The Tequila Worm by Viola Canales Page A

the car into the church parking grounds and turned it off. I leaned over and whispered into Berta’s ear. She smiled. I pulled my seat back. I gently felt the pedals.
    “Lucy, come sit with me. You’re going to help me drive Berta around.” Lucy beamed. As we went around the church’s parking lot for the tenth time, with Lucy at the helm, she lit up more and more.
    “She drives
way
better than you!” Berta said.
    Then Berta went back to driving, but now with our new
comadre
Lucy sitting between us. Something so simple as letting Lucy steer meant the whole world to her. I had to remember to jot that down in the notebook Tía Petra had given me.
    “Hey,” said Lucy, “will you and Berta help me plan my
quinceañeara
?”
    “You’re barely
ten
!” I said.
    “Hooray, Lucy!” said Berta. “It’s
never
too early to start.
Of course
I’ll help you. And here’s some important advice: forget getting any help from Sofia on this. She’s great at bugs, books, soccer, and crazy things, but—”
    “But I want Sofia to be my maid of honor,” Lucy said.
    “Whatever you want. Do you have a boyfriend too?” I said.
    “Maybe I can get Noe to be my boyfriend.” Berta and I started laughing.
    “Okay,” I said, “you work on that. And while I’m away at school, I want you to spend time with your
comadre
planning
,
and be sure to write me about it.”
    “Okay. Can we make our
quinceañera
dresses, just like you and Berta made your school dresses?”
    “Sure, sure, whatever you want,” I said, kissing Lucy’s forehead.
    “Sofia, when are you planning to pack? You leave soon!” said Berta.
    I sighed. “I know. I know.” The thought of packing scared me. I just didn’t feel ready to go.
    When we finally returned to the
abuelitos’
house, we found Mama and Abuelita sitting at the big round kitchen table drinking hot coffee and admiring a blue ceramic whale. “It’s for the Christmas
nacimiento
this year,” Abuelita said. “And Sofia, you will be the Christmas
madrina
.” It was too hot to pay attention.
    “Mama, how can you stand this heat?” I said, opening the freezer door and sticking my head inside. “Do you think it’ll ever rain?”
    “As a child,” Mama said, “I’d stand saints on their heads to try making it rain. But the best thing for keeping cool was getting my father to buy a big block of ice at the ice store. I used the metal ice scraper we bought in Mexico to go back and forth, back and forth on the ice block until I got enough shaved ice for ten
raspas
. For syrup, I used an extra-sweet pitcher of red hibiscus water.”
    We kissed the
abuelitos
good-bye, got back into Berta’s car, and headed to the
raspa
stand on Twenty-third Street.
    As we sat outside the stand at a lime green table under a bright blue tarp, the sun slowly began to set. The rainbow
raspa
felt cool and refreshing on my tongue.
    “Girls, the
canicula
isn’t really that bad, and it’s only for forty days,” Mama said. “And sitting here, eating an ice-cold
raspa,
watching the sun set, is actually rather nice, especially compared to what the
canicula
meant when I was your age.
    “Then, it was being out in the blazing sun, picking cotton. Your papa and I did that for many years growing up.”
    A young boy dropped his three just-bought cherry
raspas
on the hot pavement. “It’s the
canicula,
” I said, and gave him a crisp dollar for new ones—a cucumber dollar I’d earned at the packing shed.
    When we got home, we found Papa out in the back-yard standing beside his grill. Nobody could beat Papa’s fajitas.
    Mama went into the kitchen and started conjuring up a stack of flour tortillas and chili salsa. She made a batch of refried beans and saved a bowl of whole beans for Papa and me.
    After a glorious fajita feast, Lucy came in carrying a round chocolate cake with fifteen candles blazing. She and Berta had secretly baked it at Berta’s house. Papa grabbed his guitar and they all stood around me