They Call Her Fregona

<b>A companion to the Pura Belpré Honor book <i>They Call Me Güero</i></b><br><br>“You can be my boyfriend.” It only takes five words to change Güero’s life at the end of seventh grade. The summer becomes extra busy as he learns to balance new band practice with his old crew Los Bobbys and being Joanna Padilla’s boyfriend. They call her “fregona” because she’s tough always sticking up for her family and keeping the school bully in check. But Güero sees her softness. Together they cook dollar-store spaghetti and hold hands in the orange grove learning more about themselves and each other than they could have imagined. But when they start eighth grade Joanna faces a tragedy that requires Güero to reconsider what it means to show up for someone you love.<br> <br>Honoring multiple poetic traditions <i>They Call Her Fregona</i> is a bittersweet first-love story in verse and the highly anticipated follow-up to <i>They Call Me Güero</i>. <b>Praise for <i>They Call Her Fregona</i></b><br>  <br> A <i>Kirkus Reviews</i> Best Middle Grade Book of 2022<br> A Center for the Study of Multicultural Children’s Literature Best Book of 2022<br>  <br> ★ “Sublime.” <br> —<i>Kirkus Reviews</i> starred review<br>  <br> ★ “An unforgettable companion to <i>They Call Me Güero</i>.”<br> —<i>School Library Journal</i> starred review<br>  <br> “Captivating . . . a linguistic feast.”<br> —Terry Hong Smithsonian BookDragon for Shelf Awareness <b>DAVID BOWLES</b> grew up in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas where he teaches at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. He’s the author of several award-winning titles including <i>They Call Me Güero</i> <i>The Smoking Mirror</i> the 13th Street series and <i>Feathered Serpent Dark Heart of Sky: Myths of Mexico.</i> His picture book debut <i>My Two Border Towns</i> is available in English and Spanish. In 2020 David co-founded #DignidadLiteraria a grassroots activist hashtag and movement dedicated to promoting equity for Latinx people in publishing. <b>Los detallitos</b><br><br>“I’ll be your girlfriend.”<br> That’s what she said<br> so I haven’t needed<br> to define the relationship.<br><br> We make our feelings clear<br> with detallitos<br> all the little things that<br> speak louder than words.<br><br> Like when I meet her<br> outside of class one day<br> and bend down to tie<br> her loose shoelace.<br><br> Or when we’re walking home<br> and I step too close to the road<br> just as a semitruck speeds by<br> and she yanks me onto the grass.<br><br> Or when we stop at the dollar store<br> and buy ingredients for spaghetti<br> which we cook together at my house<br> because my family’s at the dentist.<br><br> Or when I find her standing alone<br> one morning a block from school<br> looking sad so I hug her from behind<br> till she leans back into me sighing.<br><br> Or when one of Snake’s minions<br> trips me in the hall but she catches me<br> and everyone applauds as she slowly<br> pulls me straight looking into my eyes.<br><br> I’m a poet but all these small gestures<br> say more than any words I could arrange.<br>  <br>  <br>  <br>  <br> <b>Sunday Morning at the Taquería</b><br><br>Our family is Catholic. Can’t eat before<br> Sunday mass because of the sacrament.<br> So we go to the early service<br> stomachs rumbling<br> and try to stay focused.<br><br> By 9:00 a.m. we’re hurrying<br> out of St. Joseph’s piling into<br> Dad’s pickup. He almost peels out<br> making Mom click her tongue<br> as he heads to Taquería Morales<br> a few blocks away.<br><br> Most Sundays the mayor<br> and his wife are already eating—-<br> they’re Baptists lucky ducks.<br> They can eat all they want<br> before church.<br><br> Mr. Morales seats us serves<br> cinnamon coffee and orange juice<br> in cups bearing the green logo<br> of Club León his favorite<br> fútbol team.<br><br> We order. I get my usual chorizo<br> and eggs with its sides of<br> fried potatoes and beans<br> which I spoon into fluffy<br> flour tortillas along with<br> salsa verde.<br><br> By this time other parishioners<br> come spilling in. Dad greets some<br> ignores others like his former boss.<br> Then in walks Joanna’s father<br> Adán Padilla. I try a natural smile<br> as he nods at my parents.<br><br> “Buenos días Don Carlos<br> Doña Judith. ¿Qué tal Güero?”<br> I give a shaky wave and nod.<br> “¿Y su familia?” my mom asks.<br> “En casa. I’m picking up taquitos.”<br><br> Mr. Morales hands him a paper bag<br> bulging with food. He pays and leaves.<br> Dad sips his coffee shaking his head.<br> “A shame. That man should be a pillar<br> of the town. Güero you looked nervous.”<br><br> Mom’s left eyebrow arches<br> the way it always does<br> when she gets suspicious.<br> “Does he not know you like his daughter?”<br> I shrug my face going red. “Not sure.”<br><br> I check my phone. No text from Joanna.<br> My parents mutter about new scandals<br> and old gossip. I lean forward trying<br> to catch snatches till Mom frowns.<br> “Cosas de adultos” she says flicking me<br> back in my seat with her eyes.<br><br> “Do y’all know everyone’s secrets?”<br> I ask still wondering why Dad<br> used the word shame. He laughs.<br> “It’s a small town m’ijo. And the nosiest<br> folks are packed inside this taquería<br> including you. Now finish your almuerzo.”<br><br> So I take another bite. But my eyes<br> wander across the crowded tables<br> and my ears strain to hear<br> past clinking and laughter<br> the constant heartbeat<br> of my community.<br>  <br> <b><br><br>The Kiss</b><br><br>The next day<br> first Monday of May<br> Joanna and I take a shortcut<br> after school<br> through the orange grove<br> near my house.<br><br> “You know” she says<br> letting go of my hand<br> to wipe a sweaty palm<br> on her black jeans<br> “there’s just a month<br> until school’s out.<br> It’ll be harder to hang out<br> since my parents expect me<br> to help them all summer.”<br><br> I stop. She turns to look at me.<br> There’s something in her eyes<br> that I can feel with my chest<br> which aches in a way I’ve never felt:<br> scary but good. Everything fades.<br><br> The sound of passing cars<br> the harsh drone of cicadas—-<br> all drowned out<br> by the beating of my heart.<br><br> The glossy green trees<br> and bright dimpled fruit—-<br> hazy out of focus until<br> all I can see are her lips<br> a red I can’t even describe:<br> dark almost brown.<br><br> The color of mesquite pods.<br><br> Taking a shuddering breath<br> that feels like it might<br> be my very last<br> I ask my fregona<br> “Can I kiss you?”<br><br> She nods slowly closing<br> those big brown eyes.<br> “Sí Güero. You can.”<br><br> So I do.<br>  <br>  <br> <b>Her Song in My Blood</b><br><br>My heart thunders<br> like a drum<br> when our lips meet.<br><br> Above that rhythm<br> I can hear<br> a new melody—-<br><br> notes from her soul<br> slip into<br> the measures of my heart.<br><br> When we pull apart<br> all I want<br> is to share that music<br><br> to stand on a stage<br> before the world<br> and make them listen<br><br> to the vibrant beautiful<br> living pulse<br> of her song in my blood.<br>  <br><br><br><b>They Call Her Fregona</b><br><br>Joanna Padilla Benavides.<br> That’s what her birth certificate says.<br><br>Padilla from her father Adán<br> who also gave her his love of cars<br> and lucha libre<br> and truth.<br><br>Benavides from her mother Bertha<br> who also gave her that wicked smile<br> those beautiful brown eyes<br> a big heart with quiet love<br> a talent for math.<br><br>She’s Jo to the twins<br> six--year--old menaces<br> named Emily<br> and Emilio.<br><br>Mama Yoyo to the baby<br> barely learning to speak.<br><br>“I’ll kick your butt if you tell anyone”<br> Joanna assures me eyebrow raised.<br> “My lips are sealed” I promise.<br> She gives me a quick kiss to make sure.<br><br>At school of course<br> they call her Fregona.<br><br>Most girls avoid her<br> except for her cousins<br><br>and a few other friends<br> who don’t quite fit in<br> because of gender norms<br> and queermisia.<br><br>Most boys are afraid of her<br> at least the seventh--graders.<br><br>“I hate that nickname” she admits.<br> “<i>Güero</i> is positive. People think of beauty.<br> Even the sounds are soft and sweet.<br> <i>Fregona</i> feels rough. Ugly. Like mopping<br> or scrubbing grease from a dirty sartén.”<br><br>“You’re not ugly” I tell her.<br> “And there’s no reason light skin<br> should mean beauty. That’s wrong.<br> When I hear <i>fregar</i> I think of the beating<br> you gave that loser Snake Barrera<br><br>how you stand up for family and friends<br> how you own the fresas in Pre--AP Algebra.”<br><br>Joanna takes my pale hand<br> in her deep--brown fingers<br> calloused and beautiful<br> like roots in sandy soil.<br><br>“Apá keeps pushing me to be tough—-<br> he’s seen what the world does to girls.”<br><br>She takes a deep breath. “He doesn’t want me<br> to end up like his mother or sisters. Mistreated.<br> Ignored. And my mom’s a fregona too.<br> I have big shoes to fill. Can’t let them down.<br><br>“But ugh being tough is hard. So thanks.<br> Seeing myself in your eyes? It helps.”<br><br>She looks up shyly at first then smiling<br> like only she can smile. “And if Snake<br> ever bothers you again I’ll put him<br> in the hospital. No one touches you but me.”<br><br>I put my free hand on the fist she makes<br> giving her knuckles a gentle rub.<br><br>“Joanna you don’t have to be tough<br> when it’s just you and me. I see you<br> through and through all the soft<br> and sweet parts too.”<br><br>Her fingers unclench as she sighs<br> and lays her head on my shoulder.