Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa Read Online Free PDF Page A

short of staring at me, sort of wistfully. Weirdly . . .
    It hits me. “There’s more.”
    â€œShe’s going to stay with Tía Rosa.”
    I nod. “Go on.”
    â€œBut like I said, she isn’t in great shape, and she hasn’t seen her sisters in years. I don’t want her here all alone. She needs someone to stay with her.” He swallows. “Emily, she needs you. You have to stay here with your mother.”

Three
    A unt Rosa’s house looks different when it’s empty. Not bigger, though, like you’d think. Instead it’s filled with clutter: big, overstuffed chairs strewn with throw pillows, bright books and school supplies that probably belong to her younger daughters; inexpensive, simple jewelry that might be Lucy’s. It’s not like Isabelle’s house, where the televisions are flat screen and the sofas are sectional. It’s not even like my house, where the doorways between rooms are thick and molded. Rosa lives in Río Piedras, which is the primary suburb of San Juan, very middle-class.
    Compared to Isabelle and Adrienne, I’m middle-class, but thinking about that, making direct comparisons between my home in New York and Rosa’s—“ Tía Rosa,” as she has asked me to call her—makes me feel suddenly, inexplicably guilty.
    â€œAnd our washing machine is in the back, in the room behind the kitchen,” Tía Rosa says, finishing up on a grand tour of the place. There is a kitchen, a living room, a den, the basement where Max had sought sweet refuge, and four bedrooms. Four bedrooms seem like a lot until you realize that one belongs to Rosa, who has been on her own since her husband died four years ago; one belongs to Lucy; and one is shared between Lucy’s three younger sisters, Pilar, Ana, and Dora.
    Lucy’s older brother, José, has his own room as well. This hardly seems fair given how little time he spends at home—at least, as far as I’ve seen, which admittedly isn’t that much.
    Anyway, he’s not home now.
    Pilar, who is thirteen, can’t seem to bring herself to care about the washer-dryer combo, not that I blame her. Ana and Dora, who are ten and eight, respectively, gaze at their mother with appropriate if practiced admiration.
    Lucy stands off to one side. Her hand is on her hip, and she is trying not to pout. I note that she is either not trying all that hard or not succeeding.
    â€œGloria, you and”—she chokes on my name briefly—“ Emily will stay in Lucy’s room.”
    â€œThanks, Lucy,” I say, trying to coax the sourpuss off her face. “That’s really cool of you to share. We don’t snore, I promise.”
    She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to stay in the girls’ room.”
    My face must give me away because Tía Rosa quickly jumps in. “Don’t worry, chica , there’s plenty of room. We just wanted to be sure that you and your mother have enough privacy.”
    Lucy’s expression does not change. I don’t think she’s blinked in, like, twenty minutes. The surface of her eyeballs must be burning.
    â€œLucy, show them the room,” Tía Rosa says.
    Dutifully Lucy jerks her head toward us and then shuffles down a short hallway. Pilar and Ana grab at my mother and my suitcases, shooing us away when we offer to take them ourselves. Of course, the bags aren’t that heavy—we’d only packed for a weekend. But still, there is something slightly off about seeing my ten-year-old cousin hoisting my belongings for me.
    Lucy stops in her doorway. “It’s not exactly a mansion ,” she says, edgy.
    I peer in.
    She’s right; it’s not. But it’s not exactly a shack, either. It’s just big enough to house a twin bed, a desk, a bureau, and a bookcase, all in matching white wood. There’s a poster on the wall of a tejano star I vaguely recognize from