Read After Peaches for Free Online Page B

colored fabric. We didn’t hear anyone speaking Spanish, but many spoke another language that Mamá thought might be from India.
    At the end of the day, the teenagers weighed our buckets, gave Papá a pile of bills and coins, and said the farm opened again at seven o’clock the next morning.
    â€œI’m tired,” I said as we crunched across the gravel parking lot.“How much did we make?”
    Papá laughed and hugged my shoulders. “Don’t you worry about that, mi amor ,” he said. “ Hicimos suficiente. We made enough, and that’s all that matters.”
    â€œThis summer is about adventure,” Mamá agreed, “not money.” They seemed so eager to convince me that I wondered if we hadn’t made much at all. The next day, I would spend less time looking at the other people in the field and concentrate harder on picking. After all, it was because of me that we were here, and we had to think about finding a better apartment in September.
    We piled into the car, which was still crammed with all our camping things, and even though it was only six in the evening, I fell asleep.

    â€œI found it!” Papá called out from the station wagon.
    Mamá and I were setting up the tent, its back to the wide, slow Fraser River. Papá was supposed to be getting the sleeping bags out of the car, but instead he was marching toward us, proudly waving a tiny folded rectangle of paper.
    â€œIt’s about time,” said Mamá, and I assumed she was talking about him helping us until she added, “Where was it?”
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked. I was crouched at one corner of the tent with a peg in my hand. The hard-packed ground was nothing like the soft earth of Julie’s lawn, and no amount of banging would get the peg in.
    â€œIt slid under the seat,” Papá said. “ Para tí , Rosario, from Analía.”
    That’s weird, I thought, but I was happy for the excuse to stop pounding the tent peg. “Why would José’s daughter write to me?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Papá said. “She told José she wanted to e-mail you. Apparently there’s an Internet café close to her school. But José doesn’t know anything about the Internet, and he didn’t have your e-mail address, so Analía wrote to you the old-fashioned way. This came with one of her family’s letters to José.” He handed me the note. It was covered with Spanish words, front and back: For Rosario’s eyes only, Analía wrote. Do not open unless you are Rosario Ramirez, age 10.
    â€œJosé gave it to us the day before he left for the cherry farm,” Papá says, looking embarrassed. “We didn’t tell you because I lost it almost as soon as he gave it to me. I only found it now when I was looking for the sleeping bags.”
    â€œBut why would she write to me?” I asked again. I loved hearing stories about Analía, but even my own cousins didn’t write to me. It’s true that our town in Mexico didn’t have Internet like most places in Canada did, and regular mail often got lost on the way to and from the town, but still I always hoped someone would write.
    â€œShe wanted a pen pal, I guess,” said Mamá.“Pound in the tent peg in your corner, Rosario, por favor . The wind’s picking up.” As soon as she said it, the wind flipped up the far end of the tent, and it bopped Mamá on the head.
    She looked so shocked that I couldn’t help laughing. Papá and I raced to stop our summer home from flying away.
    It wasn’t until hours later, when we’d had our supper, the last dish was dried and stacked, and my parents were playing cards at the picnic table, that I pulled the letter from my pocket. With just enough light left in the sky to read by, I sank into the folding chair by the fire pit and smoothed open the paper. Analía’s printing was tiny and