I knew then I had to have a house. A real house. One I could point to. But this isn’t it. The house on Mango Street isn’t it. For the time being, Mama says. Temporary, says Papa. But I know how these things go.
The boys and the girls live in separate worlds. The boys in their universe and we in ours.
Someday I will have a best friend all my own. One I can tell my secrets to.
She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.
Esperanza. I have inherited her name, but I don’t want to inherit her place by the window.
At school they say my name funny as if the syllables were made out of tin and hurt the roof of your mouth.