Breaking Through by Francisco Jiménez Page A

went to clean Twitchel and Twitchel, an attorneys office. It was a long, one-story building with several offices, located a few blocks from Main Street. The building had wall-to-wall carpeting, dark wood paneling, and shelves full of thick, leather-bound books. It had a storage room with stacks of long sheets of paper with numbers on the
margins and boxes of pens, pencils, staples, and paper clips. An old typewriter full of cobwebs sat on the floor in a corner. I picked it up, placed it on top of a cabinet, and dusted it. I loaded it with a sheet of paper and tried typing on it. The keys were sluggish and the letters were barely visible. As I set it back down, I heard the front door open and someone say, "Who's here?"
    "It's nobody," I responded, quickly coming out of the storage room. "It's just me, the janitor."
    "Hi," he said. "I am Bob Twitchel. Mike Nevel told me about you. I didn't expect you to be so young."
    "Glad to meet you, sir," I responded. "My name is Francisco."
    "Good to meet you," he said. "I'll be here only a few minutes." He went into his office and left the door open. I passed by and glanced in. He was talking on the phone. After I dusted, I cleaned the bathroom and began vacuuming. When I finished, I wound the cord and placed the vacuum in the storage room. I looked at the typewriter again.
It's not being used,
I thought.
Maybe he'll sell it to me cheap.
I passed by Mr. Twitchel's office and glanced in again. His eyes caught mine. I stood in front of the door, feeling nervous. "What is it?" he asked, putting down his pen.
    "The old typewriter," I said. "The one in the storage room..."
    "Oh, that old clunker. I've been meaning to get rid of it," he said. "Why do you ask?"
    "Well, would you sell it to me?" I asked, feeling more at ease.
    "Sell it! You can have it," he responded, chuckling. "I was going to throw it away."
    "Thank you," I said excitedly. Then I remembered Papá telling us to avoid owing anybody anything, including favors. "I'd rather buy it from you," I added.
    "Let's take a look at it," he said, looking a bit puzzled. I brought it out from the storage room and placed it on his desk. He examined it. "It needs a new ribbon."
    "Yes, I know," I said.
    He gave me a surprised look, smiled, and said: "I'll tell you what. Get a new ribbon for it from the storage room and give me five bucks."
    "Thank you! I don't have the money with me, but I'll bring it to you by the end of the month."
    "Whenever you can—no hurry."
    I took the typewriter home and practiced on the kitchen table every night after work. My younger brothers and sister complained about the noise because they could not sleep, so I placed a towel underneath it to keep the clatter down. Mamá was pleased when I told her I got an excellent grade in typing. "You're a typing machine,
mijo,
" she said, chuckling. "You got fast fingers from picking strawberries and cotton."

Making Connections
    At the end of my freshman year, I received good grades in all subjects except English, even though I had worked the hardest in it. Writing was difficult for me. My freshman English teacher told me that my writing was weak. She suggested that I read more, that reading would improve my writing. "At least read the newspaper every day," she told me. "Read for enjoyment." I had little time to read. I read only for information for my classes, and I could barely keep up. Besides, we had no reading material at home and we didn't get the newspaper. I never got more free time to read all during high school, but I did learn to read for enjoyment. It happened in my sophomore year, in English class.
    Miss Audrey Bell, my teacher, had a reputation for being hard. When she walked into the class the first day and wrote her name on the board, I heard moans from
classmates sitting next to me. "I am sunk!" one of them said. "Hello, F," another uttered. Now I was even more worried.
    Miss Bell had a round face, a small turned-up nose, full lips, and lively blue