Confetti Girl by Diana Lopez

all I got was the first zit.
    I decide to call out. “Vanessa! Carlos!”
    A few seconds later, they peek over the dune.
    “There you are,” I say. “Your dad’s ready to go.”
    After we drop off Luís, we head to Carlos’s house.
    “Are we still meeting at noon tomorrow?” Carlos asks Vanessa.
    “If it’s still okay with my dad.”
    “It’s okay,” Mr. Cantu says.
    “What are you talking about?” I ask.
    “Carlos and I are going to Target to buy some stuff for our project.”
    “Oh, great,” I say. “I need to buy some film and a poster board.”
    “You mean you want to go?” she asks, glancing at Carlos. “Because it’s not really a shopping trip. It’s homework. You know,
     for our science class.”
    I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Vanessa and I
always
go to Target together.
    “Maybe we can go next weekend,” Vanessa says.
    “Sure,” I say. “Next weekend.”
    I try to act like I don’t care, but I do. When her dad drops me off, I say goodbye and pretend everything’s okay even though
     I’m feeling like a sitcom that’s been cancelled for a snazzier show.

Panza llena, corazón contento –
Full belly, happy heart
15
Eat Quiche
    L ast Thanksgiving, my dad and I nuked turkey potpies in the microwave. We ate alone even though Vanessa and her mom had invited
     us over. We should have joined them, but it was our first Thanksgiving without Mom, and somehow my dad and I knew we couldn’t
     let ourselves have fun. I still miss my mom’s turkey stuffing with the celery and mushrooms. But if she saw me moping around,
     she’d be mad. She’d say life’s too short for so much sadness. So this year we accepted Ms. Cantu’s invitation to celebrate
     at her house.
    “I guess she wants to show her appreciation for all my help,” Dad says.
    He’s talking about the errands he’s been running for her. Ever since Ms. Cantu broke her leg, my dad’s been driving back and
     forth from the high school, the grocery store, and the post office. He even delivered some of her Avon products. And now,
     every time he cooks eggs, he saves the shells, and when he has a dozen, he delivers them to Ms. Cantu.
    We cross the street to Vanessa’s house around three in the afternoon.
    “Come in. Come in,” Ms. Cantu says.
    She’s got crutches under her arms, but she still manages to greet me with a smothering hug—the kind where I’m stooped over
     while she pats my head and says
la pobrecita
over and over again. Today, her oversized T-shirt has a cornucopia with glittery fruit.
    Ms. Cantu has set the table with candles, flowers, and her best china and silverware, which surprises me because even on special
     occasions, Ms. Cantu’s a paper plate kind of person. She hates washing dishes and so does Vanessa.
    “You two sit down,” she says. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
    “Maybe we should help you,” my dad suggests.
    “No, no. We can manage.”
    When she leaves, my dad whispers to me, “Go and help them anyway.”
    I nod, happy for something to do. I go to the kitchen where Vanessa’s taking a pie plate from the oven.
    “I can’t believe what we’re eating,” she says.
    “What’s wrong with the food?”
    Ms. Cantu interrupts before Vanessa can explain.
    “Okay, girls, take the bowls to the table,” she says.
    One by one, we take mashed potatoes, marshmallow yams, green bean casserole, cranberries, and biscuits to the dining room.
     Vanessa follows with the pie plate. Then Ms. Cantu comes in with some matches to light the candles.
    “Well, that’s everything,” she says. “I hope you have big appetites.”
    “It looks… um… different than I expected,” my dad says.
    It
does
look different because there’s a key item missing. “Where’s the turkey?” I ask.
    “Right there,” Ms. Cantu says, pointing to the pie plate.
    “That’s turkey?”
    “It’s turkey quiche.”
    “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Vanessa says. “Everyone else is having