A time when her language and thecolor of her skin could mean trouble. So, under a blanket ofstarry skies and piñon smoke, out of habit, she whispered herstories to me in Spanglish. Her own version, passed from hergrandmother, and her grandmother‘s grandmother-each ofthem a slightly different version depending on what was hap-pening in their world at the time.
I remember what Lita said about my stories. "Never beashamed of where you come from, or the stories your ancestors bring toyou. Make them your own."
I will never be a real storyteller now like Lita. But for Zeta-4, I decide to tell one more. And for Lita, I‘ll make it my own. - P122
Instead, I imagine I sit under a blanket of stars with Lita; somany scattered in its darkness, if you squinted the entire sky would fill with glitter.
Or I‘m curled around Javier, his soft GG Gang sweatshirtagainst my cheek, while I rub my finger over his constellationbirthmark.
Then I‘m with Dad, his arm around me, the smell of freshrain on the desert floor and rocks enveloping us.
Mom brushes my hair from my eyes and points toward adesert sage; in my imagination, a purple-winged fairy flits to-ward us. - P126
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