The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano by Sonia Manzano Read Free Book Online

college students — “we’ll get started. I’ll be in my office.” And she turned away.
    Dolores waited until she was out of earshot. “Mom’s writing about slaves — that’s why she treats me like one.”
    Everybody laughed, and we followed her into the living room. I couldn’t help noticing the beige curtains, the soft gray rugs, and the apricot sofa. Not a single rose in sight. I took a peek into what I guessed was Dolores’s room. She had a paisley bedspread and an old-fashioned dresser with a lava lamp on it. The walls were covered with posters of people I didn’t know. A hippie-looking black guy with a big Afro, playing the guitar, a drawing of a white guy with swaths of different color hair, and pictures of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X.
    â€œSit down. I’ll get some juice for everyone,” said Dolores as she sailed out the door. We sat. Silently.
    â€œHow about those gays at Stonewall Inn?” said Messeret.
    â€œI know,” said Avery. “Gay people fighting for their rights? I mean — usually they don’t even want to be found out.” Then he started singing that song about how great it was to do your own thing.
    â€œEverybody has the right to live the way they want to,” added Andrea seriously.
    I was hoping they didn’t look at me, because I had no idea what they were talking about. But they did look at me and waited for me to say something. And out of nowhere came: “My grandmother has an album full of old photos of people being killed in Puerto Rico.”
    Silence. Now they didn’t know what I was talking about.
    â€œJuice, anyone?” Dolores entered with a tray of drinks.
    I stood up. “I gotta go,” I said. “I have to get home.”
    â€œWait,” Dolores said, putting down the drinks. I wondered if she was happy that I was leaving. “I’ll show you to the door.”
    â€œSee you tomorrow,” I said quietly.
    I walked, still counting to keep calm as I approached El Barrio . One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. I knew when I was getting to my neighborhood because of the noise and because I could smell the garbage overflowingin the trash cans. Nobody was home when I arrived. It was evening. Everyone was probably still at the bodega . I was exhausted.
    I opened the sofa bed and slipped in, wondering if it was possible to sleep angry.

T he next Sunday I confronted Mami.
    â€œI’m not going to church.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m not going.” I rolled over in bed and closed my eyes. Mami stood over me, but I would not turn her way. After a moment, she sighed and gave up.
    As soon as she was gone, I listened to see if Abuela was awake. I didn’t hear a peep. I tiptoed into her room, which was empty.
    I was free to walk around in my underwear. I got myself a bowl of cereal, ate quickly, then started playing with my hair. I put it up in a ponytail, using the hair bands Abuela had bought me. I pulled on my pants and a shirt, and went outside.
    It was a nice day, not as hot as it had been all week. The air held a hint of greasy smell and garbage. If it weren’t for the loud Pentecostals on the corner shouting their “hallelujah’s,” it would’ve been a calm day in El Barrio .
    I closed my eyes to take in the sun, when I heard a crash of glass, then a smack and a cry.
    Up the block, Angel was lying on the sidewalk.
    His father and the piragua cart were right behind him.
    The bottle with the blue syrup lay shattered on the ground.
    I ran closer to see what was happening.
    Señor Santiago’s eyes were red with rage. His shirt was damp with perspiration, his hair matted with sweat. He was yelling at Angel.
    â€œGet up, I didn’t hit you so hard.”
    Angel peered up at me with only one eye open. He got up slowly.
    â€œGet home,” his father hissed.
    Angel gave me a weak smile. He started to walk away.