Barefoot Dogs Read Free Page B

and I feel tears rolling down my cheeks. The waiter arrives with the check and the bank teller or the insurance salesman pays with cash. Next they rise and head down the street, and I can now see her face, radiant and full of peace. Diane rests her head on the ill-fitting shoulder pad of his suit and holds his hand as they walk away. She’s never looked more beautiful and triumphant. Grandpa’s lips are now bleeding, one of the fat guys has just punched him in the face. My hands are trembling, my heart’s about to blow. I still refuse to believe that the bank teller or the insurance salesman loves Diane back the same, but they stop and kiss under the pale moonlight of the night the city turned its back on me, and it astounds me to see how little they need to feel like a million bucks.

OKIE
    Ms. Brinkman said that writing could help, and handed me a notebook. She was sitting on her desk, and I was standing in front of it. The other kids were already on the playground. She called it a journal, and said she had one at home. She wrote in it every night. Some nights, she said, it’s just a paragraph about a special moment I enjoyed during the day, others, I can write pages on end. It makes those happy moments even more memorable, she said, and it makes those not so happy ones feel less important. After I read them on the page I realize they’re not such a big deal, she said, and smiled. The classroom smelled like new carpet and sharpened pencils. Third grade had just started, and I was the only new kid in class. Ms. Brinkman said I didn’t have to show her what I wrote. Just write, sweetie. If you feel like showing it to me, I’ll be happy to read it. If you don’t, that’s okay. If you feel like talking about it, that would be great as well.
    I came home that night and told Josefina what Ms. Brinkman had said. I showed her the notebook. I explained that Ms. Brinkman had called it a journal. What’s the difference, Josefina asked. I’m not sure, I said. I guess you write regularstuff in a notebook and important stuff in a journal? Josefina wanted to know if I was going to use it. I don’t know, I said. It’s beautiful, she said. We were packed into the kitchen of the tiny house we’d just moved into. Josefina was loading the dishwasher with frying pans. She’d just learned how to use it. Why do you think she gave it to you? Just because, I guess? I replied. Josefina said what she always did. Don’t lie to me, Bernardo. I know you. You can fool everybody but me. Please don’t tell my parents, I said. Why would I? she asked. I don’t know. Have I ever told them something you’ve asked me not to? No. Why would I start now? I don’t know, I said. We’re here now. So? Things are different now. I’m not different. I’m the same old Josefina. I supposed that was true. She kept wearing the blue-and-white uniform she did back home, she still braided her long black hair, she still looked sweaty all the time. Are you going to tell me why she gave it to you? I don’t participate much in class. I don’t speak with anybody at school. Why’s that? That’s what Ms. Brinkman wanted to know. So, did you tell her? No. I just don’t feel like talking to anyone here.
    After dinner I went to my room and opened the notebook. I had never seen one of these before. It was black-and-white and sturdy, and had the word Composition printed on the cover. I stared at the white page. Mom’s taking swimming lessons in the same pool as me, I wrote. I don’t like it . I closed the notebook and put it in my backpack. When my parents and my little brother were asleep I went to Josefina’s room. She was still awake, already in her flannel gown decorated with daisies, reading the Bible. Her room smelled like the rose hand cream she always applied after doing dishes. Hers was not in the back, away from ours, like at home, but next to the kitchen, and looked like any other room in the house. All the rooms, including hers, had rough beige