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Informationen zum Autor David Bowles Klappentext Thirteen-year-old Gèuero stands by and supports his first girlfriend, Joanna, after the sudden deportation of her father. Leseprobe Los detallitos “I’ll be your girlfriend.” That’s what she said, so I haven’t needed to define the relationship. We make our feelings clear with detallitos, all the little things that speak louder than words. Like when I meet her outside of class one day and bend down to tie her loose shoelace. Or when we’re walking home and I step too close to the road just as a semitruck speeds by, and she yanks me onto the grass. Or when we stop at the dollar store and buy ingredients for spaghetti, which we cook together at my house because my family’s at the dentist. Or when I find her standing alone one morning, a block from school, looking sad, so I hug her from behind till she leans back into me, sighing. Or when one of Snake’s minions trips me in the hall, but she catches me, and everyone applauds as she slowly pulls me straight, looking into my eyes. I’m a poet, but all these small gestures say more than any words I could arrange. Sunday Morning at the Taquería Our family is Catholic. Can’t eat before Sunday mass because of the sacrament. So we go to the early service, stomachs rumbling, and try to stay focused. By 9:00 a.m., we’re hurrying out of St. Joseph’s, piling into Dad’s pickup. He almost peels out, making Mom click her tongue as he heads to Taquería Morales a few blocks away. Most Sundays, the mayor and his wife are already eating—- they’re Baptists, lucky ducks. They can eat all they want before church. Mr. Morales seats us, serves cinnamon coffee and orange juice in cups bearing the green logo of Club León, his favorite fútbol team. We order. I get my usual, chorizo and eggs, with its sides of fried potatoes and beans, which I spoon into fluffy flour tortillas along with salsa verde. By this time, other parishioners come spilling in. Dad greets some, ignores others, like his former boss. Then in walks Joanna’s father, Adán Padilla. I try a natural smile as he nods at my parents. “Buenos días, Don Carlos, Doña Judith. ¿Qué tal, Güero?” I give a shaky wave and nod. “¿Y su familia?” my mom asks. “En casa. I’m picking up taquitos.” Mr. Morales hands him a paper bag bulging with food. He pays and leaves. Dad sips his coffee, shaking his head. “A shame. That man should be a pillar of the town. Güero, you looked nervous.” Mom’s left eyebrow arches the way it always does when she gets suspicious. “Does he not know you like his daughter?” I shrug, my face going red. “Not sure.” I check my phone. No text from Joanna. My parents mutter about new scandals and old gossip. I lean forward, trying to catch snatches, till Mom frowns. “Cosas de adultos,” she says, flicking me back in my seat with her eyes. “Do y’all know everyone’s secrets?” I ask, still wondering why Dad used the word shame. He laughs. “It’s a small town, m’ijo. And the nosiest folks are packed inside this taquería, including you. Now, finish your almuerzo.” So I take another bite. But my eyes wander across the crowded tables, and my ears strain to hear past clinking and laughter, the constant heartbeat of my community. The Kiss The next day, first Monday of May, Joanna and I take a shortcut after school through the orange grove near my house. “You know,” she says, letting go of my hand to wipe a sweaty p...
