Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa by MICOL OSTOW Page B

don’t get it.”
    â€œThat’s because you’ve never driven in Puerto Rico, sweetie. Directions are useless. You either know the way or you don’t. Haven’t you noticed that there aren’t really any street signs around?”
    â€œWell, I haven’t been driving myself,” I point out, easing into the passenger’s seat.
    â€œNo, I guess you haven’t,” my mother allows. “Anyway, the thing is, if you’re from around here, you know the main roads, and you can sort of feel your way from there. But otherwise you’re screwed.”
    I start back, my seat belt snapping as I twist.
    Screwed? Not typical language for Professor Goldberg. But I don’t say anything.
    â€œSo if we’re going to be here and get around, we have to feel our own way. I’m sure it will come back to me eventually—some things you just don’t lose—but for now, tailing. At least until the main roads become second nature again.”
    â€œA lot has probably changed, though, right?” I ask. “I mean, the roads can’t be exactly the same.”
    My mother becomes quiet for a moment, wistful. “They haven’t changed that much.”
    I sense that there’s more meaning in what she’s saying than she’s ready to share.
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    We follow Lucy as she takes the girls to church camp. It’s not far from us, though my mother is completely right. Puerto Ricans drive like maniacs. No one has heard of a turn signal, and street signs are totally nonexistent. Technically my New York license is valid here, but by day three I’ve sworn to myself that I will never get behind the wheel on my own. It seems to me that I have two choices: one, to remain on good terms with my mother and join her on her cultural renaissance or whatever she’s doing here, or two, to forge blindly forward in a friendship with Lucy who has, up until this point at least, demonstrated the type of interest in me that one might feel toward a new strain of toenail fungus.
    To Lucy, I’m a curiosity and not necessarily a welcome one. I’m an interloper and utterly housebound at that.
    I suppose these two choices are not necessarily mutually exclusive. But they are equally dependant on some rather specific action. And I’m just not the type to take action.
    I don’t think.
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    The next few days pass quickly. The language barrier keeps me on my toes, and I can’t help but wonder again what the deal is with those AP classes and placement exams. Qué tiempo hace , my ass. The tiempo is always the same in Puerto Rico: sunny, with a light breeze and little humidity. If it rains, it’s only in intermittent pockets, and it never lasts.
    By now I wake up on time, on my own. Even as an early riser, I find I’m the last person up—but at least now I’m in the ballpark. I come to breakfast to find Lucy, Pilar, Dora, and Ana gathered. But they’re not waiting for me anymore, so that, at least, is something.
    Their routine is well choreographed. Rosa is up first, before dawn even, and she gets breakfast ready. Once the girls are awake and settled with their breakfasts, she’s off to get ready for work, a day shift as a nurse’s aide at the local hospital. From there Lucy takes over: she makes sure the younger girls eat, reminds them to clear their places, and then washes up after them. Pilar helps Ana and Dora dress. And so forth.
    Mom and I eat with the girls. We don’t take over their self-appointed chores or tasks because that would disrupt the delicate balance that they’ve created. But we have taken on our own roles. We run the daytime errands, taking clothing to the cleaners, bringing appliances in for repair, and, most frequently, bringing home groceries for dinner. I still refuse to drive, but by the end of my second week I could find my way to the supermercado and back blindfolded. We do the laundry, to which I am contributing