Breaking Through (4 page)

To make friends, I began to pay close attention to what my classmates did and talked about. During recess, the girls talked about boys, music, and dancing. The boys discussed sports, cars, and girls. When they got together, they talked about different songs and singers and about going to dances on Saturday nights at the Veterans Memorial Building, which was across the street from El Camino Junior High. Sometimes their animated conversations turned into arguments about the best singer or song. Many of the song titles were funny: "Jailhouse Rock," "Rock Around the Clock," and "Venus in Blue Jeans." I tried to make sense out of them and pictured them in my mind. Why would a rock circle a clock? Why would the planet Venus dress in jeans? I soon discovered that rock 'n' roll was a type of popular music. For me, music and dancing were more interesting and fun than sports or cars.

Roberto and I began to tune in to rock 'n' roll music on the radio. We listened to Little Richard and Elvis Presley. I enjoyed the rhythm, but I did not pay much attention to the words like I did with Mexican music. Of all the popular singers, I liked Elvis the best. His fast songs released energy in my legs and made them move almost on their own. His slow songs were melancholy, like some Mexican ranchera songs.

Listening to Elvis paid off. During rainy days, when we could not go outside for recess, we stayed in our homeroom and played games. Miss Ehlis, our homeroom teacher, suggested forming small groups and coming up with skits for the whole class. I came up with the idea of creating a skit to show how banks charged interest on loans, since we were studying how to figure percentages in Mr. Milo's math class. Everyone in my group made a face. "What about something with music?" one of them said enthusiastically.

"Yeah, rock 'n' roll," another responded.

Here is my chance,
I thought. "How about me doing one of Elvis's songs?" I said nervously. They all dropped their jaws and looked at me as though they had seen a ghost.

"You! Doing Elvis? Elvis with a Mexican accent!" one said, laughing. Others snickered.

I felt blood rushing to my face. I clenched my hands and, like a bullfighter facing the bull, I demanded, "Why
not?" They all laughed. "Why not?" I repeated, annoyed. Their laughter died out.

"You're dead serious, aren't you? Okay, let's go for it!" exclaimed Robert Lindsay, an Elvis fan.

Next day Robert Lindsay brought in several of Elvis's records and played parts of them. I don't recall exactly why, but I picked "Treat Me Like a Fool." I took the record home and played it over and over on a record player that Roberto borrowed from Main Street School. I wrote the lyrics down and memorized them. The next time it rained during recess, it would be our group's turn to perform. That night I prayed for sunshine, but my prayers were not answered. It poured the next morning. I felt butterflies in my stomach. The idea of staying home went through my mind several times, but I had no choice. I had to do it.

At recess, my group was ready. They were my backup singers and moral support. Robert Lindsay introduced me as Elvis, and the class burst out laughing. Miss Ehlis stood in the back of the room with her arms crossed, smiling. My hands were cold and clammy. The record started and I began to lip-synch the longest song of my life. "Treat me like a fool. Treat me mean and cruel, but love me..." Everyone shouted and clapped, drowning out the music. Robert Lindsay raised the volume, and the class raised their own volume. Finally Miss Ehlis told everyone to quiet down. She asked me to start over. I felt more at ease and began the song again. My group swayed and clapped
to the rhythm of the song. When it was over, everyone cheered and clapped, including Miss Ehlis. Some yelled out, "That was cool, Frankie!" From that day on, I was an Elvis fan.

I told Roberto about my performance and asked him if we could attend the dance at the Veterans Memorial on Saturday night.

"You don't know how to dance and neither do I," he said.

"We can watch and listen to the music. Everyone talks about the dances at the Vets. They even announce them on the radio."

"They talk about the dances at my school too, but they say guys get drunk and get into fights."

"We can always leave if that happens. Come on, just once," I insisted. Roberto finally gave in. It was the first time we had gone out for fun by ourselves. We had gone to see Mexican movies in Fresno on rainy days when it was too wet to pick cotton, but it was always with our parents.

We arrived at the Veterans Memorial an hour after the dance started. Roberto parked the car in front of El Camino Junior High, right across the street from a circular lit park, next to the Vets building. Groups of boys were scattered throughout the park and in front of the building. Small clouds of cigarette smoke came up from the middle of their huddles. Roberto and I stayed in the
car, listening to the radio and watching like two investigators. Strings of boys and girls walked in and out the building, talking, laughing, and swaying to the music that blasted through the entrance door.

We finally got the courage to get out of the car. We cut our way through the crowd, bumping shoulders with boys who were standing in the doorway eyeing the girls passing by. We paid for our tickets and walked in. The music blared and vibrated throughout the building, which was set up like a theater. It had rows of seats on either side, a stage at the front, and an open space in the middle for dancing. The dim lights made it hard to see faces from across the room. The band onstage announced the next song and began to play it. Some of the songs I recognized because I had heard them on the radio, but many of them were new to me. The titles, "Bird Dog," "See You Later, Alligator," "Great Balls of Fire," amused me. Few people danced. Most of the boys stood on one side of the dance floor and the girls on the other side.
Maybe they don't know how to dance either,
I thought.

Roberto and I fit in perfectly. I listened to the music, not paying much attention to the lyrics, and studied the few couples dancing. Roberto seemed distracted, so I leaned over and whispered loudly in his ear to pay attention to the dancers. "Why?" he yelled back, annoyed. I did not think he would appreciate my telling him the reason right there and then.

"I'll tell you later."

We left the dance having spent not an ounce of energy on the dance floor, but many of the dance moves were etched in my mind. That night when we returned home, I had ringing in my ears and my clothes smelled like the ashtray in the principal's office at Main Street School. I turned on the radio and tuned it to the station that played rock 'n' roll music. "Haven't you had enough?" Roberto asked, looking puzzled. After a few commercial announcements, "Rock Around the Clock" by Bill Haley and the Comets came on. I grabbed Roberto's hands and started dancing, trying to imitate some of the moves I had witnessed at the Vets. "
Te has vuelto loco!
" he cried out, quickly pulling back his hands.

"I am not crazy! Come on, Roberto, let's dance!"

"Guys don't dance with each other," he said, laughing. "Besides, we don't know how."

"But if we don't try, we'll never learn. Come on," I insisted. "Remember at the Vets. Some of the girls danced with each other. Why? Because guys didn't ask them."

"Maybe the guys didn't know how."

"That's my point," I said. "If we learn..."

"I see your point, Panchito. We'll meet girls and make new friends."

"
Ándale,
" I said in agreement. "And have lots of fun too."

From that moment on, Roberto and I were secret dance
partners. We practiced about half an hour every day, after our ravioli dinners. We rarely missed going to the Vets on Saturday nights and eventually worked up the courage to ask girls to dance. My brother called me
Resortes,
"Rubber Legs."

I made friends with several classmates who attended the Vets regularly. Peggy Dossen was one of them. We always danced the last song. She was in my homeroom class and often teased me about having imitated Elvis. Whenever she did, I would say, "Treat me like a fool. Treat me mean and cruel, but love me." She would laugh as though it was the first time she had heard me say it.

One Friday after school, Peggy said she was not sure she could attend the next Vets dance. She asked me to call her Saturday night before Roberto and I left for the dance. She wrote her telephone number on a piece of paper from her binder, handed it to me, and ran to catch her ride before I had a chance to say anything. We did not have a telephone at home. I had never used one. My mind raced a mile a minute as I tried to figure out what to do. Then Joe and Espy Martínez's names popped into my mind. They were our neighbors with whom we shared the outhouse and garbage cans and the only ones at the ranch who had a phone. I decided to ask them if I could use it.

I nervously walked over to their barrack, followed by a pack of barking dogs. Joe greeted me and invited me in.
"Would you mind if I used your phone?" I asked.

"Of course not, Panchito," Espy said. "Go right ahead. It's on the table." The black phone was just like the phone in the principal's office. I took out the piece of notepaper with Peggy's number from my shirt pocket, unfolded it, and placed it next to the phone. I did not know what to do next. I glanced over at Espy, who caught my eye. "What's the matter, Panchito? Did you forget the number?"

"No," I responded, hesitating. She must have noticed the plea for help in my eyes.

"Here, let me dial it for you," she said, picking up the receiver. As I read out the numbers, she dialed them, one by one, slowly, giving me a chance to see how she did it. She then placed the receiver in my left hand, and I lifted it to my ear. I felt the sweat in the palm of my hand. After the third ring, I heard, "Hello." I recognized Peggy's voice. "Hello," she repeated, "is anybody there?"

"Peggy, it's me," I said in a whisper.

"Speak louder," she said. "I can hardly hear you." I looked over at Joe and Espy, who pretended not to pay attention.

"It's me, Francisco," I responded, raising my voice.

"I can't make the dance tonight. Sorry. I have to baby-sit. Are you going?"

"I think so." I was disappointed but anxious to end the conversation. I did not like talking to Peggy on the phone
because I could not see her face. My answers to her questions were brief, followed by dead silence. I figured she got tired of trying to get me to talk.

"I've got to go. See you at school," she said sharply.

"Yes," I said, easing my tight grip on the receiver. I hung up. The receiver was moist. I wiped it off on my shirtsleeve, thanked Joe and Espy, and darted out before they had a chance to ask me any questions.

The next time I saw Peggy, she asked me to walk her home after school. When Roberto came to pick me up, I told him that I would meet him at work and explained why. Peggy's house was a few blocks from Main Street School, on the east side of town. The houses in Peggy's neighborhood were different from the barracks in Bonetti Ranch. They had sidewalks, front lawns, and beautiful flower gardens. I did not have to watch out for potholes or stray dogs. I had been in a house once before. I was in the fifth grade when my friend Carl invited me to his home to see his coin collection. Peggy's house was twice as big as Carl's house. It was a two-story home with a double garage.

We were greeted at the door by a small white poodle with a red silk ribbon tied to it's tail. "This is Skippy," Peggy said. She picked him up, gave him a light kiss, and set him back down on the soft, white rug. The air had a sweet, perfume smell. As we passed by the kitchen, I noticed it had no odor at all. I thought this was odd. Our
kitchen always had a smell. Peggy introduced me to her parents, who were sitting in a spacious living room. "Mom and Dad, this is Francisco Jiménez, a friend of mine. The teachers and some kids call him Frankie." I felt butterflies in my stomach.

"Glad to meet you," I said, wiping my sweaty hand on the side of my pants before shaking hands with Peggy's father.

"Likewise, Frankie," he said, gripping my hand and shaking it several times. His voice was deep and strong like Papá's.

"Are you Spanish?" Mrs. Dossen asked politely. "I detect a strong accent."

"I am Mexican," I said proudly. "But born in Colton, California," I quickly added.

"That's interesting," Mr. Dossen said after a short silence. His wife nodded her head and smiled uneasily.

"Come on, Frankie, I'll show you my room," Peggy said, grabbing my hand. I pulled it away as I glanced at her parents, who seemed upset. Peggy and I climbed the stairs. Her poodle led the way, wagging it's tail. Her room was as large as our kitchen and bedroom combined. It had wall-to-wall white carpeting. The pink lace curtains in the two large windows matched the color of her bedspread, which was thick and fluffy. Her closet, full of clothes, was built into the wall, and the top of her dresser was covered with small perfume bottles, lipsticks, and miniature dolls.
The outside frame of the mirror on the dresser was full of pictures of her family and her poodle.

"It's nice!" I exclaimed.

"I am glad you like it." She removed several large stuffed animals from the bed and sat on the edge of it. "Here, sit next to me," she said.

I felt uncomfortable being alone with her in the room.
Papá and Mamá would never allow this,
I thought. It was disrespectful, especially to her parents. "I'd better get going," I said. "It's getting late."

"Late for what?" she said, laughing. She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward her, trying to force me to sit next to her. I dug my heels in the thick carpet and leaned backward. "What's wrong with you?" she said, annoyed. The dog sensed Peggy was upset and started barking at me and pulling at my pant leg.

"Peggy, what's wrong with Skippy?" her mother cried out from downstairs. "You'd better come down right now!"

Peggy quieted the dog, picked him up, and, without saying a word to me, carried him downstairs. I gladly followed them. I said good-bye to her parents and headed for the door. "Thanks for walking me home," Peggy said.

"You're welcome," I said. "See you at school."