I’ve pushed two chairs next to the space heater in the dining room, and this is where I’m trying to read a book on Cleopatra. I’ve got no privacy to hear my own thoughts in this stupid house, but I can hear everyone else’s. Voices echo because the house is still only half furnished, even though Father promised to make us all new furniture as soon as we got here, but that was back in August.
My Cleopatra book is a fat one, which is all I ask from a book these days. A cheap ticket out of here. Biographies are best, the thicker the better. Joan of Arc. Jean Harlow. Marie Antoinette. Their lives like the white crosses on the side of the road. Watch out! Don’t go there! You’ll be sorry!
—Sandra Cisneros, Caramelo