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shrill voice, strutting around just like Mariana. My cousins shrieked with laughter.
    At that moment, Mamita looked up. She dropped her machete and stormed over to me. She snatched the fabric of my anaco from the faja and tore my hair loose. Then she slapped me and said in a low, dangerous voice, “Virginia. Never do that again. Never. You hear? We are indígena. We will always be indígena. Nothing will change that.”
    Well, Mamita was wrong.
    A few weeks later the Doctorita comes back from her relatives’ house with a little pile of used clothes. Mestizo clothes.
    She drops them on my sheepskin. “Are these good enough for you?”
    I pick them up and grin. “Thank you, Doctorita.” I’ve won again, and she knows it.
    Later, at night, waiting for sleep to come, Cheetah doesn’t have to lick any tears off my face because I’m so busy picturing how beautiful I’ll look in mestizo clothes.
    The next morning, after the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos leave for school, and while Jaimito is still asleep, I tear off my anaco and blouse. Which to try on first? There’s a blue dress that looks a few sizes too big, a green shirt with short sleeves and a stain on the hem, a gray sweater with two buttons missing, a white dress with frayed lace, and a pink skirt with tiny flowers.
    I put on the skirt and the green shirt. With the shirt tucked in, you can’t see the stain. In front of the mirror, I let my hair loose and stare at the strange girl facing me. I smile a tentative, excited smile. The mole at the corner of my mouth is no longer a mole; now it’s a beauty mark, just like a movie star’s. When I squint my eyes so that everything looks blurry, I can almost believe that the skirt is fancy leather and the shirt has sequins and my skin is fair.
    I can almost believe that I am backstage, after a performance, eating mangoes and drinking Inca Kola. Then Mamita, who was in the audience, comes up to me and says, Forgive me, daughter. Forgive me for telling you I’d be happy if you left forever. I have done nothing but cry since you’ve been gone. I open my mouth to speak Quichua to her, but only Spanish comes out, and she stares at me, not understanding.
    That’s the true part of my daydream. More and more lately, Quichua words have been burying themselves deeper and deeper in dark places in my memory. Sometimes I look at the carrots or tomatoes I’m cutting and try to remember the Quichua words. When I whisper them, they feel strange and clumsy in my mouth.
    My body is starting to feel different too, like a soft white roll or mushy white rice, from all the mestizo food I eat. My skin has grown pale and smooth from staying inside most of the day. My body is no longer made of dirty potatoes just pulled out of the earth and wild, weedy herbs.
    I ask the girl in the mirror: How long until people forget you were ever a longa ?

chapter 7
    W HENEVER NIÑO CARLITOS CALLS ME my daughter , a cozy warmth spreads through me. He is kind to me, kind to all children, one of the favorite teachers at the colegio, the junior high and high school. He teaches social studies, grades seven to twelve, and he never tires of talking about the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. “M’hija,” he says, “let me tell you about the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.”
    I pause in my sweeping and sit down beside him on the sofa, listening to his words slip out, soft and thoughtful, painting pictures of temples and pyramids.
    Sometimes, when he’s nervous, his words get stuck in an endearing stutter. He blends into the background, the same way his features blend into each other—pale skin and hair and teeth and shirt—all yellowed shades of white. I like watching him sit on the sofa, staring into space, quiet and nearly invisible, while inside his mind ideas for fun projects whirl around like sparks and colors.
    When the rainy season comes, Niño Carlitos spends weeks building a very tiny pyramid. The Doctorita frowns at the pyramid pieces