At dinner, they had steak, frijoles, and papas fritas. They also had a small salad that was mostly lettuce. This was her father’s favorite meal. Everyone in the family, even Little Joe, called it carne del viernes. This was their father’s reward for a week of hard work: a large meal and then a baseball game on television.

Miata’s father, José, now worked as a welder. He worked mostly on tractors and trailers. The money was good, nearly as good as his pay in Los Angeles.

Her mother stabbed a tomato slice hiding behind a sheet of lettuce. She nudged Miata. “Tell Papi about your spelling.”

“I got an A,” she said, smiling. “Next week I could be spelling bee champion if Dolores doesn’t beat me.” Dolores was a small girl with a big brain.

“Qué bueno,” her father said as he cut a papa with his fork. Steam rose from the parted papa. “Spelling is important,” he said between bites. “One day you will get a good job if you know lots of words.”

“You could be a doctor,” her mother said.

“Mi’ja, you could fix me up,” her father said. He rotated his aching arm. Her father was always getting injured. Today a pipe had fallen from the truck and struck his arm. A purplish bruise had already appeared.

“Did you hurt yourself?” her mother asked. She put down her fork. Her face was dark with worry.

“Does it hurt?” Little Joe asked.

“Only when I do this,” José said. He stood up and punched Little Joe on the arm, softly.

Little Joe laughed and told his father, “That doesn’t hurt.”

The conversation turned to sports. Although they were living in the valley, José could pick up the Los Angeles Dodgers on television. It was a beautiful May. His Dodgers were two up on the San Francisco Giants. This made him happy. Last year the Giants had beaten them.

“Next year, Little Joe,” he said to his son, “you’ll be eight and you can start playing ball.”

Little Joe looked at his father but didn’t answer. His cheeks were stuffed with tortilla.

Miata’s father finished his meal. He patted his stomach and went to the living room with a glass of iced tea. Miata helped her mother in the kitchen.

“That was great, Mom,” Miata said. She scraped the plates and put them in the sink.

“Thank you,” her mother said. Her mother was happy as a singing canary. She turned on the radio. “I’m going to be so proud on Sunday.”

“What’s happening Sunday?” Little Joe asked. A milk mustache gleamed on his lip.

“Miata’s dancing,” her mother said.

Miata swallowed hard. She thought of her skirt. Will I be able to get it by Sunday? she wondered.

While they were drying the dishes they heard a loud sigh from the living room. Miata looked at her mother. Her mother looked at her and asked, “¿Qué pasó?” Miata shrugged her shoulders.

“The game is rained out,” her father groaned over the sound of the television. “How could it rain in San Diego? And on a Friday.”

Disappointed, her father came into the kitchen with his empty glass. He rinsed it out and placed it on the drainboard. He told Miata, “Let’s go get some ice cream, then.”

Miata nearly jumped into her father’s arms. She dried her hands on a dish towel and pulled her father to the front door. She hoped he would buy cookies and cream, her favorite.

They got into his truck. It was a ’68 Chevy with windows that rattled. The old truck could get up to sixty miles per hour. Three red wires dangled from the broken radio. The speedometer was broken. Its needle leaped like a flea now and then, but it always fell back.

The Ramirez family was new in town, but made friends easily. A woman watering her flower bed waved at the passing truck. Miata waved back with both of her hands.

“It’s nice here,” her father said as he looked around the neighborhood. “The air is clean as a whistle.” He turned on the broken radio and began to whistle a song.

Since moving to Sanger, Miata’s father seemed happier. He had gotten tired of Los Angeles. He had grown up on a farm in Mexico. City life was not for him.

At the gas station a friend from work waved. Her father stopped whistling. He waved, tooted his horn twice, and yelled, “The game’s rained out.”

“But the Giants are on channel twenty-four,” the man yelled. He was inflating an inner tube.

“Los Gigantes,” her father sneered, and shook his head. He was a loyal Dodgers fan, through and through.

They passed the school. Miata was reminded of her folklórico skirt. She had been talking loudly over the roar of the engine, telling her father about Little Joe and the cans on his shoes. But she stopped her chatter and bit her lip. She stared silently at the fenced parking lot. The buses were kept there. They passed the buses and Miata got on her knees. She looked back at them.

It’s in one of them, she thought. Me and Ana have to get it tomorrow.

At the store her father bought a carton of Neapolitan ice cream. It was strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla. All three different flavors would dance on her tongue when they got back home.