Free Spirits Read Online Free Page B

it.”
    “We could try,” Adam says. “But it’s not like we’re riding around in the Mystery Machine or anything.”
    “Scooby Doo,” Isabella says and smiles a little. “When I first came to this country, I watched cartoons to help me learn English. Scooby Doo was my favorite. It made me talk a weird kind of English, though. It took me a while to figure out that other kids didn’t go around saying ‘jinkies.’”
    We laugh for a minute, then Isabella turns to me and says, “But I especially wanted to tell you about what happened. I know that sometimes you…know things.”
    “Sometimes,” I say.“But my kind of knowing doesn’t convince anybody if there’s not any evidence to back it up.”
    Isabella looks so disappointed that I suggest, “Maybe if I look at the writing on the building I can see something about the person who did it.”
    “I was on my way to the restaurant,” Isabella says. “Why don’t you guys come with me?”
    When Adam and I see what’s happened to El Mariachi, we both suck in our breath. It’s worse than I imagined. Every window of the building has been spray painted with a giant yellow “X.” Underneath the windows, over the building’s new red and green paint are giant yellow spray-painted letters reading “Spics Go Home.”
    “That’s the same thing it said on the menu board at school,” Adam says. “Do you think maybe the same person wrote it?”
    “It’s possible,” I say. “But I don’t know if it’s likely. I mean, it’s not like the wording there is highly original.”
    “True,” Adam says.
    “Checking out the damage?” a slightly accented man’s voice says. Mr. Ramirez, Isabella’s dad, is perfectly groomed as always. His hair is combed just so, and his mustache is trimmed neatly. The only sign that anything’s bothering him are the dark circles under his eyes.
    “Yes, sir,” I say. “I’m sorry this happened.”
    “And I’m sorry it’s costing so much to fix,” Mr. Ramirez says. “It’s costing time, too. The window guys can’t come until day after tomorrow, and Javier had to drive all the way to Lexington to get the right colors of paint to cover up the words.”
    “Papi,” Isabella says, “I thought maybe if I brought Miranda here, she could see something about who wrote those words.”
    “You’re a smart girl,” Mr. Ramirez says. For whatever reason, Isabella and her family don’t fear or question the Sight. They admire it.
    I get down on my knees in front of the spray-painted letters. I reach out and trace the shape of the S with my fingers. My eyes snap shut, and a surge of rage burns through me, white-hot. Rage that I’m not getting what I deserve, that I’m going to lose my job, my food, my country, myself, and it’s all their fault. They’re taking my country away from me. Images flash through my head: a Bible held up in an old man’s knotty hand; an American flag; the smiling face of a beautiful, dark-haired woman; but then the thought,No,not her! And then a whole volcano of rage is erupting until I open my eyes and find that I’m lying on the sidewalk and Adam, Isabella and Mr. Ramirez are leaning over me.
    “Let’s get you inside,” Mr. Ramirez says, reaching out to help me up.
    “It wasn’t kids who did that,” I say. “It was a man. I felt his anger, and it was man-sized anger. More than my body can handle.”
    Once we’re inside, we sit in a red vinyl booth, and Mr. Ramirez brings us bottles of Jarrito’s orange soda. After all that burning and bitter rage, it feels good to taste something cold and sweet.
    “The policeman I talked to today said he thought it was probably just kids,” Mr. Ramirez says. “But I don’t think it was. I can see kids maybe covering our yard with toilet paper, but seriously vandalizing a business? That’s a serious crime. I told the policeman what I thought, and he said, ‘Well, there are lots of folks who are pretty upset about you people coming here and taking our