The Tequila Worm by Viola Canales Page B

inside the ceramic tortilla holder. “You have to connect with her in a way she can feel and understand, in a way that takes care of her, too. That’s what I mean when I say you need to learn to dance. Your mama is a dancer, not a dreamer like you and me. She needs to see and hear things; she can’t sense things in silence, like we can.
    “Let me give you an example. Remember that Sunday years ago when you panicked and put the host in your shirt pocket, and how your mama called the priest?”
    “Yes,” I said. Such a strange memory!
    “Well, your mama came into the kitchen carrying your shirt and told me what was in the pocket. I laughed and told her not to worry, that I would simply tell you a magic story about how we could now use your secret host to keep angels hovering all over the house.”
    “Angels?”
    “Yes. You know how they tell you that a whole horde of heavenly angels come down right when the priest starts transforming the host into Jesus’s body. And how they fly around all during Communion, making sure not one single host gets lost along the way.
    “The way I saw it, if we kept your little host in your pocket, then we’d automatically have all these angels hovering over our house. I told your mama that this story would make you feel better, and fast.
    “But I sensed that she really felt she had to call the priest. And I knew that this would work out for you, too.
    “It must’ve been scary for you to have to go talk to the priest, but if I hadn’t agreed to calling him, your mama would still be panic-stricken about having a now-moldy holy host in the closet.
    “Sofia, do you see what I’m saying?”
    “But what can I possibly do or say to take care of her so she won’t mind me going away?”
    “Well, try this: tell her you love her, and that you can take care of yourself.”
    “But she knows I love her. . . .”
    “Sofia, like I said, she’s not like us. She only feels what she sees and hears and—”
    Mama stomped into the kitchen. “Carmen called to tell me about the great new movie playing at the drive-in, one with Pedro Infante. I’m so excited!”
    As Mama took over the kitchen, Papa winked at me. I followed him outside. There was a beautiful orange glow on the horizon. The evening air was sweet with Papa’s Mexican jasmine.
    “As I was saying, she only feels what she sees and hears, and what she experiences in the movies.” He then started to laugh. “So when we go to the drive-in, pay attention to your mama and to how she connects to the movie.”
    I rolled my eyes.
No, not another one of those singing
charro
movies
.
    “So I guess it’s time you learn to dance, mi’ja.” Papa said, smiling. He started whistling the
vals
“Julia.” He then took me in his arms and began waltzing me around and around the freshly cut grass.

The DRiVe-in

    IT had been
years
since I’d been to the Border drive-in theater. According to Mama and Berta, I’d been so focused on my books that I had missed some of the best movies ever.
    Lucy was sitting between Berta and me in the backseat of our old white Ford, while Noe sat between Papa and Mama in front. As the car passed the marquee, I tapped Berta on the shoulder and pointed. We laughed, for most of the black letters spelling PEDRO INFANTE were either falling off or missing completely.
    After Papa parked on top of one of the rows and rows of asphalt mounds, it was just like always: Mama leaned over and moved Saint Christopher and the Virgin from the center to the right side of the dashboard. She opened the glove compartment, pulled out a snakelike green coil, set it on top of the dashboard, and lit it. This was incense for killing the flying bugs and mosquitoes. The coil burned with a strange glow that got redder and redder as the evening got darker.
    “Mama,” said Lucy, “can you please take Saint Christopher and the Virgin off the dashboard? They’re blocking my view.”
    “
Ay,
Lucy, it’s always the same thing with you. The