Breaking Through (7 page)

"What did he say?" Papá asked.

"He said Panchito is a good worker," Mamá responded, coming to my rescue.

I looked up at Mamá and smiled sheepishly.

 

On weekdays, after work, Roberto and I regularly went to the city dump with Trampita and Torito to look for discarded treasures, like wood, paint, and broken toys. On one of our trips I found an old copy of
Dr. Doolittle.
I tried reading five pages every evening, but often I was too tired to concentrate and did not understand what I read. Other times my younger brothers played kick-the-can in front of our barrack and tried to get me to play with them, but I refused because Carlos, a bully, never allowed my friend Manuelito to play too.

Roberto did not play games outside with the boys. Papá said he was too old to play sports. So he worked on his car. He kept it spotless and shiny.

Sometimes Trampita and I watched tadpoles and little fish in the nearby reservoir. Trampita came up with a plan one day to catch fish and sell them for a nickel apiece to kids in our neighborhood. It took us a few evenings after
work to finish the project. The first day we made a trip to the city dump to look for empty glass jars to put the fish in and for materials to build a stand. We found old splintered boards, two-by-fours, and cardboard. The following evening we began construction under the watchful eye of Carlos and his two friends, who played all day. They seemed fascinated by our skills. We cleaned the wood, pulling out rusty nails and rubbing the boards together to smooth out the splinters. The third day, Roberto helped us build a stand. We then covered it with cardboard and hung a sign that read
GOLDFISH
, 5¢
EACH
.

The next step was to catch fish. We walked to the reservoir, which looked like a barren hill. It was at the edge of the two-lane road leading to Santa Maria, about a quarter of a mile from Bonetti Ranch. An old, lonely pepper tree stood guard next to it. It's lower branches slumped to the ground, bent from the weight of kids who swung on them, playing cowboys and Indians. Trampita yanked off two of it's broken branches and gave me one. Carrying the branch in one hand and an empty coffee can and a glass jar in the other, we stepped back a few yards from the base of the reservoir to gain speed and ran up to the top, which was about five feet wide all around. We took off our shoes, rolled up our pants, and carefully slid down the crater to the edge of the water. Using our branches, we cleared the algae and removed empty beer bottles, crushed cans, and paper. We threw in tortilla
bits, trying to attract the little gray fish and goldfish that hid under murky waters. Hundreds of tadpoles squirted around, but no fish. We waited and waited. Nothing.

That evening we went home empty-handed and disappointed, but we did not give up. The next day we returned to the same spot. We sprinkled the clearing with fresh tortilla bits and waited. I kissed my Saint Christopher medal. The croaking sound of frogs broke the silence, and within seconds a swarm of tadpoles followed by a pair of goldfish filled the clearing. I could feel my heart thumping faster and faster. I gently put the can in the water and quickly scooped it up, catching one of the fish and several tadpoles. "I got one!" I yelled out. Trampita darted over excitedly. He put his hand in the can and carefully grabbed the tiny goldfish and put it in the jar. Holding the container steady, we climbed back up to the top and placed it on the ground. We lay on our stomachs, facing each other with the jar between our faces, and watched the little fish swim rapidly up and down and around. My brother's face looked huge. He opened and closed his lips rapidly, pretending to be a fish, and chuckled. I stuck out my tongue and made faces. We both burst out laughing.

"We'd better catch a few more before it gets dark," I said, still laughing. We went back, caught nine more fish, and skipped home, whistling. As we reached Bonetti Ranch and turned the corner, we ran into Carlos and his two friends. They were standing behind a large wooden
box in front of an empty barrack. On the wall behind the stand was a sign:
GOLDFISH
, 2
FOR
5¢.

From that day on, I spent more time struggling through
Dr. Doolittle.

 

Toward the end of the summer, when the peak of the strawberry season was over and when work was slow, Ito gave us Saturday afternoons off. Papá took advantage of one of those afternoons to try his new hair clippers on my younger brothers and me. He found the old rusty pair at the city dump. The right handle was broken and a few teeth were missing. Papá oiled it and set up his barbershop in the shed, using an unstable wooden box as a chair.

I was his first customer. I stripped to my waist and climbed onto the box. Papá began to cut with his new tool. As he clipped, hair fell on my shoulders, pricking me like needles. I squirmed and wiped it off. The box creaked. I moved again. Papá quickly moved the clippers away from my head and yelled, "Don't move!" It was too late. A chunk of hair fell on my lap. I reached up to feel the nicked spot. "I said stay still!" Papá yelled again, slapping my hand. Using his left hand like a vice, he held my head still and clipped away with his right. As he cut, he put more and more weight on his left hand, making my neck twist to the right. It felt as though he was trying to push me into the ground. I tried to straighten it, pushing up against my Papá's hand. The box creaked. Another clump
of hair rolled down my shoulders. Tears came to my eyes. I clenched my teeth and clasped my hands together until it was over. I climbed off the crate, rushed to the bedroom, and picked up the hand mirror. I slowly scanned my face, wiping away the hair clippings from my chin and nose. As I brought the mirror upward to my forehead, I closed my eyes, said a silent prayer, and quickly opened them. I was shocked. My front wave was gone. I had short bangs and nicks on both sides. I looked like the stray dogs with mange that populated Bonetti Ranch. I felt like yelling at Papá, but I knew I couldn't. It would be worse. I complained to Mamá.

"You don't look too bad,
mijo,
" she said tenderly. "In a couple of weeks it'll grow back." She picked up my cap and put it on me. "There, you look just fine," she added cheerfully.

I knew Mamá did not mean it because she bought Papá a new set of clippers at the Goodwill Store the following week. I wore my cap all the time for days and only took it off when I went to bed. I skipped going to the Vets dances with Roberto for the rest of the summer.

I could hardly contain myself. It was Sunday, September third, the last day of work before school started. Tomorrow I would start my freshman year at Santa Maria High School on the first day of classes. I would not have to move to Fresno to pick grapes and cotton and miss school for two and a half months. My shoulders felt light even though I was tired.

"I have never seen you so happy,
mijo,
" Mamá said when we got home from work.

"He's excited because he gets to ride to school with me," Roberto said, slapping me on the back.

My brother was going into his junior year. He should have graduated last year, but, like me, he had failed first grade because he did not speak English well enough. He fell behind another year because he missed so much
school. Every year, for nine years, he started school sometime in January, after the cotton season was over.

"He kept right up with me the whole day," Roberto said. "I couldn't believe it. What did you put in his tacos?"

"Same thing I put in yours," she responded, chuckling. "
Puros frijoles.
"

"That explains it," Roberto said laughing. "Beans will do it every time."

That evening I tried reading a few more pages of
Dr. Doolittle,
but I could not focus. I put the book down and laid out on the bed the clothes I was going to wear for school: a new pair of tan corduroy pants, a white T-shirt, and a light brown sleeveless vest with black buttons. Roberto suggested that I wear blue jeans because most boys wore them in high school, but I did not want to wear the same type of pants I wore to work. I took a bath and scrubbed my hands with bleach to get rid of the strawberry stains. I whistled and sang, forgetting that my brothers had to take a bath too. "Are you stuck in there?" Roberto shouted, knocking on the shed door several times. I quickly stepped out of the tub, dried myself, and put on my underwear and pants. "It's about time, Panchito," my brother said as I walked past him. "Your hands look like prunes."

The next morning I got up extra early to get ready for school. I wore my Saint Christopher medal outside my
T-shirt to show it off. Papá walked by me without saying a word and went outside to warm up the DeSoto to go to work. He looked tired and sad. The dark circles under his eyes were darker than usual, and he had not bothered to shave. He hardly touched his breakfast. He grabbed his black lunch pail from the table, glanced at Roberto and me, and left. "What's wrong with Papá?" I asked. "I haven't seen him this sad all summer."

"He's in one of his bad moods,
mijo,
" Mamá said. "He's gotten worse ever since our strawberry acres were ruined. You know that. He complained all night about his back and took several aspirins, but they didn't seem to help. He's also upset because you boys are not going to work with him. He hates working alone."

"Sometimes I think he doesn't like us to go to school," I said.

"Oh, he does, Panchito," Mamá said. "Why do you say that?"

"The other night when I was reading
Dr. Doolittle,
Papá asked me why I liked school so much. I told him I liked learning and wanted to be a teacher. And do you know what he said?"

"What?" Roberto asked.

"He said, 'Don't be stupid. Only rich people become teachers. He walked away before I had a chance to say anything. He made me really mad."

"I am glad you didn't say anything," Roberto said.
"When he's in a bad mood, it's better not to talk to him."

"But maybe he was testing you," Mamá said. "Sometimes he says things to make you think. You know how he is."

"Well, he made me mad," I repeated.

"Hey, we'd better get going. It's getting late," Roberto said, glancing at the clock. As my brother and I drove on South Broadway on our way to Santa Maria High School, I felt the same as I had when I started first grade: excited but nervous. I watched the reflection of Roberto's 1953 green Buick on the storefront windows along the way. The car looked like a fish in a bowl. At times it appeared large and long, and at other times it looked small and scrunched. I recalled taking this same route in the Border Patrol car, the year before, to pick up Roberto.
A lot of things happened to us in less than a year,
I thought.
I wonder what this year will be like.

Roberto parked the car in the student parking lot, behind the boys' gym, next to the football field. The lot was filling up quickly with cars that looked like large insects. Some were lowered in the front and painted in bright metallic colors, like candy apple red, and had tucked and rolled upholstery in white or black. I followed other incoming freshmen into Wilson Gym, which smelled like dirty socks. I had never seen so many students. We filled the bleachers on both sides of the gym. A red and white banner with the school's motto, "Enter to Learn, Go Forth
to Serve," hung from the ceiling. The principal gave us information about the school and our schedule of classes. He then introduced the student body president, who welcomed us and told us that our school mascot was a saint. He informed us that we would be known as the Class of 1962 of the Santa Maria High School Saints. I liked the sound of it, and I knew Mamá would too. We were also told that classes would officially start the following day and that we should meet with our counselor to discuss our class schedule.

After the meeting I asked for directions to the administration building and rushed to see my counselor, Mr. Kinkade. I ran across campus, noticing many old buildings with red tile roofs. They reminded me of some of the houses in Tlaquepaque, the small town in Mexico where I was born. Tile corridors with arches that looked onto a large courtyard with beautiful gardens connected the buildings in the oldest part of campus. My counselor's office was in the old main administration building, next to the attendance office. I went through one of the long corridors to get to it.

Mr. Kinkade sat at his desk, which was piled with folders and papers. Behind him was a tall, dark brown bookcase full of thick binders and books. To his left was a window that looked out onto the courtyard. He was dressed in a gray suit and a light blue bow tie. His thick hair was peppered with white and combed back. After he
introduced himself, he picked up a folder with my name on it and said, "I see you graduated from El Camino Junior High School. Have you thought of what you want to do after high school?" Before I had a chance to answer, he added, "We have excellent vocational programs in car mechanics, electronics, and wood shop. We also have a program for future farmers."

"I'd like to be a teacher," I responded, thinking about Mr. Lema, my sixth-grade teacher, who had helped me with English during the lunch hours when I was far behind in my class because I had missed so many weeks of school.

"Oh, I see," he said, straightening up and leaning forward. "So you're planning to go to college."

"College?" I said.

"Yes, college," he said, amused. "You need to go to college to be a teacher. It's five years of study beyond high school. It can be expensive."

Maybe that's what Papá meant when he said only rich people became teachers,
I thought.

"But," he quickly added, "if you get excellent grades, you can get scholarships."

"Scholarships?" I did not know what the word meant.

"It's gift money given to students with excellent grades to attend college."

I perked up. "So, if I get good grades, I can get free money to go to college?" I wanted to make sure I'd heard him right.

"That's correct," he said. He opened the folder and ran his index finger down the page. "I see you have good grades, especially in math, but your grades in English are not as good," he said.