Rodolfo sat up, with grass in his hair. He was reading the book that had covered his face. “This is pretty good,” he said of the story about children lost at sea.
Miata and Ana got up, brushing grass off their skirts.
“Thanks, Rudy.” Miata beamed. She started to walk away with Ana. Then she stopped and said, “I didn’t know you were good at math.”
“I’m better at shooting hoops,” he said, getting onto his bike. “Let’s play sometime.”
Miata returned home with Ana.
“I’m going to throw the skirt on the clothesline,” Miata said. “It smells like the bus.”
She pinned the skirt to the line. It whipped bright as a flag in the May wind.
Miata and Ana went inside. They were careful to wipe their feet. It was Saturday, the day her mother mopped the kitchen.
“Hi, honey,” her mother greeted. She was at the kitchen table, opening the day’s mail. “Hi, Ana. Are you ready for tomorrow?”
Miata and Ana looked at each other.
“I guess so,” Ana said shyly.
Miata’s mother took down two glasses from the cupboard. She got a plastic pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. She looked down at Miata’s legs. “You scratched up your knee again?”
Miata looked down at her knees and said, “A little bit.” She touched the scab gently. She winced even though it didn’t hurt.
“How did you do that?”
The secret almost spilled out. Instead, Miata spilled lemonade from the pitcher. Two ice cubes skated across the floor. The girls cleaned up the mess and went to the living room to read their library books.
Ana left when Little Joe came into the house. His knees were caked with mud. She knew that he was going to be in trouble for dragging in dirt.
“Ay, you little chango!” his mother cried. She made him undress on the back porch. He had to run from the porch to the bathtub in his underwear.
When Miata’s father came home, he was whistling. He was happy because he had repaired a bus and earned a little extra money. He could look forward to a hundred-dollar check in next week’s mail.
“It was easy,” he said after a long swallow of water. He refilled his glass and continued. “It was just zip, and that baby was fixed in a minute. All because I’m the best welder in town.”
Miata’s mother smiled and said it was true. He was the best welder in the whole San Joaquin Valley. Little Joe came into the kitchen, a towel draped over his shoulders like a king’s cape. He looked around and ran away. He had spotted a small shoeprint on the floor. And it looked like one of his.
“What a little monkey,” his father said with affection. He turned to Miata, who was coloring at the kitchen table. “What did you do today?” he asked. “I saw you at the library with Ana. You two are going to dance like flowers tomorrow.”
Miata stuttered, “Ah, well, I checked some books out. We just hung around. We didn’t do anything.”
“I’m glad I got a good daughter,” her father said. “Some kids were fooling around on the buses.”
Miata stopped coloring.
“Did you catch them?” her mother asked.
“Nah. Henry saw them, but I was busy welding.”
Miata started coloring again. She was working on a picture of a tropical rain forest.
Her father sat down at the kitchen table. He said, “There were two girls and a boy on a bike.”
Miata stopped coloring again.
“But you know how kids are,” her father said. “They were just fooling around.”
Miata started coloring again. Her mother said, “You know, I saw two girls and a boy at the library. I wonder if it was them?”
Miata stopped coloring again. This time she gathered her crayons and picture and left the kitchen. She couldn’t stand to hear any more.
That night they had hamburgers, thick french fries, and root beer to wash it all down. After dinner her father turned on the television. Luckily for him and the rest of the Dodgers fans, it didn’t rain in San Diego. Her father cuddled up on the couch with Little Joe and Miata. Although the Dodgers lost 4–3, it was something to do on a Saturday night.
Sunday morning. The family sat down early to chorizo con huevos. They ate happily in silence, pinching up their breakfast with ripped pieces of tortilla. The radio in the kitchen was softly playing Mexican songs.
Miata’s mother took a sip of her coffee. Then, getting up, she said, “Miata, I have a surprise for you.”
Miata looked up. She had a little stain of ketchup in the corner of her mouth. Her mother went to the hall closet and returned with a crinkled bag.
“You have some stuff on your mouth, Miata,” Little Joe said. His cheek was flecked with ketchup and the corners of his mouth stained white with milk.
Miata pressed a napkin to her mouth and ignored her brother. She was curious about the bag in her mother’s hand.
“Now close your eyes,” her mother said. Her smile was bright.
Miata closed her eyes. Maybe it was a new jacket, she thought. Maybe it was a Nintendo. Maybe it was a pair of new shoes. Her mother had been promising her new shoes.
When her mother patted her hand, she opened her eyes. Her mother was holding up a skirt. A beautiful new folklórico skirt. The shiny lace rippled in the light. It smelled new. It was still stiff from not being worn.
“It’s pretty, mi’ja,” her father remarked. “You’ll be the prettiest girl at the dance.”
Miata forced a smile. “But I have a skirt, Mom.”
“That old thing?” her mother said. “Stand up.”
Her mother pressed the skirt to her waist. “It’s a little long, but you can wear it just for today.”
“It looks neat,” Little Joe said. He now had ketchup on his elbows.
“Thanks, Mom,” Miata said. She hugged her mother and went to her bedroom.
As Miata dressed for church she thought of all the trouble she went through to rescue her old skirt: slipping through the locked gate, rolling off the hood of the bus, getting scraped up. She remembered how they hid behind the oil barrel, and how Rodolfo just slurped on his soda while they were so scared. Qué bother! What a waste of time.
But it is pretty, she thought. She admired the new skirt that was fanned out on the bed. She liked the bright new colors and its fresh smell. She liked the rustle that sounded like walking through knee-high weeds. She pictured herself twirling in the middle of her friends.
She felt sorry for her old skirt. It was like a flower dead on its stem. She folded it carefully and put it in her bottom drawer. She brushed her hair and then stopped. She felt sad for her old skirt. It had belonged to her mother when she was a little girl.
She took it out of the bottom drawer. Next to the new skirt it looked faded as an old calendar. A blue stain darkened the hem. A piece of red lace was loose and falling off. The button was cracked. The skirt was smudged from time and wear.
“I’m going to take you both,” she said. “I won’t play favorites.”
She pushed both of the skirts into her backpack. She finished combing her hair and put on her milagro earrings.
“Andale,” her mother called from the living room. “We’re going to be late.”
Miata picked up her backpack and gave it a soft pat. “We’re going dancing,” she said to the skirts.
Miata’s father was outside warming up their car. Little Joe was stomping on an empty soda can. He was trying to hook it onto the bottom of his shoe. His father called Little Joe to get in the car. Miata and her mother came hurrying down the steps. A bloom of perfume and beauty trailed behind them.
Miata went to church with her family. The priest talked and talked, but Miata yawned only three times. Tears of sleepiness came to her eyes. Her mother seemed happy. She kept looking down at Miata and Little Joe.
After church the dancers raced to the rectory, where they changed and practiced.
“Do your best,” Mrs. Carranza, the dance teacher, said. “And remember
to smile.”
“Here we go,” Miata said to Ana.
The six girls marched out to the courtyard. Their faces were bright. Their hair was coiled into buns. They stood in a circle with their hands on their hips. As the cassette music played, Miata spun around the courtyard. The grown-ups and kids all ate donuts and watched.
Miata twirled like a pinwheel, the old skirt showing under the new skirt. Miata was wearing both of them. Her mother recognized the old skirt and clapped and smiled proudly at her daughter. And everyone, even the babies, clapped for the spinning colors of Mexico.
Afterword
When I write, if the corners of my mouth lift up in a smile, if I hum, if my fingers fly over the keys of my computer, then I’m certain that whatever I’m working on will crack up readers. My body tells me that I’m in a groove and reminds me that writing, while often tiring and worrisome, can be fun. I had all of them—smiley face, song, and dazzling finger action—when I wrote The Skirt. I imagined it would entertain a few readers, but I never really thought about the life of the book.
Since its publication sixteen years ago, The Skirt has found readers from the soft beaches of Southern California to the rocky shores of Rhode Island—and in cities, towns, and suburbs in between. Sometimes I think it is because of the main character, namely the spunky Miata Ramirez, a girl with a problem that she created herself: she has lost her ballet folklórico skirt and must retrieve it in time for her dance troupe’s performance, or she’ll just die of shame.
Aside from the main character and the element of dramatic time, The Skirt brings up the anxiety of losing something precious. We adults pat our pants for keys and wallets and push our hands into purses as we check for cell phones. Young people may fear losing bicycles, skateboards, jackets left on playground structures, baseball caps, iPods, Game Boys, jewelry, and what little money they own. Somehow these things get lost, and young people shake with fear at reporting the losses to their parents. But young people aren’t alone. I lose things, or should I say “misplace” things, daily. For instance, I once was certain that I had left my watch on the coffee table, but when I stood very quietly in the kitchen I heard its tick-tick coming from the half-open junk drawer.
The Skirt offers a cast of characters—Miata’s best friend, Ana; the two knuckleheaded boys Rudy and Alex; and Miata’s warmhearted parents. We get to know them, and get to like them—and we may see a little of their likable characteristics in our own friends and parents. In short, this story is realistic, meaning true, meaning it could have happened.
Also, at the heart of the book, the folklórico skirt represents ethnic culture—in this case, Mexican culture. Miata, who speaks English and Spanish, who loves hot dogs and enchiladas, is really pursuing her culture. She wants to honor her heritage by continuing to participate in it—not by losing it!
A scholar once said that happy literature has no history, that literature that bubbles with fun may not last. I think that grouchy person is wrong.
Now, for the fun of it, list all the things you’ve ever lost, while I get back to what I was doing: hunting for my reading glasses.
November 2006
Gary Soto, The Skirt
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