Together. We would travel to el norte together. I leaned my forehead against his chest, and his hand stroked the back of my neck. I had not felt so safe since I had been in Papá’s arms.
Later that afternoon, as we approached Lupe’s stall, I tried to pull my hand from his, but he held it tight. I took a deep breath and relented, squeezing his back. We exchanged a smile. So, when I saw Rosa’s serious face, I thought she disapproved of this intimate gesture, but I soon discovered that she was focused on something else entirely.
“Alma, Alma, hurry. Look who’s here!”
Standing beside her was a round face that I thought I’d never see again, my favorite teacher Señorita Garcia from my primary school. I flew into her open arms. “¡Maestra! Teacher!”
“And to think I almost didn’t come to market today!” she exclaimed as she gave me a bear hug. “But look at you, a young woman now. Una mujer bella. I can barely see traces of my little math whiz!” Her dark hair was pulled back tightly into a long ponytail that hung down her back. Dressed in a loose white embroidered blouse and long skirt, Señorita Garcia was short and plump, but her matronly figure always left my mind the minute she started teaching. She was deliberate and precise, as she’d flit back and forth animatedly at the chalkboard, underlining with a flourish. Like me, she loved math and knew how to make it fun by using our names or our surroundings to make up math problems. In fact, she was one of the reasons I wanted to be a teacher. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my math journal.
As soon as she released me, she stepped back and, after glancing briefly at Manuel, she took both my hands and said, “Rosa tells me that your mother has moved to Chiapas and your father has been missing for three years! Oh Alma, I am so sorry. I remember him well.”
“You do? You remember my father?”
“Oh yes. Your father was so supportive of your schooling. We spoke a few times, about your grades, your potential, even about the cost of high school and university. He had such hopes for you, Alma.”
My heart swelled at the thought of him talking with her. I knew few fathers were as supportive of their daughter’s education as he was, for while it was mandatory in Mexico for all children to attend school through the secundaria, which was seventh through ninth grade, there was little follow-through on those who did not. Consequently, many girls in Oaxaca stopped after the sixth grade, usually at their parents’ request. They were needed at home or in the fields, and many set out for the cities in Mexico or el norte to find work. Rosa had stopped after secundaria. But I had intended to finish and go on to preparatoria, the equivalent of high school, and perhaps even university. While my father had always agreed, I didn’t know he had even spoken to Señorita Garcia about this.
“I remember him well, Alma,” she said of my father, “so earnest and polite. I can see him still with his hat in his hands, nervously twisting the brim as we talked. He was so proud of you.”
“I tried to find you the year Papá disappeared, but they said you were taking some time off?” I remember how disappointed I’d been when I sought her out back then. I had wanted her to talk to Mamá about keeping me in school.
Her smile drooped into a frown. “Yes,” she said softly, “after my mother passed away. My father had some issues with his health as well, so I took a leave . . .” She paused and then with a heavy sigh, “I’ve been working a couple days a week for the past year, and I tutor as well. But what a joy to see you again! Here I imagined you sailing into preparatoria and soaring through advanced math classes!” She squeezed my arm. “You have younger brothers as well, no? I did not know them. Are they with your mother?”
I nodded. “Yes, in Chiapas.” Then, as she looked again at Manuel, I introduced her. “This is our friend Manuel. He is traveling with us.”
She had reached out her hand toward him but stopped abruptly. “Traveling? Traveling where?”
I hesitated and looked to Rosa, unsure what she had said and what I should reveal. “Well, we just came up from Chiapas . . . after visiting our mother . . . and now we are thinking of going on to el norte . . . to see what we can learn about our father.” I paused as Rosa’s eyes shifted away from mine.
“To el norte? And how are you planning to get there?” She looked first at Rosa, then me and then Manuel. No one spoke.
“Well?” she asked firmly, but there was a softness in her eyes.
Manuel started to fidget beside me. Finally, Rosa spoke up. “Maestra, we have just arrived from Chiapas. We are helping our friends here at the mercado, and then . . . well . . . we aren’t exactly sure what we are doing next.”
Leave it to Rosa to speak the simple truth.
“Have you someplace to stay?” Maestra was in teacher mode; her eyes focused, her mind working.
Rosa and I exchanged an awkward glance, which was answer enough.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asked gently. “¿Hay algún problema?”
“No! Not at all,” Rosa quickly answered. “We left Chiapas and hadn’t quite figured out what was next.”
I bit my lip and took a breath, “The truth is Maestra, it wasn’t good for us in Chiapas . . . for many reasons. You see, my mother’s boyfriend is . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say, so what came out was, “. . . not a good man.”
Her eyes darted from Rosa to me. “Did he hurt you?”
Neither of us answered at first. Rosa lowered her head. Manuel looked
