“Spit it out, child! What’s the problem?” Mrs. Carpenter asked with a grin.

“The problem is I don’t have any money to buy gym shorts. I was wondering if you could take me job hunting. This girl at school told me about a restaurant that’s hiring. And I could pay you back after I started working.”

“A job is a brilliant idea. After you apply we’ll stop by the Wal-Mart for gym shorts. I noticed you need some shampoo and toothpaste, too. But as for paying me back, that’s nonsense. I get paid to foster you. That money is meant to buy you what you need.” She got her keys and walked out of the house, cowboy boots echoing hollowly on the front porch. I took a wistful look toward the kitchen, set my duffle by the front door, and followed.

“Holy crap! What is that?” I asked, my feet skidding to a stop on the gravel driveway. Mrs. Carpenter came to see what I was staring at and chuckled. A palm-sized spiky reptile was baking itself on the warm gravel drive in front of me.

“I know you’re from the city and all, but haven’t you ever seen a horny toad?”

I tilted my head to the side and studied her. Did she really just say that? “A what toad?”

Mrs. Carpenter chuckled harder and the reptile scurried away. “They’re horned lizards but we always called ’em horny toads,” she explained. “It doesn’t mean they’re horny. Just covered with horns.”

“Okay.”

We got into Mrs. Carpenter’s truck.

“So what’s the name of the restaurant that’s hiring?”

I took Yana’s paper from my back pocket. “It’s called the Navajo Mexican. The address—”

“Don’t you worry about telling me the address. I can find it blindfolded,” Mrs. Carpenter said with a wink.

We drove to downtown Silver City. Tall trees with new green buds on winter-bare branches lined the streets, and shops and businesses lined the sidewalks. Cars, many of them with college students behind the wheel by the look of it, were filling those streets. Western New Mexico University was close by.

Mrs. Carpenter parallel parked in one of the oldest parts of town. I peered out and frowned at a narrow two-story building sandwiched between a bank and a Navajo jewelry shop. The building had floor-to-ceiling windows on the lower level and THE NAVAJO MEXICAN was painted on the front door.

“What type of restaurant is the Navajo Mexican?” I asked.

“The best in town,” Mrs. Carpenter answered. “Are you going to go in and apply on your own, or do you need me to hold your hand?”

I held my hand out and forced a pout to my face. Mrs. Carpenter’s eyes grew round and I grinned. “Just kidding. I’ll do it all by myself.”

“Watch your step getting out. The curbs are high, built that way from horse-and-buggy times. I’m going to swing by the fabric store. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

“Sounds good.” I opened the car door and a gust of something delicious swirled on the cool spring air. Stepping up onto the knee-high curb, I walked past three metal tables set up on the sidewalk, tables where people could sit at dusk and eat their dinner, and entered the restaurant.

It was bigger inside than I thought it would be, long and narrow, with about twenty brightly painted tables and booths. White Christmas lights, dried red chili peppers in braided ropes, and Native American weavings decorated the walls. Quiet music played, Navajo chanting accompanied by pipes.

A server burdened with two plates and a hugely pregnant belly hurried past me. “I’ll be right with you,” she called over her shoulder. She set the plates on a table in front of two customers, wiped her hands on the white apron tied below her bulging stomach, and came back to me. “Table for one?” she asked. She was short and dark haired, and above her heart was a name tag that read Maria.

“I’m here to see about getting a job,” I said, turning my voice sweet and, I hoped, compelling. “I was wondering if I could fill out an application?”

The woman’s shoulders sagged. “How soon could you start?” she asked.

“Um. Tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Come with me.” I followed her to the other end of the restaurant and through a swinging door.

“José! Naalyehe! Come see what the cat dragged in.”

Two men turned to face me. One was shorter than me, with thick black hair and a mustache that hid his top lip. The other man stood nearly as tall as the ceiling, with a gray braid that hung down to the small of his back, a strand of bear claws around his neck, and a potbelly.

The short man stepped up to me. His mustache twitched and fine wrinkles creased the dark skin around his eyes. “The cat dragged in a gringa?”

“She’s looking for a job,” Maria said.

“I am José Cano, co-owner of the Navajo Mexican.” He held out his flour-dusted hand and I shook it.

“Magdalene Mae.”

“Have you ever waited tables, Magdalene?” he asked, looking me up and down.

“No.”

“Are you eighteen years or older?”

“I turn eighteen at the end of the month.”

He scratched his head. “Do you speak any Español?”

“No?”

“Do you speak Navajo?”

“No, but I’m a fast learner.” I tried to give him my most pitiful, pleading puppy-dog eyes. They worked on my old foster mother, Mrs. Montgomery, when I wanted to use the Internet or stay up late watching movies.

“We close late on weekend nights—eleven p.m.—and I need someone who can work every single Saturday. Plus, we get a lot of college kids and, with those eyes, I am guessing you will be harassed by some of the rowdier gringos. But on the other hand, you might be a big draw.…” He rubbed his pointer finger and thumb over his chin, studying me in a whole new light. “Unfortunately the state liquor laws prohibit a minor from serving alcohol.”

I batted my eyelashes. “I’m almost eighteen. And Yana said you were hiring.”

The tall man stepped up beside José, casting a shadow over me. “Yana? How do you know my granddaughter?”

“I’m new in town. She let me sit with her at lunch.”

The two men looked at each other. José shrugged and Yana’s grandfather smiled.

“I am Naalyehe. It is a pleasure to meet one of Yana’s friends. Are you familiar with Navajo cuisine?”

I shook my head.

“What do you know about comida mexicana? Mexican food?” José asked.

“I love Taco Bell.”

Naalyehe burst out laughing.

José’s cheeks flared red. “Taco Bell is not Mexican food!” he said vehemently. “Where are you from, that you are so deprived, gringa? Canada?”

“Albuquerque,” I answered.

“Aye aye aye,” José muttered, turning around, taking a plate and filling it. “You are from New Mexico and you think Taco Bell is Mexican food.” He sprinkled a handful of cheese over the loaded plate, turned back around, and held the plate and a fork out to me. I stared at it.

The plate was slathered from edge to edge with pureed beans and melting, greasy orange cheese. Beneath the beans and cheese were lumps of something, but I had no idea what, and I was almost scared to find out.

José stood with a huge, expectant grin on his face. Naalyehe took a folding metal step stool from against the wall and set it behind me. I sat down on the stool, took the fork and plate, and stabbed one of the unidentifiable, bean-covered mounds. It made a squelching noise as I lifted it from the plate. I studied the gooey blob for a moment, then closed my eyes and shoved it into my mouth. It was hot and salty and mushy. I made myself chew and my eyes flew open. “What is this?” I said through a full mouth, trying not to drool.

“That is my specialty. It is a fish taco, breaded with blue corn, fried, cut into bite-sized pieces, and smothered with beans and goat cheese. You like?” José asked, though I’m sure he already knew the answer. I was shoveling the food into my mouth as fast as I could swallow.

“It’s great,” I said, my mouth still full.

“What do you think?” José asked, turning to Naalyehe.

Naalyehe studied me, his eyes locking on mine. “What is the last animal you saw?”

I raised my eyebrows. “A horny toad? It was sunning itself on Mrs. Carpenter’s driveway.”

“The horned lizard. It symbolizes perseverance.” His eyes narrowed. “And keeping secrets.”

His eyes bored into mine. I blinked and studied my short nails.

“Keeping secrets isn’t a bad thing. It means you can be trusted,” he said.

Hope made my blood speed through my veins and I looked up.

José grinned. “Welcome to la familia, gringa. As soon as you turn eighteen, I’ll put you on the schedule.”

“So I got the job?”

José and Naalyehe nodded.

I stood in the bathroom that night, brushing my teeth with Crest and looking in the mirror. I still looked old, but not as old as I’d looked the night before. My black-dyed hair was fading to a dull greenish brown, the roots almost copper against the dye. But my hair was clean, since Mrs. Carpenter had bought me some Suave shampoo and conditioner.

I looked at my new watch—a seven-dollar designer knockoff from Wal-Mart—and set the alarm for a quarter after six. Mrs. Carpenter was convinced that I’d sleep through the alarm. I wouldn’t.

My new sweatpants, gym shorts, tube socks, and sports bra were packed in a new gray backpack. Laid out on my bed was a brand-new outfit: jeans without holes, a long-sleeve red sweater, and a heavy gray jacket—a “welcome to Silver City” gift from Mrs. Carpenter. I was almost excited to go to school. And honestly, I couldn’t wait to kick some butt in track.

As I climbed into bed and snuggled beneath the two homemade quilts, I smiled. Things didn’t seem so bad. I had a job. I liked Mrs. Carpenter. And she liked me.

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