Miranda

(4:50 P.M.)

Lunchtime would have been better and dinner would have been best, but this would work. There were still enough people eating on the patio. Enough couples on dates, families having a snack, or friends deciding what to do next.

Everything would be fine. I hoped.

We would be out of there in half an hour—less than that. Maybe. And I’d only be a little late getting back to Wicked Wanda.

As long as the restaurant managers didn’t kick us out. That was what I needed Flor for.

“I don’t know,” she said for about the fiftieth time, just staring up at the Carolina’s Cantina sign like we had all day. “Going out there in front of everyone? Strangers?”

“So pretend you know them like you know everyone else around here!” Flor could be just as stubborn as Dad. I took a breath and calmed my voice. “Listen,” I said for the fifty-first time. “You know animals; I know singing. You don’t have to get up in front of anyone. All you have to do is see if the manager will let you have an empty cup. Explain what we’re trying to do, and say that if we have any money left over, we’ll split it. Trust me. My brother and sister and I do this all the time.”

“I… don’t know.”

I tapped my foot. She just stood there.

“Just go!” I gave her a light shove between the shoulder blades. “All you have to do is stand there. Leave the rest to me.”

Finally, she took a limping step to the counter, twirling the ends of her hair around a finger.

“And see if they have some lemon wedges and a little hot water,” I added, remembering my voice. If we couldn’t find tea it was the next best thing.

I watched her get in line and move closer and closer toward the window. When I was certain she’d go through with it, I stuck the very edge of my thumbnail between my teeth and hummed.

It would work. Probably.

But I wasn’t as sure as I’d just told Flor I was.

I was used to singing for tips. I was great at singing for tips. Singing for tips was how we saved up enough to buy Wicked Wanda so that when an opportunity came rolling into town, we were ready to roll along with it.

Only, I always had Ronnie and Junior standing right behind me. We always had Mom sitting in the audience, pointing her fingers at the corners of her mouth to remind us to smile. And we always had Dad telling us what to play. I didn’t know if I could do it all without them. But I knew I had to try.

My plan was to go from table to table, taking requests. Flor would follow me with the cup, collecting change, and if everything went the way I hoped, we would earn enough to buy that rabbit before it ended up in someone’s belly.

And I could get back in time to rehearse for the show that night.

“Think of it as a warm-up,” I said to myself.

I closed my eyes and imagined Junior’s bass and Ronnie’s accordion. I even pictured Dad with his arms folded across his chest as he counted through every bar, listened for any stray note so that, later, he could make sure we practiced until it was perfect. I imagined myself singing. And then I was ready.

I opened my eyes and moved to the center of the patio so I could take a better look at everyone eating there under the red and green umbrellas.

A woman sitting by herself with a Diet Coke and a quesadilla. No.

She probably didn’t want to be interrupted, and anyway, it might make her uncomfortable. Although, if she was really uncomfortable, she might pay me to stop singing. I changed the no to a maybe.

Four boys about Junior’s age. Definitely no.

A couple. Matching white hair. Matching Windbreakers. Matching sunglasses. Sharing a super burrito. Definitely yes. They wouldn’t be too busy or too serious. I would remind them of a grandkid.

“Excuse me?” I said. “¿Perdón?”

They put down their forks. I smiled. They smiled back.

I turned to the man. “Well, I was only wondering, sir, would you tell me her favorite song?”

He was going to say “Volver.” I knew it would be “Volver.”

I was five when Dad taught us “Volver” so we could sing it at Nana and Tata’s big anniversary party. By the time we were finished, everyone was crying. I mean, everyone. Tías, tíos, cousins, neighbors. Even the waiters who had been carrying cake to all the tables.

“You know, I think these kids have something,” Dad told Mom on the drive home. He was looking at me in the rearview mirror.

The woman on the patio chuckled. She covered her mouth with a napkin.

The man looked at her and put his hand over his heart. “‘Volver,’” he said.

“I think I know that one.” Of course I knew that one.

Flor was back from the counter by the time I got to the final verse. I held out that last note long and sad and broken, just like we practiced with Dad. When it finally faded away, the woman lifted her sunglasses to dab her eyes with her napkin. The man tipped his head at me. The people at the next table over had stopped eating to listen too. They clapped politely. I took a step back so Flor could move in with the cup.

But she didn’t move.

I nudged her with my shoulder, still grinning at the man and woman at the table. “Cup!” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.

“Oh!” She held the cup out but didn’t make eye contact. We would have to work on that. Eye contact was everything. Even so, the old man stood halfway up to pull his wallet from his back pocket. He peeled off two one-dollar bills and tucked them into Flor’s cup. Not a bad start.

“Thank you so much,” I said. I curtsied and moved on.

Over at the counter, the manager watched us from behind the order window.

“She doesn’t mind, does she?” I asked.

“As long as we don’t scare anyone away, Carolina says it’s all right. Here’s your hot water.”

Steam filled my nose as I took a careful sip. “Gah!” I burned my tongue, but I could already feel the hot, lemony water soothe my throat. Or maybe it was just the rush of a good performance. I searched the patio for our next table.

“There.” I handed the water back to Flor.

This one would be risky. Definitely a tougher crowd than my first: two men, each with a glass of soda drunk down to the last drops. One stabbed a piece of lettuce—all that was left of his taco salad—with a fork. Between them, a toddler sat on a booster seat. The table in front of her was covered in rice. Chunks of refried beans clung to her hair. A bright red Icee stain dripped down the middle of her pink T-shirt.

They were tired. They were about ready to leave for the day. Plus, I didn’t know what kind of mood the little girl was in, which made the whole thing even riskier. If she started crying when I started singing, they’d get up and leave in a hurry. No tip. And the manager might think we’d scared them off.

But if she liked it, and I kept her happy—well, then they might stay for a second song.

I couldn’t ask for a request this time. They’d only say no, thank you, and I wasn’t going to give them that chance. I marched up to the table, tickled the little girl under her arm, and said, “I bet you like to dance.”

I spun around to find Flor. “Do you know ‘Ay, Chabela’?”

“What, me? No!” She started to back away. She let those bangs of hers fall over her face like they were a curtain she could pull shut whenever she didn’t want anyone to see her.

“All you have to do is clap,” I said, as sweetly as I could. Then I mouthed impatiently, Come on. Her shoulders drooped, and she set the cups on the ground next to her.

“Thank you.” I tapped the beat out against my hip until she got a feel for it and started to clap along.

I had only sung a little of the song when one of the men began wiping the rice off the table and crumpling their napkins and straw wrappers into one tidy pile. I thought it was over. He’d get up and throw away the trash, then they’d all leave and I’d be singing to nobody.

But then the little girl started smacking her hands against the table—right in time with Flor.

“That’s right!” I shouted. I took the Cholula bottle from the middle of their table and crooned into it like a microphone. The little girl squealed and bounced on top of the booster seat.

When the man did get up, it was only to order another Fanta.

I didn’t see how much money they dropped into Flor’s cup after I finished the second song, but it looked like more than we got at the first table.

The plan—my plan—was working. It made me feel as full of bubbles as their orange soda. But it also made me overconfident. I should have noticed how lively the conversation was at the next table I stopped at. Instead, I walked right up and started my serenade. One of them rolled his eyes. “No. Please. Not now.”

“Sorry!” My cheeks burned. I didn’t have my own bangs to hide behind, so I pulled the brim of my hat down lower.

Flor skittered up behind me. “What now?” she whispered.

I wasn’t sure. I started to bite my thumbnail but then reached for the lemon water instead. It was lukewarm and sort of bitter.

You can’t make everyone like you, I reminded myself as I swallowed it anyway.

Someone interrupted my thoughts. “Excuse me? Excuse me?”

“I think they’re talking to you,” Flor said.

Great. Probably someone with a complaint. Someone who’d ask me to keep quiet so they could eat in peace. Well, we would just wait until they were finished and try again after they left.

I walked over, prepared to say sorry to them too. Instead, one of them asked, “Are you taking requests?”

It was a big family. They had pushed three of the patio tables together and still barely fit around them. Backpacks, jackets, and carnival prizes were piled under and behind their chairs.

“We didn’t know you played here too!” a woman in a polka-dotted tank top said. “Where’s the rest of the band?” She looked behind me, searching for Junior and Ronnie.

I glanced over at Flor, but she wasn’t listening. She was reading the ingredients off an empty carton of Good & Plenty someone had left on the table. I realized I still hadn’t told her exactly who I was. And she hadn’t asked. But I was so happy someone recognized me, I didn’t really stop to think about it.

“Well, it’s just me this afternoon. And of course I take requests!”

“It’s my tía’s birthday,” the woman said, wrapping her arm around another lady whose reddish-brown hair had streaks of white at the temples.

I nodded. This one would be easy. “One, two, three,” I counted off before leading them through “Las Mañanitas,” and after that, “Happy Birthday.” It was our biggest tip that afternoon.

Flor stopped me after another two tables. “I think we have it!”

I was almost sorry we were finished.

We took the cup to an empty table and counted the money twice. With the rest of my quarters, it was enough to buy the rabbit. There was even a little left over to give Carolina.

“Thanks so much for helping us out,” I said, passing her a few dollars through the window.

“Come back anytime,” she said, refusing the money. “You too, Flor. I’ve never seen this place so busy on a Sunday afternoon. If you ever get tired of the petting zoo, you come right over here.”

“I’ll never get tired of the petting zoo,” Flor said.

We left the Cantina a second time. It was cooler now, getting late. The light was softer, the sun no longer blazing straight down on our heads like it had been most of the afternoon. I needed to get back to my family. Just one more stop.

At the livestock manager’s office, Flor took a deep breath and said, “Let’s hope this works.” She took our money to the cashier. “For Number 210, please.”

The cashier pulled an index card out of a container. “Edith deCarli?” She squinted down at us.

“Yes. I mean, no,” Flor sputtered. “She—I mean, Edith—sent us to pick up one of her animals.”

“The rabbit,” I added.