1The special kids, the ones who wear keys around their

2necks, get to eat in the canteen. The canteen! Even the

3name sounds important. And these kids at lunch time go

4there because their mothers aren't home or home is too

5far away to get to.

6My home isn't far but it's not close either, and somehow I got it in my head one day to ask my mother to make

7me a sandwich and write a note to the principal so I could

8eat in the canteen too_

9Oh no, she says pointing the butter knife at me as if

10I'm starting trouble, no sir. Next thing you know everybody

11will be wanting a bag lunch—I'll be up all night cutting bread into little triangles, this one with mayonnaise, this

12one with mustard, no pickles on mine, but mustard on one

13side please. You kids just like to invent more work for me.

14But Nenny says she doesn't want to eat at schoolever—because she likes to go home with her best friend

15Gloria who lives across the schoolyard. Gloria's mama has

16a big color T.V. and all they do is watch cartoons. Kiki and

17Carlos, on the other hand, are patrol boys. They don't want

18to eat at school either. They like to stand out in the cold

19especially if it's raining. They think suffering is good for

20you ever since they saw that movie 300 Spartans.

21I'm no Spartan and hold up an anemic wrist to prove

22it. I can't even blow up a balloon without getting dizzy.

23And besides, I know how to make my own lunch. If I ate

24at school there'd be less dishes to wash. You would see me

25less and less and like me better. Everyday at noon my chair

26would be empty. Where is my favorite daughter you would

27cry, and when I came home finally at 3 p.m. you would

28appreciate me.

29Okay, okay, my mother says after three days of this.

30And the following morning I get to go to school with my

31mother's letter and a rice sandwich because we don't have

32lunch meat.

33Mondays or Fridays, it doesn't matter, mornings always go by slow and this day especially. But lunch time

34came finally and I got to get in line with the stay-at-school

35kids. Everything is fine until the nun who knows all the

36canteen kids by heart looks at me and says: You, who sent

37you here? And since I am shy, I don't say anything, just

38hold out my hand with the letter. This is no good, she says,

39till Sister Superior gives the okay. Go upstairs and see her.

40And so I went.

41I had to wait for two kids in front of me to get hollered

42at, one because he did something in class, the other because

43he didn't. My turn came and I stood in front of the big

44desk with holy pictures under the glass while the Sister

45Superior read my letter. It went like this:

46Dear Sister Superior,

47Please let Esperanza eat in the lunch room

48because she lives too far away and she gets tired.

49As you can see she is very skinny. I hope to God

50she does not faint.

51Thanking you,

52Mrs. E. Cordero

53You don't live far, she says. You live across the boulevard. That's only four blocks. Not even. Three maybe.

54Three long blocks away from here. I bet I can see your

55house from my window. Which one? Come here. Which

56one is your house?

57And then she made me stand up on a box of books

58and point. That one? she said pointing to a row of ugly

59three-flats, the ones even the raggedy men are ashamed to

60go into. Yes, I nodded even though I knew that wasn't my

61house and started to cry. I always cry when nuns yell at

62me, even if they're not yelling.

63Then she was sorry and said I could stay—just for

64today, not tomorrow or the day after—you go home. And

65I said yes and could I please have a Kleenex—I had to

66blow my nose.

67In the canteen, which was nothing special, lots of boys

68and girls watched while I cried and ate my sandwich, the

69bread already greasy and the rice cold.