He was just a boy, maybe fourteen—my mind registered the hope he was fourteen. He looked Italian or Spanish and he was a beautiful boy as far as I c...uld see. He was water soaked, though, and was trudging along like he was shouldering all of the cares of the world. I slowed down and kept pace with him, figuring that would make him stop and tell me what was wrong. But he walked on, listlessly, like I wasn’t even there. I honked my horn, though, and that made him pause and look around.I leaned far. ." I checked the bottles in the cabinet. "Does it have to be tequila? There's whiskey, scotch, gin, vodka." Am I the first Mexican girl you've brought here? Don't you know tequila is our national drink?" I don't stock the liquor cabinet," I said, defensively.She smiled, walked to the refrigerator and removed a jug of orange juice. "Do you know how to make a screwdriver?" I think so," I said, holding up a bottle of vodka.She smiled again and filled an ice bucket with cubes. Together, we mixed. More

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