Stories from the Life of a Migrant Child Read Online Free PDF Page B

grapes, than it started to pour. Our cabin was one of several farm-worker shacks lined up in a row, behind which ran a small creek.
    There was not a lot to do when it rained. We stayed indoors telling ghost stories we had heard from other migrant workers. We also played guessing games. When I got tired of listening to the same stories told many times before, I watched our neighbor's goldfish. From our window I could see into the next cabin, where a fishbowl sat on a small table. I spent hours glued to our window, watching the goldfish glide in slow motion, stirring the jade green plants with its delicate fins. Mamá enjoyed watching it too. She called it
el Angel de Oro.
    Papá passed most of his time worrying. He smoked one cigarette after another and complained about the rain because we could not pick the cotton when it was wet. "If this rain doesn't stop we'll have to leave and find work somewhere else," he repeated, pacing up and down the floor. Even the thought of rain gave him a headache. Luckily for me, I got to go to school the following week.
    Monday morning, after getting Mamá's blessing, I headed for school, which was only about a mile from the cotton labor camp. I could see it from where we lived. On the way, I met Miguelito, who lived in the same labor camp. He was two years older than I and had started school for the first time that year a month earlier, in October. He took me to the main office and translated into Spanish some of the questions the principal asked me. Before I was led to my third-grade class, Miguelito and I agreed to meet on the playground after school and walk home together.
    Miguelito was already waiting for me when I got to the playground. We started walking toward the labor camp, following the same route we had taken that morning. The path was muddy and full of puddles, just like the school playground. Miguelito and I imagined the puddles were lakes and we pretended to be giants stepping over them. We counted out loud the number of lakes we stepped over, trying to outdo each other. Miguelito had longer legs than I did, but I kept up with him until I slipped and lost my balance. My right foot landed right in one of the puddles, splashing muddy water on my clean overalls and on Miguelito. The cardboard inside my shoe got soggy and started to fall apart. Once I collected myself, Miguelito and I began laughing. We continued walking, but every time we looked at each other, we would start laughing again. This went on until we arrived at the labor camp.
    As we approached our cabin, I knew no one was home because our
Carcachita,
our old jalopy, was not parked in front. "Want to come in?" I asked.
    "I have to go home first," he answered. "I'll come back in a little while."
    "I'll be in the back by the creek," I said. "Don't forget, our cabin is number ten."
    "I live ten cabins down from you, number twenty," Miguelito replied cheerfully.
    I went inside our cabin. It was cold and quiet. I went over to our window to look at our neighbor's goldfish. I watched it swim back and forth. I
wonder if he gets lonely,
I thought to myself. I then went out behind our cabin, and sat on a rock by the edge of the creek. I listened to the water murmur and watched the little gray fish play with each other. The current gently tugged at the plants growing in the water. I picked up some pebbles and tossed them in one at a time, trying not to hit the fish.
    "What are you doing?" asked Miguelito, coming up behind me and making me jump.
    "I am just watching the little fish while I wait for my parents to get back from work."
    "Do you want to catch some?"
    "Catch what?" I asked.
    "Fish,
tonto,
" he replied, chuckling.
    Before I could answer, he jumped up like a grasshopper, ran over to a small pepper tree that was a few yards away, and yanked off two branches. "These are our fishing poles," he said excitedly, handing one over to me. "Tomorrow I'll bring the other stuff and we'll finish making them."
    That night it