What are you going to do?" I asked after a long pause.

"She still wants to go out with me, but doesn't want
her parents to know," he responded. "I don't feel right doing that."

Roberto went out with Susan a few more times, but it was not the same. My brother picked her up at her friend's house, where she told her parents she was spending the night. He did not like her to be sneaking out, and when her father found out she had been lying he did not allow her to go out at all. Eventually she started seeing someone else. My brother stopped dating for a long time.

The summer at the end of my sophomore year, Roberto taught me how to drive the Santa Maria Window Cleaners van on weekends. I started my lessons in the parking lot behind the gas company. The van and I did not get along. Every time I got behind the wheel, it jerked and sputtered. When I applied the brakes, which I did every few feet, brooms and mops ended up in the front seat. My brother's patience got shorter and his prayers got longer as I drove around in circles as if I were on a merry-go-round. I perfected my right turns, but the rest of my driving skills needed a lot of work. When I finally took the exam for my driver's license, I got a hundred percent on the written section but barely passed the driving test.

Once I got my driver's license, I was anxious to drive any car other than our DeSoto. The car had been in a wreck. The window on the driver's side did not close all
the way. The front left door was smashed in and did not close either, so we secured it with a rope. I begged Roberto like a child to let me drive his Buick. He often gave in, but one time when he did not, I got mad and yelled at him. Papá heard me. "What's the matter with you, Panchito?" he said angrily. "You can't yell at Roberto. He's your older brother. Apologize."

"I am sorry," I said, lowering my head.

"Why don't you give him the keys to the DeSoto,
viejo?
" Mamá said to Papá.

"You mean the DeSoto
viejo,
" Trampita said.

"It's not that old," Papá said. "It still runs."

"Like a turtle," Trampita responded, laughing. "It's Panchito's speed."

Knowing that Trampita and Torito hid in the back seat so their friends would not see them in the DeSoto when Mamá drove them to school every time they missed the bus, I said, "I'll drive you to school in it tomorrow." Trampita made a face. I knew he liked to drive in my brother's car. Sometimes he and Torito would get up extra early to get a ride to school in the Buick with Roberto and me.

But no one liked the Buick as much as Roberto. It was his pride and joy. He took care of it as though it were part of him. He washed and polished it once a week and dusted it every day with a rag he kept underneath the front seat. The interior was spotless. His high school friend who
worked at an upholstery shop tucked and rolled the dashboard in exchange for a record player cabinet my brother made in wood shop. On the side of both fenders, Roberto installed six-inch chrome pipes in the three portals and strung tiny white lights underneath the car frame. He took a broken portable record player that someone had thrown away, fixed it, placed it on the floor of the front seat, rewired it, and plugged it in to the cigarette lighter in the car. He played records on it when the car was parked. Next to the gas tank door he painted a small skunk with a sign above it that read
LITTLE STINKER
. I tried to convince him not to do it because I thought it was silly, but he ignored me. "I like it!" he told me proudly. "Besides, it's my car." Papá must have liked it too, because he did not say anything about it to my brother.

Most of the high school guys who had cars decorated them. On Saturday nights they cruised up and down Broadway, showing them off and dragging when the police were not around. Roberto did not have time to cruise, but he took pride when people gawked at his car.

My joy of going to school with Roberto in his Buick and driving home with him after work ended when Mike Nevel asked me to clean the Western Union every morning before it opened at seven o'clock. I was tempted to say no because I had to get up extra early and drive the DeSoto, but Papá taught us never to turn down work. Besides, we needed the extra money. After I cleaned the
Western Union, I would drive to school, taking side streets so that my classmates would not see me. I would park the car several blocks away from school, behind the county fairgrounds, and walk to class.

One day Roberto passed by as I was walking out of the fairgrounds on my way to school. I looked the other way, hoping he did not see me. The next morning he got up at the same time I did. "Why are you getting up so early?" I asked.