Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa by MICOL OSTOW Page A

my pj’s for my track pants and a tank top—that clothing package needs to arrive soon—and wander out.
    I find my mother at the kitchen table, idly stirring a cup of coffee. “Good morning, sweetie,” she says when she sees me, as if on autopilot. “Did you sleep well?”
    â€œUh-huh.” No point in mentioning the dream. If it has any great significance, I can’t figure out what it is. I drift to the refrigerator, pull out a carton of orange juice.
    â€œ Ay , there’s a glass set for you at the table.”
    I nearly jump out of my skin. Tía Rosa is behind me, pointing toward the table and the glass in question.
    â€œRight, thanks.” I take a seat.
    â€œ Qué quieres comer ? We have eggs, cereal, toast, bacon. . . .”
    â€œOh, um . . . I guess cereal’s fine,” I say. She offers me a veritable buffet, three different choices. I pick the one with the highest sugar content and dig in. “Where’s Lucy?” I ask between munches.
    â€œTaking a shower. She has to drive the girls to church. Their summer school starts today.”
    â€œI’m so excited!” offers Dora, who I realize now has been sitting patiently at the end of the table. It’s pretty cute, actually.
    â€œYou’re so excited, but you’re going to be late if you don’t get dressed,” Rosa warns.
    Dora bounces in her seat. “But I have to . . .” She looks at me, trails off.
    Rosa nods. “ No es un problema . I will do it just this once. Go—you can wear the pink skirt.”
    This is apparently extra-fabulous news because Dora beams and skips off.
    From the direction of the bathroom, I hear the water in the shower turn off. A few moments more and Lucy is in the kitchen, wrapped in a robe, her hair piled high in a terry-cloth turban. “I got it, Mamá. You can go.”
    â€œ Gracias . I have work, then.” She turns to my mother. “You’ll be okay?”
    â€œOf course, Rosa. We have the grocery list, so Emily and I will take care of that. We might as well make ourselves useful. You’ve been so generous in taking us in for the summer.”
    Rosa is quiet for a beat. Then, “Of course.” She grabs her keys, shouts her good-byes to everyone—“Tell José dinner at seven”—and is off.
    Lucy hovers over me. I tap my spoon against the bottom of my cereal bowl, unsure of what she wants. “Can I . . . do something?” I ask.
    â€œNo, it’s just, I have to clear the table when you’re through.”
    â€œOh,” I say awkwardly. So she’s been waiting for me. “ Oh . I’m almost—”
    â€œNo rush.” She cuts me off. “I’ll just load the dishwasher once you’ve eaten.”
    It hits me more fully: Dora was covering for Lucy while she showered; Rosa was covering for Dora while she dressed. And now Lucy’s waiting. For me. I’m not sure about this. On the one hand, they could have just told me to rinse my dish when I was done.
    On the other, I’m horrified to realize that it wouldn’t have otherwise occurred to me.
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    Lucy insists on taking her sisters to church camp herself, but my mother decides she wants to tail her. “This way we’ll be able to do it on our own eventually.”
    We dress quickly and head out to the car. “Couldn’t we, like, just get directions when the time comes?” I ask.
    It’s not that I have anything better to do today. Mom’s got a grocery list and some errands to run. (Being this close to the beach and knowing that I’ll be spending my afternoon at the dry cleaner’s is torture.) But one look at Mom’s face—deep lines and grayish pallor not improved by chain-smoking—and I decide to keep my gripes to myself.
    She’s actually laughing now.
    â€œDirections?” Apparently this is pee-in-your-pants hilarious.
    â€œWhat?” I ask. “I