Delia's Crossing (Delia 1)

Señora Rosario practically dragged me out of the dining room.

“You had better go to your room,” she ordered.

I glanced at Señor Herrera, who was confused.

“Qué sucedío?” he asked.

Inez, who had seen it all, now looked at me with pity and no longer suspicion while Señora Rosario explained.

“How could she…how did you stumble? Tropezó?”

I wanted to tell him how Sophia had tripped me, but instead, I started to cry and ran out of the kitchen, through the pantry, and outside. I started across toward the older building and then stopped. Above me, a thousand stars blinked as if tears had crossed each and every one of them. Could there have been more of a horrible finish to this horrible day? I sucked in my breath, looked back at the main house, bright and warm, and

then headed for the dark building and my small room, tears now flying off my cheeks.

When I got there, I sat on my bed and stared down at the cold concrete floor. I hadn’t closed my door. I sat there with my arms around myself, swaying back and forth, wondering if I would be sent home right away. At the moment, I was wishing for that.

Suddenly, I felt a shadow fall over me and looked up at Edward standing in my doorway.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in. “Are you all right?” I stared up at him. “Oh, I guess I have to practice my broken Spanish.” He pointed at me. “Okay, sí?”

I shook my head and looked down and then up again at him.

He pointed at himself. “Edward,” he said.

“Edward, sí. Edward.”

“I saw my sister trip you.” I shook my head. “Mi hermana…” He stuck out his foot.

“Sí,” I said, nodding.

“She’s an idiot,” he said. “So, you don’t speak much English? No habla mucho English?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Poco. A little. I understand…from television…a little school…”

He nodded and stared at me. “Why did you come here? Why…por qué…aquí?”

I sat back. Why here? I pointed to myself.

“Sí, sí, por qué aquí?”

I stared at him. Sophia didn’t know who I was, and now it was clear that he didn’t, either. I wasn’t permitted to tell anyone who I really was, but did that apply to my cousins as well? Right now, I was so angry, I didn’t care if my aunt found out I did. Besides, he should know who I am, I thought, and then wondered how I should explain all this. Just come right out and say it, I thought. I was still hoping to be sent home, and perhaps doing this would speed that up even faster.

I pointed to him and then to myself.

“Primo,” I said.

“What?”

“Primo.”

He shook his head. “My mother made me take French. The only Spanish I know, I know from the workers,” he said.

I started to explain that I didn’t understand that, but he held his hand up to indicate that I should wait, and then he went out of my room and out of the building. I stood up and looked out the window. I could see him walking over to a man who was washing down an outside patio. He spoke to him and then turned and looked at my building, spoke to him again, and then slowly started back.

I turned when he returned to my bedroom door. He just stood there looking in at me strangely.

“You,” he said, pointing at me, “es mi prima?”