We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.
—JAPANESE PROVERB
EVERY day you stand by the window, looking out at the brown land outside. You’re tired of all the brown; you want to see bright colors, like the vibrant colors of Alegría’s costumes. The cloth Jerry bought for you is on the chair. You made only that one dress the other day and haven’t touched it since.
Shame spreads like poison inside you. You don’t help Jerry with the cooking anymore, and now he’s bringing chicken noodle soup or split pea soup to eat. You don’t feel hungry. Now Jerry’s wife’s dress fits you fine. It’s not too tight now.
The thing between you and Jerry doesn’t happen again. Not because Jerry doesn’t try. But because you turn away from him; his hands don’t make you feel the way they did before.
Jerry says you did the right thing. La migra would’ve gotten you, too. But his words don’t help you forget the fear in the woman’s eyes, or her husband knocking on the door, begging you to open it.
When you open the door and stand on the porch, Jerry stops whistling from inside the house. You feel the cold air on your face as you stare at the desert outside. Your feet refuse to take a step, and even though your ankle is feeling better it begins to throb. You walk backward, into the safety of the house, and close the door.
Jerry keeps whistling while he shines his shoes. You sit on the edge of the bed.
“Why don’t you make yourself another pretty dress?” Jerry says.
You pretend you didn’t hear him.
Jerry gets up and goes outside to chop wood.
You sit there for a long time, not moving, the woman’s screams ringing in your ears. You take off the new dress you made and put on your old torn one, grab the cane and your sweater, put on your jacket and the one the coyote gave you, and fill a water bottle and put it in your backpack.
When you step into the sunlight, you don’t look back. Not even when Jerry calls out and asks where you’re going. Not even then. One thing you’ve learned as a seamstress is that sometimes when one makes a mistake, that mistake can’t be fixed, and the best thing to do is to start from the beginning.
“They’ll get ya, Soledad!” he yells. “They’ll get ya!”
You head to the gate, Tucker at your heels. He whines when you close the gate behind you; you force yourself to not look at him. You walk and walk, listening to the sound of Jerry’s ax get softer, Tucker’s barks following you until you can’t hear them anymore. When la migra finds you, you realize you’re not afraid of them. You keep your eyes on the cloud of dust rising above a dead agave that fell over from the weight of its stalk. Its seeds are scattered around, promising new life. A new beginning. A second chance. You hold your head up and walk as straight as you can, trying to not limp.
When la migra releases me, I go to the hotel to look for my coyote. He isn’t there. I sit and wait for more than three hours. My head hurts; my stomach growls with hunger. I don’t have a cent to my name and I’m too embarrassed to beg for money. So I sit and wait. I wish I had a rosary to pray with, to have something to do to take my mind off my hunger.
The coyote comes finally and when he sees me, his eyes open wide in surprise. “You,” he says. He looks down at my ankle, sees it’s wrapped with a bandage.
At that moment my stomach lets out a loud growl, so loud it sounds like a monster is eating my insides. The coyote bends down and says, “Come on,” and helps me to get up. He holds my arm as we walk out of the hotel, around the corner, down a block to a little taquería.
He orders tacos and a drink for me and then comes back carrying them to the table. He sits there and watches me eat. When I’m finished the coyote says that with my hurt ankle he can’t take me across.
“I need to call my mother,” I say. I don’t tell him I don’t want him to take me anywhere. He would leave me again, and I don’t blame him. I did the same thing, didn’t I? I didn’t open the door, and instead I saved myself.
He buys me a calling card and takes me to a pay phone. He walks away to give me privacy, and I can see him leaning against a wall down the street, smoking a cigarette. The smoke of the cigarette reminds me of Jerry. My eyes burn, and I wipe them and take a deep breath before dialing my mother’s cell phone number.
When she answers the phone I start to cry. I don’t mean to cry. But at hearing my mother’s voice it is like opening a faucet inside my eyes and now the tears are pouring down, and I tell myself I have to stop crying, I have to tell my mother what I need to say, before my calling card runs out.
“Soledad? Is that you? Soledad?”
My sobbing gets louder and louder, and I take deep, deep breaths until finally my throat opens up. “Sí, Ma. Soy yo.”
“Soledad, where are you? What happened to you, mi’ja? How could you leave your poor mother worrying like this for you?”
I tell Ma about spraining my ankle, about the coyote leaving me behind. But I don’t tell her much about Jerry except he helped me with my ankle, and la migra caught me and arrested me.
Ma says she’s spent most of the money she saved for a coyote. “I had to pay the rent and the bills, Soledad. Especially right now that Christmas is over, you know the money is going to be hard to come by, so I wanted to make sure I started the year with no debts.”
“What am I going to do now?” I say.
“I’ll wire you some money so you can buy a ticket to come to Tijuana. When you get here, I will go down and see you. Maybe in the meantime you can stay at a cheap motel while I try to borrow money. There’ll be no more donations from Alegría now that the group has fallen apart . . .”
“What? What are you saying, Ma?”
But the line is dead now. The money on the calling card all spent. My crying begins again, thinking about the journey ahead, about how complicated this trip turned out to be, about everything going wrong, about Alegría. What did Ma mean about the group breaking up? That can’t be possible.
The coyote comes and I tell him what Ma said. He walks me back to the hotel and tells the receptionist to give me a room and he pays for it.
“I’ll come pick you up tomorrow and take you to the bank where your mother is wiring the money. Then I’ll take you to buy your bus ticket to Tijuana.”
I nod and watch him leave. He has had the chance to make things right with me. But I’ll never have the chance to ask the man and the woman for forgiveness.
I walk into the hospital room carrying a bouquet of calla lilies, Adriana’s favorite flowers. She glances my way and then looks away, at the TV hanging on the wall.
“Hi,” I say. She doesn’t reply.
I pull up a chair and sit next to her. “How are you feeling?” I hold her hand. She doesn’t pull it away.
She snorts. “Never been better.”
Her head is wrapped in bandages and I cringe to see her like that. The doctor said she was lucky her injuries weren’t more serious, just a grade 2 concussion and a cut above her forehead that required some stitches. I wish my mother had been as lucky.
“Emilio has disappeared.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says.
“Of course it does. He needs to be held accountable for what he did. He just left you there, bleeding and unconscious.”
“It’s my fault. I hit him on the head and that’s why we crashed.”
“But it isn’t your fault that he ran and left you there. He’s a coward, and I hope they find him.” We sit there for a minute not knowing what to say. We look at the TV instead, pretending we’re interested in what Rachael Ray is cooking.
I turn to look at her. She looks so young without all that makeup, the big flashy earrings. Young and vulnerable.
“Yeah?”
“Alegría has fallen part. And it’s partly my fault.”
“Yes, I know. But it can be put together again. It can heal, just like you.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I hurt so much, inside.”
I take a deep breath and then reach for her hand. “You’ve been through a lot. You and I both. But we can help each other heal.”
“Right before I lost consciousness I wished I wouldn’t wake up. I thought, ‘This is it. This is death,’ and it didn’t bother me. It didn’t scare me at all. But then, in the last split second before I fell into the darkness, I suddenly wanted to live, I wanted it so badly, thinking it was too late.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Adriana. I know I haven’t been the best of sisters, but I love you and I don’t want to lose you.”
I tell her that when Ben called to say she was in the hospital, I was seized by a fear so great it took my breath away. The first thing I thought was that she was dead and I hadn’t told her that I loved her, that I was sorry I’d left. I realize now it was a mistake. She was right to be angry because the truth is, I did it out of selfishness. I ran away to San Jose to escape a life that was unbearable. I lied to myself that she would be fine without me. Once I was there, so far from Los Angeles, so far from my grandparents, from Dad, I felt as if I could finally breathe, and I didn’t regret leaving. But when I returned to Los Angeles, I knew there was a price I had paid to get my college diploma—the love of my sister. In this moment, as I sit here holding her hand, wondering if she’s listening to me despite the fact that her eyes are glued to the TV screen, I realize the price was too high.
I find the envelope in my mailbox at school, “Ms. Sánchez” written on it in small black letters. I throw it on top of the pile of mail and office memos and head to my classroom to prepare for today’s class. I don’t recognize the writing, but even though the letter isn’t signed I know right away it’s from Fernando. As I read, I can’t help thinking about the missing commas. Fragmented sentences. A misspelled word. A missing period. I put the letter down and tell myself I’m not reading someone’s class assignment. I pick it up again and reread it several times. I fold the letter in half and stand over the trash can, wanting so desperately to throw it away, to rid myself of the evidence. I glance at my classroom door, and even though it’s closed I wonder if someone out there saw me read the letter, if someone out there knows about Fernando, about the words of love he’s written in a clumsy, childish way. I fold the letter again and then put it in my coat pocket.
I see Fernando during lunch. He sits with other kids from the Folklórico group, and when he sees me out by the lunch area supervising he stands up and starts to make his way toward me. I hide behind a cluster of kids, and then Mrs. Rodríguez comes to stand beside me and begins talking about her new ideas for a show. Fernando makes his way back to his group of friends, his head hanging low in disappointment. Our eyes connect for a few seconds, and then I tear my eyes away from his and pretend to listen to what Mrs. Rodríguez has to say.
I leave the hospital with Ben, who has volunteered to keep an eye on me until I recover completely. Elena wanted me to stay with her, but I think she has enough problems of her own to deal with. The only bad thing about going home with Ben is that now I have to listen to the Beatles. I’ve failed to get him to listen to my kind of music. Ben tells me I could change the music if I’d like, but I don’t feel like listening to depressing Mexican songs. I lean back on the seat, and after a while Ben starts to sing along to the song. I wonder what’s so great about a song about some yellow submarine. So unlike Mexican ranchera songs, full of sadness and despair, passion and hate, love and betrayal. There will never be a song in Spanish written about a damn yellow submarine, I tell you.
But Ben starts to sing even louder, and I realize that I missed his smiles. I missed his blue eyes looking at me.
We go home and Ben starts to make tomato soup. I tell him what I really want is pizza. Pepperoni and jalapeños, please. He shakes his head no and says I just got discharged from the hospital and the last thing I need is to eat greasy food. He continues stirring the soup. I sit in his living room and realize how much I’ve missed this place. How long has it been since I’ve been here? Ben’s paintings are all over the living room. I forgot his art exhibit is in a few weeks in a gallery down in San Pedro. I stare at the painting of his older sister, see her sitting by the window, leaning all her sadness on her elbow. Her eyes looking out at the world with fear, sorrow, and even a little bit of hate. She looks so much like Ben, but Ben would never have that look in his eyes.
“What’s the deal with your sister, Ben?” I ask him.
“It’s a long story,” he says from the kitchen.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere. So, c’mon, spit it out.”
He sighs and then comes to sit next to me. “She got raped when she was sixteen out in the woods. Nobody knew who did it, and she stopped talking and no one could get her to describe the man. When she realized she was pregnant, she tried to kill herself. My parents sent her to live in Green Bay where no one knew her—so she wouldn’t tarnish the family name. They’re fairly wealthy and their reputation matters very much to them. But as soon as my sister gave birth she put rocks in her pockets and drowned herself in Lake Michigan.”
“Jesus, Ben, why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
“Because it hurts, Adriana. She was my sister, the sister I never knew. My parents never talk about her. Nobody does. I always paint her because I feel that through my art, I can keep her memory alive.”
He leans back on the couch and we sit there leaning against each other, the nasty tomato soup thankfully forgotten. “Now it’s your turn,” he says after a while, his fingers reaching behind me to trace my tattoo.
I tell him about Mom calling me a moth. I tell him about the day that idiot Héctor took my virginity and then didn’t want anything to do with me. But first, he told half the school what an easy lay I was, and from then on I became an outcast. The girls at school kept me out of their circles, and because I couldn’t stand being alone I hung out with all those losers who were just like Héctor, looking for an easy lay. But it was either them or nobody. On my eighteenth birthday I got the tattoo. I was so drunk I hardly remember it.
Ben squeezes my hand and says, “I think moths are just as beautiful as butterflies. And they’ve been around for millions of years longer than butterflies. They’re survivors.”
The next day while Ben is at work I go to Olvera Street and walk around the kiosk, have tacos de carnitas, a churro, a mango with chile, and a cup of hot chocolate. Eventually I find myself inside Olverita’s Village and look at all the Folklórico costumes they have displayed on the walls. I touch the shawls, look at the expensive Miguelito shoes, the beautiful earrings, the braids. I stop and listen to the mariachi song playing from the stereo. I close my eyes, my head reeling with the colors, the beauty of everything that is Folklórico.
I come to the charro suits they have toward the back of the store. Female charro suits. I always wondered what I would look like wearing one of those, singing in front of an audience, filling them with the essence of mariachi music. To make people cry, and laugh at the same time, just with my voice.
I’m at home, still thinking about how I can join a mariachi, when Stephanie comes banging on my door. “Where is he?” she asks the minute she walks in. Her eyes are swollen from crying. She goes into my bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, all the while screaming Emilio’s name.
“What the hell’s up with you?” I say.
“Where is he?”
“Well, obviously he isn’t here. So how the hell should I know?”
She runs her fingers through her hair, then lets herself drop on the couch and starts to cry. Seriously cry, snot and all, and I don’t even have any tissues to offer her so I go to the bathroom and bring back my last roll of toilet paper. “What happened?” I say.
She just cries even more, and I throw my arms up in exasperation. Jesus, the girl watches too many telenovelas. Or where else would she learn how to cry like this? She’s bawling now, wasting my toilet paper, and I’m thinking I’m going to have to go to El Pollo Loco nearby and steal some rolls from the restrooms. I don’t have much money left, and whatever I have I’d rather spend on food. Finally, Santa Magdalena here turns off the faucet and blows her nose for the last time. “He took my money.”
“What?”
“He said he needed money for the rent and deposit for the studio, plus paying some people to start making costumes and I don’t know what else.”
“And you gave it to him?”
She glares at me.
“How much did you give him?”
“Fifty thousand.”
I whistle, then she looks at me as if she wants to slit my throat. Fuck me. I could use that kind of money right now.
“I went to his apartment and all his things are gone. I talked to a friend of his, the one with the pimples, and he told me Emilio was hiding because he thought the police would come after him because of what he did to you.”
“Well, he isn’t hiding here, I tell you.”
She sniffs and then blows her nose again. “And I called the people who own the studio and they told me Emilio called a few days ago and told them he’s changed his mind and won’t be renting it anymore.”
She breaks into tears again, and this time, I go sit by her and put my arm around her. “He didn’t take all your money, did he?” I ask, seriously concerned now for her. I mean, she’s been talking about this money since I’ve known her. And yes, she always sounded like a little conceited bitch rubbing all that money in our faces, going on and on about everything she was going to do once she had it, but still, she didn’t deserve this shit.
“No, I still have more, but how could he do that to me?”
“Look, Steph, I don’t know why he did it, but I know there’s no point in asking why. That’s how Emilio is, and honestly, thank your lucky stars that he’s gone because he would’ve taken it all at some point, trust me.”
She stands up and heads to the door. She looks at me and says, “I feel so stupid.”
“That makes two of us, sister.”
She leaves me wondering where the hell Emilio is and what he’s doing with that money. For Stephanie’s sake, I hope they find him. I close the door and head over to my guitar, which has become my only companion, besides Ben. And honestly, I ask myself, do I need anything more? It’s just me now and my music and Ben’s friendship. I stare at the poster of a female mariachi based in L.A. I taped on my wall. They’re having a performance in a few weeks, and I wonder if they might have space for one more group member sometime soon.
Elena comes to visit me in the evening. She says she’s surprised at how well I’m doing. She’s even more surprised when I tell her about my idea to audition for a mariachi.
“What about Folklórico?”
“You know, I’ve realized that all this time I’ve danced for the wrong reasons and that’s why my heart was never really in it. I tried so hard to learn so that Mom could love me the way she loved you—”
“Adriana—”
“Wait, let me finish. And then when she died I had to keep dancing because that was my only connection to her. I know now I’ll never be as good as you are. And honestly, I don’t even care. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“You were born with a different gift, Adriana. A gift you haven’t fully embraced. If I could dance as beautifully as you can sing, I would be a very happy woman, believe me.”
I smile and lightly punch her on the arm. “Well, I don’t know what you’re waiting for, girlfriend. You’ve taken a long ‘leave of absence,’ and it’s time to get back to dancing.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“Of course you are. You know, all these months you’ve clung to Fernando because of Folklórico. You’ve danced through him, and now it’s time to let your own feet do the dancing.”
She looks at The Two Fridas hanging on the wall. The two Fridas holding hands—one Frida with a damaged, broken heart, slowly bleeding to death from a cut vein, while the other Frida is alive, her heart intact. “You know, I realize now why you love this painting so much,” she says.
“The question is,” I say, looking at the two Fridas, “which of the two do you want to be?”
Today I drive by Sam’s house and notice his Harley parked in the driveway, and a second, smaller motorcycle next to it. My foot automatically presses on the brake. I pull over and sit there for a minute, and I’m surprised to realize the hurt I felt before is hardly there. Now, only the anger is there. The anger toward myself.
I drive away as the tears start to slide down my cheeks. Why was I such a fool? Why was I willing to give up my marriage for this loser?
When I get home Eduardo isn’t there yet. He hasn’t officially moved back in. He’s still living at one of the apartments his family owns and won’t say when he’s coming back to stay, although he’s still talking about that trip to México he wants us to take. He doesn’t know how much I want to go with him. I wish I could erase all the mistakes I’ve made—especially with Sam—and start over. I could keep it to myself, couldn’t I? Eduardo doesn’t suspect anything and he would never find out. But wouldn’t the knowledge of my betrayal eat at me for years and years to come, make my soul die little by little, the way the skin on my belly died from my ill-fated tummy tuck? He would never know. He need never know.
When Eduardo comes he finds me sitting in the dark in the living room. He turns on the light and asks me what I’m doing there.
“Just thinking,” I say.
“What about?”
I take a deep breath and tell him what I needed to tell him a month ago, because after all, if I’m going to clean up the mess I made it has to start with my marriage. And he deserves the truth. “There was someone else.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There was someone else in my life, but it’s over now.”
“You mean you had an affair? Is that what you are telling me?”
I nod and keep my eyes down.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I can’t believe it. How could you do this to me? What were you thinking? Didn’t our marriage vows and our twenty-one years of marriage mean anything to you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He stands up and starts to pace the room. “Who was he? Do I know him?”
“It was Sam.”
“What Sam?”
“Sam González, from high school.”
He drills me for the details, and I have to re-live every minute I spent with Sam. “I’m sorry, Eduardo,” I say again, feeling stupid every time I utter those words. I tell him I was wrong . . . that I was afraid and lonely, resentful toward him for having Alegría whereas I had nothing; even though it wasn’t his fault, I resented him.
He heads to the door and stops, his hand on the knob. He doesn’t look at me, he looks at his shoes. “I’m sorry, too, Yessy. I’m sorry things had to end this way.”
“It’s over, then?” I ask, feeling as if I just took a drink of ice-cold water and it’s now slowly traveling down my throat before settling in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m going to México, as I’ve planned. After that, I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, but for now, I don’t want to see you. You think the scars of your tummy tuck are hideous, but that isn’t what I find revolting.”
He slams the door shut and leaves. I sit in the darkness, knowing the pain I’ve inflicted on him can’t be taken back. I thought I loved Sam, that I secretly loved him all these years. But it wasn’t love, just some foolish dream I clung to. I let myself get caught in a whirlwind and let common sense go right out in the trash. And by doing so I destroyed a part of my life—my marriage—that I will never get back.
I head over to the dance studio and sit outside in the car for a while before I have the courage to get out and walk through the glass doors. I walk slowly around the room, running my hand over the large mirrors, the barre. I close my eyes and hear the feet tapping, the music vibrating against the walls, the laughter. So many years of memories in this place. And now it is empty. Silent, but for the scuffling sounds of my feet.
I stand there in the silence looking at myself in the mirror. So different now than last year. I touch my face and realize how different I look.
Alegría.
Not too long ago I hadn’t cared about its fate. But now, as its death looms before me, I shudder with pain, with regret. Can I really bear to see it end? To spend so many years loving it, nurturing it, feeding it with my very soul so that it would come to this?
If only . . .
How I hate those words. And yet, I keep telling myself, if only my knee hadn’t given out on me. If only I hadn’t become obsessed with Sam, with my looks, if only I hadn’t messed up my marriage, my relationship with my son. If only . . . I stare again at the woman in the mirror.
The most beautiful thing about our body is that it can heal itself, Dr. Peters said.
I wonder if the same could be said about Alegría.
I go to Elena’s house and the first thing I say when she opens the door is this: “You will be the new director of Alegría.”
“What are you saying, Yessy?”
“I’m saying that I’m going to save the group. I might not be able to save my marriage, but I’ll save Alegría. To do so we need a director who’s talented and smart. Who loves the group. And you are that person. Just think, Elena,” I say as I grab her by the shoulders. “You as the director.”
Elena sits on the couch. I remain standing. “Do you really think the group can be put back together?” she says. “You’ve broken the dancers’ trust. And trust is the hardest thing to earn back. You put the group’s money to personal use, and that’s something that won’t be easy to forget.”
“I know that, Elena. I know that. I should have never, ever, used Alegría’s money to pay for my surgery. But believe me, that was the only time—the only time—I ever did such a thing. Believe me—”
“I believe you, Yessy. I do. But I’m not the one you have to convince.”
“You’re right. But I think once the dancers know you’re taking over, they’ll come back. They like you. They trust you. I can’t do this alone, Elena. Please.” I continue to share my vision for the group. Maybe Olivia can co-direct. She’s been around for a long time now; she deserves the promotion. And Soledad can continue making the costumes.
“But Soledad isn’t here, Yessy. And we don’t have the money right now for that.”
“We’ll bring Soledad back. And about the money, there are some grants I’ve looked into that we might still be able to apply for and hopefully get.”
I sit next to her and I tell her about my plan to bring Soledad, which is to smuggle her through the border inspection station using my sister’s passport.
“It’s too dangerous,” Elena says. “Why would you take that risk?”
“Because of me, Alegría is where it is now.”
“But what about Stephanie? She has her money now. I’m sure she would use it to pay someone to bring her sister across.”
“I know that, but you see, getting Soledad back—and facing those risks—will be my first step to bring Alegría back together, and then I can look at the dancers again and feel no shame.”
“Do you really want Alegría back?”
“Yes! I want my group back, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to put it back together again. Look, Mariachi Alma Mexicana is doing a concert at the performing arts theater at the Tijuana Cultural Arts Center this Saturday night. They want to have six or eight couples from Alegría to perform with them. I’ve already talked to the dancers—the ones who are staying in the group—and they’ve agreed to do it. And that’s where we come in. When the mariachi and the dancers cross the border to come back to the U.S., we’re going to cross with them, and Soledad is going to be with us and we’ll pass her off as one of the dancers. So, what do you say, Elena?”
After school, the sound of a harp penetrates the classroom despite the thick walls. The music is barely perceptible, yet I can hear the song so clearly in my head. As I tidy up my desk, I hum along to “El Canelo,” the sound escaping from my mouth like a lament.
I collect my briefcase, lock the door, and head downstairs to the main office. The music becomes louder as I approach the auditorium, the sound echoing against the walls.
After I sign out, I stand outside the auditorium, my feet refusing to enter but at the same time refusing to stay outside. The music ends and now “El Tololoche” comes on. The only one there is Fernando, and I wonder why he’s alone.
Fernando stops dancing when he sees me.
“Hi,” I say.
He stands there above me on the stage. “Hi,” he says. He doesn’t smile.
“Where are the others?”
“The girls are in Mrs. Rodríguez’s room, helping her with the decorations for the assembly in a few weeks. The other guys went home. They didn’t want to practice with me.”
I can detect the disappointment in his voice. “Not everybody is as devoted to Folklórico as you are,” I tell him. He holds his hand out to me and helps me get onstage. He doesn’t let my hand go, and I gently pull it away. We are at school, after all.
“We need to talk,” I say.
“El Tololoche” ends and is followed by “Jesusita,” one of my favorite polkas. “Not right now, Miss,” Fernando says. He grabs my hand and begins to dance. “Wait!” I say. But it’s too late.
I look into Fernando’s eyes, and I feel the awakening taking place in my body, like a bolt of lightning—beginning at my feet, shooting up my legs, through my stomach, chest, neck, up to my head. The yearning for movement is too great to contain; the desire to dance bursts out of me.
Fernando twirls me around and around to the music. He doesn’t let me stop. He doesn’t give me a choice. He puts his arms around me and guides me around the stage. I give in to him; I allow the music to flow through me, the notes of the accordion reverberating inside my heart.
I hold on to him, afraid that if he were to let go, my feet would go back to not feeling anything. I feel the energy running up and down my body, my heart beating hard against my chest as I’m dominated completely by the dance, everything around us out of focus except for Fernando. I feel his breath on my face, the heat of his body radiating against mine, enveloping me. I give in to the wonder, the excitement, the forgetfulness that comes from being completely absorbed in the inner workings of your body, the miracle created by the movement of even the smallest bone, muscle, joint.
“Jesusita” ends and is followed by “Chicha,” then “El Circo.” When the CD ends, he holds me for a few seconds as I struggle to catch my breath. He smiles at me, and at that moment all I want is to have him hold me in his arms again. All I want is to lay my head on his chest and listen to the rapid beating of his heart as we breathe in and out together. I’m exhausted, overwhelmed by the reverence I feel for Folklórico, for life, for love.
He lets me go and goes to turn off the stereo. He wipes his neck and face with his handkerchief. My heart is pounding against my chest, and I feel the blood rushing through my veins. This sudden release of energy suddenly grips me with a newfound joy of being alive. My mind feels brighter, clearer, and I’m overwhelmed by the sudden rediscovery of my body. For the first time in a long time, I feel whole.
We make our way out of the auditorium and leave the school. I’m glad the parking lot is almost empty when we get there. I tell myself I have permission to allow him in my car, but still, I guiltily glance around as we get in the truck, and my eyes dart to the glove compartment where the permission slip is safely stored. Mr. Mendoza walks out the back door, and we drive by him as he makes his way to his car. I hope he didn’t see me. I pull over a block away from Fernando’s house and we sit there for a long time not really saying anything. He talks about the new dances Mrs. Rodríguez is teaching them. He expresses his impatience with how slowly she teaches. Now that he’s been part of a professional group he’s not at the same skill level with the high school students. He tells me he’s gotten a job in the evenings bagging food at a supermarket and is getting paid under the table.
“I won’t earn much, but at least it’ll help buy some things we need around the house.” We finally run out of things to talk about and, to my shame, he’s the one who brings up the chasm that has grown between us. “I don’t regret anything,” he says. “I know it’s hard for you to understand that what I feel for you is real.”
“Fernando, you’re so young. I know you think you feel something, but believe me, sometime down the line, when you get older, you’ll realize—”
“Please, Elena, don’t.”
His face blurs in front of me, and I wipe my tears with my sleeve and look away from him. The image of my father comes to my mind, and I wonder why I think of him at this very moment. I remember his cold eyes and the way they looked at me as if I didn’t exist. I look at Fernando, and in his eyes I see things that make me reach out to him and hold him. He wraps his arms around me, and we hold each other for a long time.
“Don’t think that I don’t love you, Fernando. It’s because I do love you that I’m ending this. I’m just not ready for this. I’m going through a divorce. I’m grieving for my daughter. Maybe my feelings for you are influenced by my situation right now, and if that’s the case it wouldn’t be fair to you. I’m just not seeing straight. Maybe you’re the love of my life; maybe you’re not. But right now I’m not in a place where I can make a decision. Do you understand?”
“I do, Elena. I do. And I just want to say that I’m not going anywhere. My feelings for you aren’t going to change. And I’ll be right here, for when you’re ready.”
He kisses my cheek and then opens the door.
“Thank you, Fernando,” I say when he gets out of the truck.
“For what?”
“For the dancing.”
He leans in through the window and pulls my hair back behind my ear and smiles. “You’re amazing,” he says. “Maybe one day, I’ll get to dance with you onstage. With Alegría. When it gets back together.”
The next time we return to Tijuana, it isn’t for a doctor’s visit.
Yesenia is here to redeem herself. And so am I. We all are.
“This is crazy, isn’t it?” Yesenia says under her breath as we make our way through the México–U.S. border. She glances at me from the corner of her eye. I smile and stop biting my nails.
“Everything is going to be fine,” Adriana says from the backseat. “We’ll just get Soledad so drunk that by the time we bring her across she’ll be so knocked out the border patrol agent will just have to let us through.”
Yesenia weaves her way in and out of the chaotic traffic. Here in Tijuana nobody seems to obey driving laws. She brakes just in time for a car that’s run a red light. “Crazy bastards,” she mutters under her breath.
“I don’t think getting her drunk is a good idea,” I say. “They’re bound to become suspicious.”
“Would we really go to jail if we got caught?” Adriana says.
“Yes,” Yesenia says. “We will go to jail.” She pulls into the parking lot of the motel where Soledad has been staying, and we get out of the car. “Adriana,” she says. “If you have a change of heart we’ll understand. I’ll drop you off and you can cross the border on foot with your passport and I’ll pick you up on the other side.”
“That’s if you don’t get caught,” Adriana says.
“You’re such a pessimist,” Yesenia says.
“I’m just being realistic.”
“Well, that’s a first,” Yesenia says.
Adriana shrugs. I remember our conversation yesterday. Adriana came over to my house and asked if she could come with us. “It’s partly my fault Alegría is where it is,” she said. I couldn’t contradict her.
Soledad is waiting in the room. Her ankle is well enough that she doesn’t limp anymore, which is a good thing because otherwise the lie we’re going to tell the officer won’t be as believable. She starts crying the minute she sees us.
“I can’t believe this,” she says. “Dios mío. I can’t believe you’re all here.” We all take turns hugging her, crying and laughing at the same time. She’s thinner now, and her eyes are red and swollen as if she’s been crying for days on end.
“What happened out there, Soledad?” Yesenia asks.
“I just had bad luck, that’s all. But you’re here now, that’s what matters. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” She starts to cry harder now.
I put my arms around her and hold her.
We head over to a restaurant on Calle Revolución and have lunch. We have to wait until eleven at night to attempt the crossing. We order margaritas, even Soledad, who seems to be even more nervous than the rest of us. She’s constantly fanning herself with her hand, and keeps looking around as if afraid she’s going to get arrested any minute now.
We sip the margaritas and try to keep our minds off what we’re about to do. Adriana brings up her audition for an all female mariachi group next week and says she’s keeping her fingers crossed that she gets in.
“Will they let you audition from jail?” Yesenia asks.
Adriana tries to laugh, but we can tell it hadn’t occurred to her that she might miss her audition if things don’t go as planned. “Shit,” she says. “Well, I guess since ranchera music is so damn depressing, maybe auditioning from jail would add something to the performance.” She laughs and downs her margarita. She motions for the waitress and orders a shot of tequila.
“We can’t get drunk,” Yesenia reminds her. But Adriana waves her words away, and when the tequila shot arrives she picks it up and says, “Here’s to us crazy bitches.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Soledad says. “If you get arrested it’ll be my fault and I’ll never forgive myself. Never. Please, I think we shouldn’t do this. I’ll find another way, but please—”
“Stop, Sol. Stop. Nothing you say will change our minds,” Yesenia says.
“Alegría needs you, Sol,” Adriana says.
“I don’t understand how it fell apart,” Soledad says. “And to think my own sister had something to do with it.”
“Let’s not talk about that now,” I say, glancing at Adriana. “What we need to do now is think about the future. Alegría is strong. The dancers love the group, and they’ll come back.”
“And you? Are you coming back, Elena?” Soledad asks.
I think about Fernando, about how good it felt to dance again. “Yes, I am,” I say. “I am.”
Yesenia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “And I’m going to continue taking care of all the other stuff,” she says. “Like trying to get some grant money so we can keep our award-winning costume designer working.”
Soledad smiles, but there’s a sadness in her smile, and I wonder what she is keeping from us. What happened to make her so sad? I’m awash with guilt at seeing her like this, thinking about how self-absorbed I was with my own problems and didn’t do anything to help her. Sure, I donated $300 to help Valentina pay for the smuggler, but that wasn’t enough. But I’m here now. And this time, I won’t abandon my friend.
“Damn, I’m going to miss dancing,” Adriana says.
“You have another road to follow now,” Yesenia says. “You’re on your way to becoming a famous ranchera singer.”
“You’ll be like the female version of Vicente Fernández,” Soledad says.
“Just remember us little people when you are famous,” Yesenia says. Adriana blushes and then yells to the waitress to bring us another round of margaritas. She stands up and starts to sing “Acá Entre Nos” at the top of her lungs. Everyone turns to look at us as if we were crazy, but because no one can resist Adriana’s voice, we all stop talking. Even the music from the speakers is lowered, and all you can hear is Adriana’s beautiful voice resonating against the walls of the restaurant.
When her song ends, applause breaks out, mingled with people’s voices yelling “Otra! Otra!” Adriana takes a bow and then sits down, laughing.
“I could get used to the applause,” she says.
When it’s time, we head back to the motel, the reality of our situation setting in. We’re quiet as we make our way inside the room. We all take out the supplies from the car and get busy. Yesenia and I decided to dress up as if we were going to a jarana dressed in our exquisite and elegant Yucatán Ternos de Lujo, white satin dresses embroidered with flowers of dazzling colors.
“We’re about to give the performance of our lives, ladies,” Yesenia says. We take turns using the mirror. I help Soledad put her hair up into a bun and then attach the hair ornaments.
“I’m going to shit my pants,” Adriana says as she puts on her eye shadow. I bite my tongue and don’t remind Adriana to go easy on the makeup. I glance at Yesenia and know she’s thinking the same thing. If it were a real performance, Yesenia would’ve said something. She hates it when girls overdo the makeup, saying they look like transvestites.
When I do Soledad’s face, I put extra layers of pancake makeup on her birthmark until it’s nothing but a dark shadow. Soon, we all look the same: blue eye shadow, black eye liner, pink cheeks, red lips, fake eyelashes, large golden earrings, golden rosaries, and hair ornaments of flowers and combs. Soledad keeps looking at herself in the mirror, not being able to believe that she looks as if she’s ready to step onto a stage. Her rebozo is wrapped around her arms, and she raises her hands and twirls the fringes of the shawl above her head, the way jaranas are danced. She covers her mouth and giggles.
“It’s never too late to learn to dance, Sol,” I say. I remember Soledad at my wedding. That was the first and only time I saw her dance. She was standing by the cake, looking at the pink swirls that looked like roses, at the little doll dressed in a wedding gown, the groom by her side. Just then the DJ began to play “La Negra Tomasa.” Soledad’s body began to move to the rhythm of the song. Her eyes closed, and I knew she was somewhere else, in another place where we did not exist.
Her bulbous hips moved side to side; her arms rose up into the air, hands turning gracefully around and around. She reminded me of a belly dancer. Up and down, up and down her hips moved, her breast bounced gently, her thick braid circled around her body like a feather boa. Under the blue, red, green colors of the disco lights flashing on her, Soledad looked sensuous, voluptuous.
The four of us stand in our gala dresses. We hold hands trying to suppress our fear. “Bomba!” Yesenia yells. “Bomba!” Adriana, Soledad, and I yell back. We raise our shawls above our heads and begin to dance, letting our love for Folklórico give us the courage we need.
We get a call from Laura. “The performance is over now and we’re ready to go,” she says. “We’ll see you at the meeting point.”
“We’ll be right there,” Yesenia says. We check out of the motel and make our way to the car.
“What’s your name?” Adriana asks Soledad.
“Susana Alegría.”
“When were you born?”
“I was born on October 24, 1970.”
“What were you doing in Tijuana?” I ask.
“I dancing.”
“I was dancing,” Adriana says.
“Maybe she should say ‘I was performing traditional Mexican dances,’ ” Yesenia says.
I shake my head. “Let’s keep it simple.”
We pull into the gas station where the rest of the dancers and the mariachi members are waiting. There are six cars total. Our car is last in line.
“How did you injure your ankle, Sol?” Yesenia asks. I was wondering the same thing myself, but I could sense this is something Soledad doesn’t want to talk about.
“I fell.”
“And the man who called your mother—Jerry, I think was his name—Who is he?”
I want to tell Yesenia to take pity on poor Sol. Because she’s driving, she can’t see the expression on Soledad’s face at the mention of Jerry.
Soledad starts to cry, and my first instinct is to tell her not to, because she’s going to ruin her makeup. But I can sense her sadness, and I know that nothing will stop her tears from flowing now.
“There’s nothing you could have done,” I say when she’s done with her story. “Jerry sounds like a complicated man, Sol, but he was right. If you had helped those immigrants, they would’ve taken you, too. There’s no shame in what you did.”
“She’s right,” Adriana says. “They were fucked either way, Sol. Whether you opened the door or not. I mean, c’mon. It’s not like the border patrol was going to stop chasing them just because they went inside Jerry’s house. It’s not like his house is a damn church or something . . .”
“Jerry would’ve gotten in trouble,” Yesenia adds. “For aiding illegal immigrants.”
“But—”
“No buts, girlfriend, no buts,” Adriana says. “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Sometimes, you have to think about yourself, even if it hurts others, and that is okay.”
Adriana and I look at each other briefly. She smiles at me, and without the need for her to tell me, I know she’s saying that to me, not Soledad.
It’s an eternity to get to the border patrol agent. We all start sweating, our anxiety increasing minute by minute.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” Adriana says.
“You still have time to get out of the car,” Yesenia says. “Nobody is forcing you to do this.”
“Fuck!” I hear Adriana play with the door latch. For a second, I think she’s going to get out. “Fuck!”
“Just stop, okay? Stop. You’re making me nervous,” Yesenia says.
“Well, excuuuuse me.”
Soledad starts crying. “She’s right. She’s right. We’re going to get caught and you will all get into trouble and it’ll be my fault . . .” She rubs her eyes to dry off the tears and one of the eyelashes falls off.
“Oh, shit,” Adriana says. We have three more cars in front of us and then we’re next. Adriana grabs her gym bag and desperately looks for her glue. Yesenia moves to turn on the light, but I stop her.
“They’ll be able to see what we’re up to,” I say. So in the dark Adriana has to find her glue. One by one the cars in front of us pass the checkpoint. Adriana takes the glue out of the bag and tells Soledad not to move while she tries to fasten the eyelash back on.
“Hurry!” Yesenia says.
“I’m trying. I’m trying.”
Finally it’s our turn.
“Good evening, officer,” Yesenia says as she pulls to a stop. She hands him our four passports.
“Reason for visit?” he asks.
“Dance performance,” she says. “We’re with the performers that were in the five cars in front of us.”
He peeks into the car and looks at us. “Names?” he asks.
We all take turns telling him our names. When it’s Soledad’s turn she pauses for a second too long and then finally says, “Susana Alegría.”
“Where were you performing?” he asks.
“At the Tijuana Cultural Center, with Mariachi Alma Mexicana,” Yesenia quickly responds. “I’m the director of Grupo Folklórico Alegría from Los Angeles, and we were invited to participate in the event.” She hands him her business card.
“Are you bringing anything back with you?”
“No. We didn’t buy anything.”
He looks at her for a moment, then he looks at me sitting in the passenger seat, and at Adriana and Soledad in the back. I wonder if we look suspicious, clad in our beautiful satin dresses. Can he see our fear hidden beneath the stage makeup?
“Please pop your trunk,” he says.
Yesenia releases the latch, and from the side mirror we watch him make his way to the back. The car shakes a little as he rummages in the trunk. Yesenia turns to look at me, and I notice that her eyes are opened a little too wide. I imagine what he must be seeing. Four pairs of black boots, red shoes, and white shoes. Four sets of costumes from Jalisco, Veracruz, Chiapas, and Nuevo León. A plastic box with braids, fans, earrings, hairpieces, shawls. Yesenia and I were careful to pack as if we really were going to do a performance.
Suddenly, the reality of what we’re doing hits me. All this time I’ve been having nightmares about going to prison because of Fernando, and now I’m only seconds away from becoming a criminal. I could lose my teaching credential, my career. Everything I have worked for.
He closes the trunk and then comes back.
He hands Yesenia the passports and then waves us away.
“Are we free to go?” Yesenia asks, looking shocked.
“You aren’t smuggling any illegal aliens, are you?” he asks.
“Of course not!” we all say at the same time.
“Welcome back to the United States,” the officer says. And just like that, with the wave of his hand, we enter the U.S.
Not even thirty seconds later, we start to cheer. I sigh with relief.
“Ajúa!” Adriana yells.
“Ajúa!” we yell back.
Adriana sings her favorite borracho songs and we all sing along with her. I put the window down, and I breathe in and out and let out another sigh. The knot forming in my stomach slowly begins to unravel.
“I can’t believe we did it!” Adriana says.
“God has blessed us,” Soledad says between tears. “And He will bless Alegría, too.”
I close my eyes and try to picture myself as the co-director. What regions would I teach? What choreography would I create? I wasn’t sure before, but now I know, with every fiber of my being, that I want to direct the group. There are things we can do to raise money for Alegría. We can launch a campaign. Do silent auctions, go from door to door and ask for donations. Do a car wash. Maybe we can organize a benefit concert. Alegría will come back. And it will be better than it’s ever been.
Yesenia picks up her cell phone. “Let’s tell everyone the good news,” she says.
I look at the dark road in front of me, looking forward to tomorrow. Yesenia grabs my hand. In the back, Adriana and Soledad are deep in conversation, and I’m glad for the friendship that seems to be forming between them, right here in the car. As I listen to them closely I can’t help but smile.
They’re talking about, of all things, butterflies.