Delia’s Crossing by V.C. Andrews Page B

least a week or so. He said my aunt told him that all of the kitchen utensils were there, dishes and glassware, too. A vacuum cleaner, pails and mops, brooms and rags for cleaning were in the pantry. As she had said, it was a house she usually rented out. From the way Señor Baker spoke, it sounded as if mi tía Isabela owned many properties. Señor Baker told me mi tía Isabela’s husband had been very smart about his real estate investments.
    “You should be very grateful,” he said. “Your aunt is making a big investment in you. She’s paying me a lot of money to teach you English quickly.”
    He looked at me to see if I appreciated what mi tía was doing for me, but it didn’t feel as if she was helping me. It felt more as if she was looking for a way to get rid of me.
    “Your aunt is paying for everything we need and buy, so choose whatever you like to eat,” he said. When we entered the supermarket, he said, “Go on. Get anything you want, just like a kid turned loose in a candy store.”
    He gave me a cart to push and fill up. I had never seen a supermarket as big as this one. There were so many choices of every food imaginable. I was like a child turned loose in a candy store. How did anyone know what to choose? Pictures on boxes told me what many things were, but many were difficult to understand.
    Señor Baker followed along and explained things, translating them for me and telling me something about everything. I had to admit it was very educational. He actually paused to tell someone I was his student.
    “Nothing like hands-on, day-to-day life to help someone learn a language fast,” he explained to a woman who seemed to know him. “Right, Delia?” he asked me. He repeated what he had said in Spanish quickly, and I nodded. It did sound right.
    Maybe what he was doing would be good, I thought hopefully. Maybe he wasn’t as terrible a man as I imagined he might be. He was a teacher, and when I thought of a teacher, I thought of Señora Cuevas. Like her, surely, he had to have some pride in his students and his accomplishments. If I learned English well and quickly, he would be successful, and I had no doubt that mi tía Isabela was paying him well and might even give him some sort of bonus.
    I felt myself relax and became more and more interested in the choices of cereals, rices, beans, and breads. The sight of the meat and fish counters was overwhelming. There was so much. This was truly what I was told to expect in America.
    “Are you a good cook?” he asked me.
    I explained how I had learned many dishes from mi abuela Anabela. When I described some, he made sure we had everything we needed to prepare them. Every item I chose he identified in English and had me repeat. As we moved about the supermarket, he would nod at people and things, saying the English words. “That woman is wearing a blue hat,” he would say, or “That man is here with his son.” Whatever he said, he had me repeat and then explained and had me repeat again.
    “You see,” he said, holding out his arms, “this way, the world is our classroom. Now, do you understand why I wanted to take you out of your aunt’s home and away from all of that distracting housework?”
    I had to admit I did understand, although I still felt very nervous and uncomfortable about it.
    Before we reached the cashier to get ourselves checked out, he made me go through the entire cart of food, calling each item by its English name, correcting my pronunciation.
    When the food we bought was checked out, he reviewed the numbers on the bill, and when we rolled the cart out of the supermarket, he stopped, turned to me, and asked in English, “Where do you want to go now?”
    “Where?” The question seemed so obvious I thought I was misunderstanding him. “ Dónde ?”
    “No, no, only in English. Where?” he asked again.
    I shrugged.
    To the car, I thought. Where else?
    I said so, and he smiled. “That’s it. Think in English. Say to the car,”