Consuelo’s Diary

Consuelo’s Diary

Dear Diary,

You would not believe all the talking that has been going on since our dinner at Señora del Campo’s house. Mama and Papa talk in their bedroom while they are supposed to be sleeping. Carlos and Gabriella talk in the bakery when they are supposed to be baking. Sandro and Lucero ask me questions all the time, as if I had the answers.

“I don’t know!” I cried one day, when Lucero asked yet again what was going to happen. “You know as much as I do! Why keep asking?!”

Lucero’s little face crumpled like paper and she started to cry. I felt so bad! I ran and gave her a big hug.

No llores, pequeña hermana,” I murmured, Don’t cry, little sister! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t yell at you.” I know Lucero worries about stuff I never even imagine, little things like forgetting to brush her teeth—and big things like whether she will ever meet any of her terrible family on the street. She reminds me of a chihuahua dog, tiny and shivering with nervousness, even though everyone is being kind to it.

“I’m just as clueless as you,” I added. “But whatever happens, it’ll be decided soon. I heard Mama and Papa say so.”

I have not been back to Señora del Campo’s house for more than a week, though my parents have been several times. Papa has been reading lots of papers, and he and Carlos have spent a lot of time with their heads together, talking in low voices.

Even with all this going on, we are feeding the children in the evenings and I am going to school and helping with the bakery on weekends. Rosalba has gotten so good at icing and decorating cookies and cakes, we let her help in the bakery sometimes. Gabriella says she is a prize student! Lucero is working on ways to make thin crisp cookies shaped like her paper flowers, lacy with little holes in them. Sandro spends hours baking bread. Sometimes he asks when he can do pastries, but Carlos just tells him “When your loaves are perfect every time! Not just here—” pointing to the tray of bread, “—but here!” He points to his head. “In your sleep! In your heart! Every bite!”

Sandro mutters, “No one is that perfect!” But not loud enough for Carlos to hear.