used to do the kinds of things that people came to know as white. So one day, when styles had changed, they’d do these things again.
She curled up on her side, stretched out on her back, crossed her arms beneath her head, and pursed her lips as if she’d tasted something that was sweet but acidic.
Of the men she’d been with, who’d come the closest to a prince? There’d been a few, for she’d lost her hymen at the age of twelve when a game of wrestling accidentally put her and a playmate in a pose that triggered the desire to explore. With this kind of introduction, sex for her was something rugged—a game in which she liked to have the upper hand. She must win and he must lose. He must like it more than me. I ain’t want to be no woman who exchange rum for man. I ain’t want to be no cockaholic.
With a finger on her nipple, she began to stroke her tender parts until the air was crackled by a tiny scream.
She lay there half-smiling till her strength returned.
VI.
On the bridge, she leaned against the parapet and waited. Her purple dress was not completely dry, but she’d packed it and was wearing now her only change of clothes—a dark blue skirt and a green striped blouse, both of which were old.
With her hair down to her shoulders, her face seemed more mature; and features that had not revealed themselves before were now pronounced. She had a small nose with a low bridge that ended in a smooth, compacted mound, and nostrils that you couldn’t see unless she raised her head.
Her mouth was small and oval like a circle cut in two. The upper lip was shiny, with a reddish tone, and from its corners ran an upward-slanting seam that made it look as if her mouth and cheeks were linked beneath the skin with guitar strings. The space between her nose and mouth was close, as if her lips were resting on a sheet of glass; and where the hair along her temples grew toward her brow, there was a scar, a little crescent moon, whose ridge of smoothness you could follow with your thumb.
She heard the sound of diesel engines and looked with expectation down the road, then stood up when she saw the tall, imposing grillwork of a truck.
It lurched around the bend and rumbled by so closely that she could’ve stretched her hand and touched it. It was filled with madrasitos , workers from the factory and the fields, and their limbs protruded through the gaps between the slatted sides that formed the bed like they were stalks of cane. Some sat on the cab as if it were an elephant’s head. Those who found a ledge on which to hook their toes and fingers rode along the side; and she watched the driver take the curves without regard, coming close against the bush, as if the people holding on were fleas.
I ain’t able for them people, thought Estrella, as the madrasitos called to her and waved. They run me out their town already. I ain’t want to get inside no truck with them. Worst of all, they have machete. I ain’t going nowhere with them. The fellow by the market said it have a bus. I prefer to wait for that. Plus is only dirty people I seeing in them trucks. And I now just bathe myself.
The trucks were coming close together in a convoy like an army in retreat, and she kept her eyes engaged by reading so she didn’t have to look.
But when another thirty minutes passed and she hadn’t seen the bus, and the gaps between the trucks began to lengthen to the point where she would hear one engine fading out before another grunted up the hill, she changed her mind.
VII.
The truck was crowded, but not as crowded as the ones that came before. No one clung against the side or rode the cab. But those who had seats were stacked on others like jars of pickled pork. With their backs against the cab, hats aligned in humps below the glass, some were sitting on the truck’s short bed with hands around their ankles, chins against their knees, gazing at their toes. The others stood and held onto the ribbing of the missing canvas
She curled up on her side, stretched out on her back, crossed her arms beneath her head, and pursed her lips as if she’d tasted something that was sweet but acidic.
Of the men she’d been with, who’d come the closest to a prince? There’d been a few, for she’d lost her hymen at the age of twelve when a game of wrestling accidentally put her and a playmate in a pose that triggered the desire to explore. With this kind of introduction, sex for her was something rugged—a game in which she liked to have the upper hand. She must win and he must lose. He must like it more than me. I ain’t want to be no woman who exchange rum for man. I ain’t want to be no cockaholic.
With a finger on her nipple, she began to stroke her tender parts until the air was crackled by a tiny scream.
She lay there half-smiling till her strength returned.
VI.
On the bridge, she leaned against the parapet and waited. Her purple dress was not completely dry, but she’d packed it and was wearing now her only change of clothes—a dark blue skirt and a green striped blouse, both of which were old.
With her hair down to her shoulders, her face seemed more mature; and features that had not revealed themselves before were now pronounced. She had a small nose with a low bridge that ended in a smooth, compacted mound, and nostrils that you couldn’t see unless she raised her head.
Her mouth was small and oval like a circle cut in two. The upper lip was shiny, with a reddish tone, and from its corners ran an upward-slanting seam that made it look as if her mouth and cheeks were linked beneath the skin with guitar strings. The space between her nose and mouth was close, as if her lips were resting on a sheet of glass; and where the hair along her temples grew toward her brow, there was a scar, a little crescent moon, whose ridge of smoothness you could follow with your thumb.
She heard the sound of diesel engines and looked with expectation down the road, then stood up when she saw the tall, imposing grillwork of a truck.
It lurched around the bend and rumbled by so closely that she could’ve stretched her hand and touched it. It was filled with madrasitos , workers from the factory and the fields, and their limbs protruded through the gaps between the slatted sides that formed the bed like they were stalks of cane. Some sat on the cab as if it were an elephant’s head. Those who found a ledge on which to hook their toes and fingers rode along the side; and she watched the driver take the curves without regard, coming close against the bush, as if the people holding on were fleas.
I ain’t able for them people, thought Estrella, as the madrasitos called to her and waved. They run me out their town already. I ain’t want to get inside no truck with them. Worst of all, they have machete. I ain’t going nowhere with them. The fellow by the market said it have a bus. I prefer to wait for that. Plus is only dirty people I seeing in them trucks. And I now just bathe myself.
The trucks were coming close together in a convoy like an army in retreat, and she kept her eyes engaged by reading so she didn’t have to look.
But when another thirty minutes passed and she hadn’t seen the bus, and the gaps between the trucks began to lengthen to the point where she would hear one engine fading out before another grunted up the hill, she changed her mind.
VII.
The truck was crowded, but not as crowded as the ones that came before. No one clung against the side or rode the cab. But those who had seats were stacked on others like jars of pickled pork. With their backs against the cab, hats aligned in humps below the glass, some were sitting on the truck’s short bed with hands around their ankles, chins against their knees, gazing at their toes. The others stood and held onto the ribbing of the missing canvas
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