{"product_id":"they-call-her-fregona-isbn-9780593462584","title":"They Call Her Fregona","description":"\u003cb\u003eA companion to the Pura Belpré Honor book \u003ci\u003eThey Call Me Güero\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You can be my boyfriend.” It only takes five words to change Güero’s life at the end of seventh grade. The summer becomes extra busy as he learns to balance new band practice with his old crew, Los Bobbys, and being Joanna Padilla’s boyfriend. They call her “fregona” because she’s tough, always sticking up for her family and keeping the school bully in check. But Güero sees her softness. Together they cook dollar-store spaghetti and hold hands in the orange grove, learning more about themselves and each other than they could have imagined. But when they start eighth grade, Joanna faces a tragedy that requires Güero to reconsider what it means to show up for someone you love.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHonoring multiple poetic traditions, \u003ci\u003eThey Call Her Fregona\u003c\/i\u003e is a bittersweet first-love story in verse and the highly anticipated follow-up to \u003ci\u003eThey Call Me Güero\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThey Call Her Fregona\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e Best Middle Grade Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e A Center for the Study of Multicultural Children’s Literature Best Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Tomás Rivera Children's Book Award Finalist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA WASHINGTON DC Three Star Book Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ★ “Sublime.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ★ “An unforgettable companion to \u003ci\u003eThey Call Me Güero\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Captivating . . . a linguistic feast.”\u003cbr\u003e —Terry Hong, Smithsonian BookDragon, for Shelf Awareness\u003cb\u003eDAVID BOWLES\u003c\/b\u003e grew up in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas, where he teaches at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. He’s the author of several award-winning titles, including \u003ci\u003eThey Call Me Güero\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Smoking Mirror,\u003c\/i\u003e the 13th Street series, and \u003ci\u003eFeathered Serpent, Dark Heart of Sky: Myths of Mexico.\u003c\/i\u003e His picture book debut, \u003ci\u003eMy Two Border Towns\u003c\/i\u003e, is available in English and Spanish. In 2020, David co-founded #DignidadLiteraria, a grassroots activist hashtag and movement dedicated to promoting equity for Latinx people in publishing.\u003cb\u003eLos detallitos\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll be your girlfriend.”\u003cbr\u003e That’s what she said,\u003cbr\u003e so I haven’t needed\u003cbr\u003e to define the relationship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We make our feelings clear\u003cbr\u003e with detallitos,\u003cbr\u003e all the little things that\u003cbr\u003e speak louder than words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like when I meet her\u003cbr\u003e outside of class one day\u003cbr\u003e and bend down to tie\u003cbr\u003e her loose shoelace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or when we’re walking home\u003cbr\u003e and I step too close to the road\u003cbr\u003e just as a semitruck speeds by,\u003cbr\u003e and she yanks me onto the grass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or when we stop at the dollar store\u003cbr\u003e and buy ingredients for spaghetti,\u003cbr\u003e which we cook together at my house\u003cbr\u003e because my family’s at the dentist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or when I find her standing alone\u003cbr\u003e one morning, a block from school,\u003cbr\u003e looking sad, so I hug her from behind\u003cbr\u003e till she leans back into me, sighing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or when one of Snake’s minions\u003cbr\u003e trips me in the hall, but she catches me,\u003cbr\u003e and everyone applauds as she slowly\u003cbr\u003e pulls me straight, looking into my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m a poet, but all these small gestures\u003cbr\u003e say more than any words I could arrange.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eSunday Morning at the Taquería\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur family is Catholic. Can’t eat before\u003cbr\u003e Sunday mass because of the sacrament.\u003cbr\u003e So we go to the early service,\u003cbr\u003e stomachs rumbling,\u003cbr\u003e and try to stay focused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By 9:00 a.m., we’re hurrying\u003cbr\u003e out of St. Joseph’s, piling into\u003cbr\u003e Dad’s pickup. He almost peels out,\u003cbr\u003e making Mom click her tongue\u003cbr\u003e as he heads to Taquería Morales\u003cbr\u003e a few blocks away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Most Sundays, the mayor\u003cbr\u003e and his wife are already eating—-\u003cbr\u003e they’re Baptists, lucky ducks.\u003cbr\u003e They can eat all they want\u003cbr\u003e before church.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mr. Morales seats us, serves\u003cbr\u003e cinnamon coffee and orange juice\u003cbr\u003e in cups bearing the green logo\u003cbr\u003e of Club León, his favorite\u003cbr\u003e fútbol team.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We order. I get my usual, chorizo\u003cbr\u003e and eggs, with its sides of\u003cbr\u003e fried potatoes and beans,\u003cbr\u003e which I spoon into fluffy\u003cbr\u003e flour tortillas along with\u003cbr\u003e salsa verde.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By this time, other parishioners\u003cbr\u003e come spilling in. Dad greets some,\u003cbr\u003e ignores others, like his former boss.\u003cbr\u003e Then in walks Joanna’s father,\u003cbr\u003e Adán Padilla. I try a natural smile\u003cbr\u003e as he nods at my parents.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Buenos días, Don Carlos,\u003cbr\u003e Doña Judith. ¿Qué tal, Güero?”\u003cbr\u003e I give a shaky wave and nod.\u003cbr\u003e “¿Y su familia?” my mom asks.\u003cbr\u003e “En casa. I’m picking up taquitos.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mr. Morales hands him a paper bag\u003cbr\u003e bulging with food. He pays and leaves.\u003cbr\u003e Dad sips his coffee, shaking his head.\u003cbr\u003e “A shame. That man should be a pillar\u003cbr\u003e of the town. Güero, you looked nervous.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mom’s left eyebrow arches\u003cbr\u003e the way it always does\u003cbr\u003e when she gets suspicious.\u003cbr\u003e “Does he not know you like his daughter?”\u003cbr\u003e I shrug, my face going red. “Not sure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I check my phone. No text from Joanna.\u003cbr\u003e My parents mutter about new scandals\u003cbr\u003e and old gossip. I lean forward, trying\u003cbr\u003e to catch snatches, till Mom frowns.\u003cbr\u003e “Cosas de adultos,” she says, flicking me\u003cbr\u003e back in my seat with her eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Do y’all know everyone’s secrets?”\u003cbr\u003e I ask, still wondering why Dad\u003cbr\u003e used the word shame. He laughs.\u003cbr\u003e “It’s a small town, m’ijo. And the nosiest\u003cbr\u003e folks are packed inside this taquería,\u003cbr\u003e including you. Now, finish your almuerzo.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So I take another bite. But my eyes\u003cbr\u003e wander across the crowded tables,\u003cbr\u003e and my ears strain to hear\u003cbr\u003e past clinking and laughter,\u003cbr\u003e the constant heartbeat\u003cbr\u003e of my community.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Kiss\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next day,\u003cbr\u003e first Monday of May,\u003cbr\u003e Joanna and I take a shortcut\u003cbr\u003e after school\u003cbr\u003e through the orange grove\u003cbr\u003e near my house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You know,” she says,\u003cbr\u003e letting go of my hand\u003cbr\u003e to wipe a sweaty palm\u003cbr\u003e on her black jeans,\u003cbr\u003e “there’s just a month\u003cbr\u003e until school’s out.\u003cbr\u003e It’ll be harder to hang out,\u003cbr\u003e since my parents expect me\u003cbr\u003e to help them all summer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stop. She turns to look at me.\u003cbr\u003e There’s something in her eyes\u003cbr\u003e that I can feel with my chest,\u003cbr\u003e which aches in a way I’ve never felt:\u003cbr\u003e scary but good. Everything fades.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The sound of passing cars,\u003cbr\u003e the harsh drone of cicadas—-\u003cbr\u003e all drowned out\u003cbr\u003e by the beating of my heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The glossy green trees\u003cbr\u003e and bright, dimpled fruit—-\u003cbr\u003e hazy, out of focus, until\u003cbr\u003e all I can see are her lips,\u003cbr\u003e a red I can’t even describe:\u003cbr\u003e dark, almost brown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The color of mesquite pods.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Taking a shuddering breath\u003cbr\u003e that feels like it might\u003cbr\u003e be my very last,\u003cbr\u003e I ask my fregona,\u003cbr\u003e “Can I kiss you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nods, slowly closing\u003cbr\u003e those big brown eyes.\u003cbr\u003e “Sí, Güero. You can.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So I do.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eHer Song in My Blood\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy heart thunders\u003cbr\u003e like a drum\u003cbr\u003e when our lips meet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Above that rhythm\u003cbr\u003e I can hear\u003cbr\u003e a new melody—-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e notes from her soul\u003cbr\u003e slip into\u003cbr\u003e the measures of my heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When we pull apart,\u003cbr\u003e all I want\u003cbr\u003e is to share that music,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to stand on a stage\u003cbr\u003e before the world\u003cbr\u003e and make them listen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to the vibrant, beautiful,\u003cbr\u003e living pulse\u003cbr\u003e of her song in my blood.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThey Call Her Fregona\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanna Padilla Benavides.\u003cbr\u003e That’s what her birth certificate says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePadilla from her father, Adán,\u003cbr\u003e who also gave her his love of cars\u003cbr\u003e and lucha libre\u003cbr\u003e and truth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBenavides from her mother, Bertha,\u003cbr\u003e who also gave her that wicked smile,\u003cbr\u003e those beautiful brown eyes,\u003cbr\u003e a big heart with quiet love,\u003cbr\u003e a talent for math.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’s Jo to the twins,\u003cbr\u003e six--year--old menaces\u003cbr\u003e named Emily\u003cbr\u003e and Emilio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMama Yoyo to the baby\u003cbr\u003e barely learning to speak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll kick your butt if you tell anyone,”\u003cbr\u003e Joanna assures me, eyebrow raised.\u003cbr\u003e “My lips are sealed,” I promise.\u003cbr\u003e She gives me a quick kiss to make sure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt school, of course,\u003cbr\u003e they call her Fregona.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost girls avoid her,\u003cbr\u003e except for her cousins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand a few other friends\u003cbr\u003e who don’t quite fit in\u003cbr\u003e because of gender norms\u003cbr\u003e and queermisia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost boys are afraid of her,\u003cbr\u003e at least the seventh--graders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I hate that nickname,” she admits.\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eGüero\u003c\/i\u003e is positive. People think of beauty.\u003cbr\u003e Even the sounds are soft and sweet.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eFregona\u003c\/i\u003e feels rough. Ugly. Like mopping\u003cbr\u003e or scrubbing grease from a dirty sartén.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re not ugly,” I tell her.\u003cbr\u003e “And there’s no reason light skin\u003cbr\u003e should mean beauty. That’s wrong.\u003cbr\u003e When I hear \u003ci\u003efregar\u003c\/i\u003e, I think of the beating\u003cbr\u003e you gave that loser Snake Barrera,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow you stand up for family and friends,\u003cbr\u003e how you own the fresas in Pre--AP Algebra.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanna takes my pale hand\u003cbr\u003e in her deep--brown fingers,\u003cbr\u003e calloused and beautiful,\u003cbr\u003e like roots in sandy soil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Apá keeps pushing me to be tough—-\u003cbr\u003e he’s seen what the world does to girls.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe takes a deep breath. “He doesn’t want me\u003cbr\u003e to end up like his mother or sisters. Mistreated.\u003cbr\u003e Ignored. And my mom’s a fregona, too.\u003cbr\u003e I have big shoes to fill. Can’t let them down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But, ugh, being tough is hard. So thanks.\u003cbr\u003e Seeing myself in your eyes? It helps.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looks up, shyly at first, then smiling\u003cbr\u003e like only she can smile. “And if Snake\u003cbr\u003e ever bothers you again, I’ll put him\u003cbr\u003e in the hospital. No one touches you but me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI put my free hand on the fist she makes,\u003cbr\u003e giving her knuckles a gentle rub.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Joanna, you don’t have to be tough\u003cbr\u003e when it’s just you and me. I see you,\u003cbr\u003e through and through, all the soft\u003cbr\u003e and sweet parts, too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer fingers unclench as she sighs\u003cbr\u003e and lays her head on my shoulder.","brand":"Kokila","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301097689317,"sku":"NP9780593462584","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593462584.jpg?v=1767742425","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/they-call-her-fregona-isbn-9780593462584","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}