houses. A sad look crosses her face. “In fact, the embargo is already helping. Some observers are here from other countries and the government’s trying to show off how fair it is. That means all Tío Toni’s friends in prison have been freed. Things are going to change, but until that day, we have to be patient and make some sacrifices.”
I knew she’d get to the hard part sooner or later.
“Your uncle Toni has been . . . in hiding,” she explains, choosing her words carefully. “Now he can come out. But the SIM can still decide at any minute to take him away. He’s pretty safe in the compound with Mr. Washburn next door. But it’s best if you and Sammy and Oscar avoid going back there.” She nods in the direction of the
casita.
“Also, you are not to speak about this to anyone. Only to your pillow . . .”
I must look guilty just thinking about what’s hidden under my pillow right this very moment. It’s as if my mother can read my thoughts. “One last big favor to ask you,
mi amor
. No more writing in your diary for the time being.”
“That’s so unfair!” Mami gave me the diary for Christmas. Telling me not to write in it is like taking away my only present.
“I know it is, Anita.” Mami wipes away my tears with her thumbs. “For now, we have to be like the little worm in the cocoon of the butterfly. All closed up and secret until the day . . .” She spreads her arms as if they were wings.
Hearing the thrill in her voice, how can I refuse her anything she asks me?
I go back to my room and erase every page of my diary. Then I put it away in my closet beside Carla’s things. Until the day.
five
Mr. Smith
Now that I’m grounded from roaming the property, I spend a lot of time playing card games with Sam on our patio. I really don’t understand why Mami has to be so cautious. With the consul living next door, marines guard the compound round the clock. Sometimes, I wake to the
click-clop
of their boots as they patrol the grounds at night.
We play casino and canasta and concentration. Susie and Lucinda, who are as bored as we are, join us. Except for school, which has finally reopened, we don’t go out anymore. Parents are being cautious, especially the parents of young ladies.
“Why’s that?” I ask. We’re sitting on the patio, playing casino.
Susie fans out her cards in her hand. Her nails are painted pale pink like the inside of a conch shell. “On account of Mr. Smith,” she says, eyeing Lucinda meaningfully. Both girls burst into giggles when Sam and I ask together, “Who’s Mr. Smith?”
“Mr. Smith’s not his real name.” Susie lowers her voice. Even she whispers when we get onto certain subjects. “He’s a very powerful guy. And he likes girls—young, pretty girls. So parents won’t let their daughters go out to public places where they might be seen by Mr. Smith. Because if he sees them and wants them, he gets what he wants.”
I shudder and look over at Lucinda. The nervous rash on her neck has reddened, and she’s scratching it.
“Hey, genius, who’s winning?” Susie asks Sam, who is keeping score. She often addresses her younger brother with sarcasm. “Ooooh, Lucy-baby! You’ve got fifteen. Lucky number!”
In two weeks, Susie will be turning fifteen. Lucinda has told her how a girl’s fifteenth birthday is really important in our country. Some parents throw
quinceañera
parties as lavish as weddings. “We just have to do something for your birthday,” Lucinda insists.
“Like what? We can’t go to the country club, we can’t go to the beach.” Susie goes through her list of grievances. I have a feeling that she goes through this list often with her mother, probably as often as Lucinda does with ours. “I’m
soooo
bored. I wouldn’t mind a little excitement.” Susie lets out a long sigh, just like her mother when she has a bad hand.
“How come you don’t just have a party here?” Sam says absently. He’s tallying up the scores
I knew she’d get to the hard part sooner or later.
“Your uncle Toni has been . . . in hiding,” she explains, choosing her words carefully. “Now he can come out. But the SIM can still decide at any minute to take him away. He’s pretty safe in the compound with Mr. Washburn next door. But it’s best if you and Sammy and Oscar avoid going back there.” She nods in the direction of the
casita.
“Also, you are not to speak about this to anyone. Only to your pillow . . .”
I must look guilty just thinking about what’s hidden under my pillow right this very moment. It’s as if my mother can read my thoughts. “One last big favor to ask you,
mi amor
. No more writing in your diary for the time being.”
“That’s so unfair!” Mami gave me the diary for Christmas. Telling me not to write in it is like taking away my only present.
“I know it is, Anita.” Mami wipes away my tears with her thumbs. “For now, we have to be like the little worm in the cocoon of the butterfly. All closed up and secret until the day . . .” She spreads her arms as if they were wings.
Hearing the thrill in her voice, how can I refuse her anything she asks me?
I go back to my room and erase every page of my diary. Then I put it away in my closet beside Carla’s things. Until the day.
five
Mr. Smith
Now that I’m grounded from roaming the property, I spend a lot of time playing card games with Sam on our patio. I really don’t understand why Mami has to be so cautious. With the consul living next door, marines guard the compound round the clock. Sometimes, I wake to the
click-clop
of their boots as they patrol the grounds at night.
We play casino and canasta and concentration. Susie and Lucinda, who are as bored as we are, join us. Except for school, which has finally reopened, we don’t go out anymore. Parents are being cautious, especially the parents of young ladies.
“Why’s that?” I ask. We’re sitting on the patio, playing casino.
Susie fans out her cards in her hand. Her nails are painted pale pink like the inside of a conch shell. “On account of Mr. Smith,” she says, eyeing Lucinda meaningfully. Both girls burst into giggles when Sam and I ask together, “Who’s Mr. Smith?”
“Mr. Smith’s not his real name.” Susie lowers her voice. Even she whispers when we get onto certain subjects. “He’s a very powerful guy. And he likes girls—young, pretty girls. So parents won’t let their daughters go out to public places where they might be seen by Mr. Smith. Because if he sees them and wants them, he gets what he wants.”
I shudder and look over at Lucinda. The nervous rash on her neck has reddened, and she’s scratching it.
“Hey, genius, who’s winning?” Susie asks Sam, who is keeping score. She often addresses her younger brother with sarcasm. “Ooooh, Lucy-baby! You’ve got fifteen. Lucky number!”
In two weeks, Susie will be turning fifteen. Lucinda has told her how a girl’s fifteenth birthday is really important in our country. Some parents throw
quinceañera
parties as lavish as weddings. “We just have to do something for your birthday,” Lucinda insists.
“Like what? We can’t go to the country club, we can’t go to the beach.” Susie goes through her list of grievances. I have a feeling that she goes through this list often with her mother, probably as often as Lucinda does with ours. “I’m
soooo
bored. I wouldn’t mind a little excitement.” Susie lets out a long sigh, just like her mother when she has a bad hand.
“How come you don’t just have a party here?” Sam says absently. He’s tallying up the scores
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