The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real by Neta Jackson

second-floor apartment, I saw several stacks of empty boxes on the landing.
    The Bennetts are moving . . . Stu needs an apartment . . .
    I sighed. I probably should run upstairs right now and ask if they’d found someone to sublet yet, but it wasn’t like they’d asked me to look for a renter. In fact, it wasn’t really my business to make sure they found some-one to sublet—not even my business to find Stu an apartment, was it?
    You’re stalling, Jodi Baxter. Just ask.
    By that time,Willie Wonka was done with his business and waiting eagerly with his nose to the back door, begging to be let in. I shivered inside my thin sweater. Better get my coat before I run upstairs.
    No sooner had I dried off Willie’s cold toes and grabbed my jacket, however, than the phone rang. I picked it up.
    â€œJodi? Delores. Got your message yesterday, but I had to work. Can you talk now?”
    â€œSure, Delores.” I tossed my jacket onto a dining room chair and wandered into the living room to sit in the recliner near the front windows. “Nobody’s home from school yet—Amanda joined the Spanish club, and Josh has discovered the debate team. Don’t really like them get-ting home after dark, but guess it’ll work out as long as Josh can walk her home from the bus.”
    â€œSpanish club?” I could hear the pleasure in Delores’s voice. “ Muy bueno! She’ll be bilingual before you know it, Jodi. A lot of service jobs want someone who can also speak español. After all, Hispanics are the fastest growing minority in the—”
    â€œYes, I know.” I tried to focus on the reason I’d wanted Delores to call—and on my resolve to talk honestly about our concerns. “Delores, could we talk about José wanting to give Amanda a quinceañera? Denny and I have been thinking about it . . .”
    â€œOh, sí! Sí! He is so excited about it and has so many plans.”
    I stifled a groan. This was not going to be easy.
    â€œThat’s what I’m afraid of, Delores. He really needs to not make any plans until Denny and I can make a decision. That’s why I need to talk to you.”
    â€œAh. Of course. I understand.Tell me what you need to know.”
    I took a deep breath. “Well, I did read some stuff on the Internet about the background of the Mexican quinceañera, and all the traditional ways to celebrate a girl becoming a woman—but of course you know all that.”
    Her laugh tinkled in my ear. “Oh, sí. My quinceañera . . . so special!” And for the next few minutes, Delores chatted on and on about the fiesta her parents gave for her fifteenth birthday in Colima, Mexico. “Except my parents were Pentecostal, not Catholic, so we modified the religious service.”
    â€œReally? I mean, you can do that?”
    â€œSure.” Delores chuckled. “Of course, the abuelas y tías —grandmothers and aunties—rolled their eyes and beat their bosoms. ‘What? No mass? No veil?’ For the old ones, it has to be ‘just so’—meaning just like their own quinceañera. They are . . . well, never mind.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNada, nada. I mean, it’s a long story. The tension between traditional Catholics and the ‘new Protestants’ in Mexico has broken apart many families. I . . . my abuela hasn’t spoken to me since I married Ricardo in a Protestant wedding.”
    â€œBut Ricardo . . . is he . . . I mean, he doesn’t attend church with you at Iglesia.”
    â€œHe used to . . . but you know how it is. He had to drive the trucks on Sunday. Then José got shot, and Ricardo’s angry at God. Then he lost his job . . .”
    I’d only met Delores’s husband one time; he was sit-ting like a bump on a log in José’s hospital room last May, barely speaking. “Oh, Delores. I’m sorry.”
    â€œJust keep praying for