MY TACO STORY

   If garlic could kill, I would have died in first grade. So would half my class. It started like this.

     When I was six, my mother and dad and I lived in a little town in Bandung . Mr. and Mrs. Sule lived next door. She was motherly and liked to talk. I loved her cooking. He was funny and leathery and smelled of cigarettes. You never knew what he might say.

     One evening my parents were going out. Mrs. Sule was cooking Mexican food and she invited me to eat with them. I begged until my folks said yes.

    Mr. Sule had invited company, too. The small house sounded like a parade was marching through with grown-ups laughing and calling to one another in every room. Everywhere I walked, the air dripped with spicy smells from Mrs. Sule's steamy kitchen. I didn't feel like talking and laughing. I wanted to eat!

     At last, we sat down around a long table crowded with deep bowls and platters on hot pads. On a plate for me Mrs. Sule built a mountain of beans and rice and a tortilla and an enchilada. On top of the peak she plopped a thick, brown taco bulging with ground beef, grated cheese, diced olives, sliced lettuce, and chopped tomatoes. Garlic, grease, and hot sauce soaked through the taco shell and flowed down the sides of the mountain like lava. The smell alone would make a meal.

I ate every bite.

Mr. Sule noticed.

"Honey," he said to Mrs. Sule, "asya and I want another taco."

I felt like a balloon with too much air.

"No thank you," I said, holding up my hands. "I'm full."

Mr. Sule winked and growled, "Nonsense! No one ever quits after just one of Mrs. Sule's tacos!"

The second taco plopped onto my plate.

"Thank you," I said in a small voice.

Mr. Sule chewed fast and swallowed hard. I hoped my throat wasn't leaping up and down like a ball on a string the way his was.

"Asya and I want another taco!" Mr. Sule told his wife.

"Nooo!" I said.

PLOP! came the third taco onto my plate as heavy as a bowling ball.

"Thank you," I said.

Mr. Sule winked and chewed. His bulging jaws crushed and ground his taco.

    I fixed my eyes on his jaws and matched him chew for chew. The last bite paused halfway down my throat like it was looking for a spot left in my stomach to land.

    Every time Mr. Sule and I finished a taco, he called to his wife and told her that we both wanted another taco. I kept telling him no, but it didn't make any difference.

   After eight tacos, Mr. Sule's great crusher jaws slowed to a stop like they had run out of oil. With a wheeze and a final wink, he eased back from his plate and gingerly touched his stomach.

"Asya doesn't want any more tacos," he said.

"Thank you," I whispered. There didn't seem to be room left in my body for a voice. Someone carried me to the sofa.

    After eight tacos, Mr. Geiger and I were too stuffed to eat another bite. He leaned back in his chair, and I tottered over to the sofa and collapsed in a heap.

The next morning at school the girl beside me complained to the teacher.

"Miss Nerrill," she said, "somebody in here smells real bad!"

It didn't take Niss Merrill long to sniff me out. I was exhaling deadly rays of garlic.

I spent the rest of the day perched in the front row where only the chalkboard was in danger of cracking and peeling.

I didn't mind. I'd done something that no one else had ever done.

I'd matched Mr. Sule taco for taco.