It took years before I befriended the Girls.
It was in middle school, while walking down the street after school.
I’d peel off my uniform as soon as I got home and though there were no old Vogues lying around my house, I liked to make up my own styles. On that day, I must have felt a little adventurous, because I cut off some old khakis below the knee and cuffed them into pedal pushers, which I paired with an oversized men’s blue dress shirt and flat white sneakers for my walk to the corner store. And as I passed their house, the outfit drew their attention, like string dangled in front of cats. Everything quieted on their porch as I walked by; their voices stopped chirping. The Girls were reduced to nothing but eyes.
Walking back down the street a few minutes later, a small brown bag crinkling in my grip, I felt their attention once again. I began to wonder whether my attempt had been too risqué. They must be appalled, I thought, but forced myself to keep walking. They shifted on the porch as I passed, their faces following my return home.
“That’s a cute outfit,” one of the older girls finally called out, once I was well past their house and nearly in my own yard.
“Mmm-hmmm,” echoed another.
“Sure is,” came another voice.
“Que chula—come over here, let’s see what you’re wearing.”
I walked over as calmly as I could, and let them inspect me. They were pleased, and the next thing you know I was there day and night, watching Sabado Gigante, eating bacalao, learning to dance stiff-hipped merengues.
Their place was different. Except for the refrigerator-sized arcade game Steph had found in the Swap Sheet and traded for her Texas Instruments computer, having it delivered to our dining room while my mother was at work—except for that game and the eight-by-ten glossy of Jesus with the pink-thorned heart taped to our wall, everything in our house was some shade of brown.
The Rosario house had color. There were plants everywhere, green leaves and slender stems twined round black and white photographs of dead relatives, circled the waists of mantilla-clad dolls. A six-foot rosary carved from tropical wood hung along the living room wall like garland, doors were covered with lacy favors from years of baptisms and weddings, a ceramic fruit bowl sat atop the dining room table, a suffering Jesus graced the walls, and old-time Spanish music scratched out from a kitchen that smelled of sofrito and onions.
Occasionally, I’d go home for dinner, but more often, I’d eat rice and beans with them. On holidays, I was there, in the dining room, table pushed aside for dancing. And all of us, young and old, let our bodies fall into fast, loose salsas, laughing and sipping down rum and cokes and piña coladas until no one could stand from the fun of it all.