The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano Read Online Free PDF Page B

that’s all.”
    Wilfredo had dropped out of school his last year and now just mostly hung around, decorating the neighborhood with his presence. I didn’t remember him having any job.
    â€œWhy don’t you use that key in your hand?”
    His eyes got narrow. But he still looked good.
    â€œWhat a lot of questions you be asking me.”
    â€œLet me just check with my boss about making your key.”
    â€œOh, come on. You so afraid you’ve got to ask permission to make a stupid little key?”
    â€œNo, I … just …”
    And suddenly, as fast and bright as Wilfredo had been a minute ago, he got slow and dark. “Hey, just forget it, Mamita. I’ll get this done by someone else. I just thought you were cool. But I guess I be wrong.” He snatched the key out of my hand, looked over his shoulder, and turned to go. Then, like he’d had a second thought, he turned back, and looking to where the tools were, he hurried over and got a crowbar.
    â€œWrap this up for me, okay?”
    I wrapped the crowbar, nervous that Wilfredo wouldn’t have money to pay for it, but he did. I handed the crowbar to him and watched him meet his boys outside the store.
    Were they Viceroys or Dragons? I couldn’t tell from where I was standing. I came out from behind the counter to get a better look, but when I saw that Dolores had been watching the whole thing from her place at the paper goods counter, I scurried back and patted my bangs.

T wo weeks with Abuela felt like a month as the snipes between her and Mami grew sharper and sillier. They argued about everything. One night when I came home, they were standing over a pot on the stove in the kitchen.
    â€œI can tell you right now that Porfirio doesn’t like those kinds of beans,” Mami said. “He only likes red beans and black beans.”
    â€œThese beans don’t go with rice. These you eat alone. It’s bean soup. Like asopao ,” Abuela countered.
    â€œHe hates any kind of sopa that isn’t asopao or Cuban black bean soup. Any other kind of soup is for when you feel sick,” Mami argued.
    Next they bickered about a song.
    Abuela had put on an old 78 record. It must’ve been one of the first records ever made. It was thicker than a Frisbee, but still played. Even the big wave in its vinyl didn’t prevent it from playing as it undulated around the turntable. The music was super corny. It was by a group called Pajarito y su Conjunto . The sound coming from it was so full of static, and so scratchy, that I could barely hear it. From what I could make out, it told a story about a massacre.
    â€œWhy do you have to play that song?” Mami said tightly. “Can’t we just have music about amor ?”
    â€œThis is about love . Love of Puerto Rico.”
    â€œIt’s about bad memories,” said Mami.
    Both were silent as the music played.
    Heavy air had swelled between these two stubborn women. I muttered, “I gotta get … something from my room.”
    My bedroom was still a mess with Abuela’s stuff all over. I had to move her pink and orange long-line padded bras off the dresser just to be able to open my top drawer, which was stuck. I jiggled the drawer as hard as I could, and pulled the whole thing out of the dresser, spilling everything onto the floor — panties with the days of the week printed on them, hair rollers, clips, bandanas, and the thing that was jamming up the works — a photo album filled with greeting cards and pictures.
    Three Valentine’s Day cards and one Christmas card slipped out. The Valentines were puffy hearts. One was from a “Hernán,” another was from “René.” My abuela had lots of boyfriends.
    There was also a Christmas card that my mother had sent Abuela in 1965. I couldn’t believe Abuela had saved a card for four years. She didn’t seem like the sentimental type. Keeping old Christmas cards was