Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

probably two hundred people here.
    “Help me carry the pasticcia rustica,” says Carlo.
    Good old Carlo. We’re bringing food; that means we belong here, even if we can’t see a soul we know.
    We parade back and forth from the wagon to the long line of tables, carrying pies. The tables are already laden with food. We slide a pie in here, another in there.
    But now we’re empty-handed again. And still surrounded by strangers. They talk and laugh, just not with us. In fact, they give us sideways glances, as though we make them anxious. I avoid their eyes and search for Patricia.
    “Look how happy they are,” says Francesco. “So easy.”
    “Bet this is what it’s like in Tangipahoa Parish,” says Rosario wistfully.
    “Yeah,” says Giuseppe. “We should be with Sicilians.”
    “Well, we’re here—not there.” Francesco waves to a man who’s been a hired hand in the vegetable fields many times. The man stares, then smiles uncertainly and waves back. “All right.” Francesco beckons us into a huddle. “I’m going off to talk. You do the same.”
    “How can I be friendly if I can’t speak English?” mutters Giuseppe.
    “You drank and ate with people when we lived in New Orleans, and you were no better at English then than you are now. What, Giuseppe? You want us to talk to no one but each other for the rest of our lives? They’re the first ones who have treated us nice since we got here. If you don’t understand, stuff your mouth with food and nod. Keep smiling and you’ll have a good time.” Francesco straightens up tall and marches off.
    It’s funny, because I think of Francesco as strong and blustery. But the way he squared his shoulders just now, I can tell he’s trying to be brave.
    We watch him disappear into the throng and I sense my uncles’ spirits flag. They’ll feel worse when I leave, too. Where is Patricia?
    “Hi, stranger.” A hand clamps down on my shoulder. It’s Charles.
    Rock is beside him. He clamps a hand on Cirone’s shoulder. “Hey, Dancer.”
    Cirone smiles slow, almost shy. “Hi.”
    “Your foot all right?”
    “Fine,” says Cirone. “It was fine the next day.”
    “Ben said it: you got spirit, Dancer. He off playing the graduate, by the way,” Charles says to me, as though I’d asked. “Y’all see the seat of his pants?”
    “No,” I say. I don’t understand the question.
    “Big and round. Someone put a throne back there.” Charles laughs.
    I look at Rock for an explanation.
    “Ben shaking hands with everyone, like some king,” says Rock.
    Charles kicks the dirt. “The graduate. I be doing it in another couple of years.”
    “I’ll shake King Ben’s hand,” I say.
    “Shake it now,” says Charles. “Come with us.” He leads the way.
    “No,” I say.
    “Huh?” Charles turns.
    “I’m going to stay with my uncles awhile.”
    Rock glances over at Giuseppe and Carlo and Rosario. They’re standing in a row with their hands folded in front of their bellies, looking vaguely stunned. Rock nods to me. “See y’all later.”
    “I’ll come,” says Cirone, not shy at all.
    The three of them leave. Cirone abandoned me. But, hey, if I’d seen Patricia by now, I’d have left him behind, too.
    Rosario sidles up to me. “Looking for someone?” He winks. “Patricia,” he sings very very softly right into my ear. “Patricia, Patricia.”
    My cheeks go hot. Thank heavens the others can’t hear. “She’s just a friend.”
    “I’ve seen how you are with her,” whispers Rosario. “I felt like that about a girl back in New Orleans.” Before I can protest, he jerks his chin. “Look! Joe Evans. Come on.”
    “You don’t speak English any better than us,” says Giuseppe.
    “Like Francesco says, we eat and smile. Come on.”
    “Not me,” says Carlo.
    Rosario leaves. Giuseppe rubs the back of his neck, then trails after him.
    It’s just Carlo and me.
    “All that food,” says Carlo. “I’m going to find new recipes. See you