"I could 'a' told you," she said, shrugging. "American ladies,
they mostly don't like Mexican kids. I don't know why."

October came. It was the time for the topping of the beets. The
Martinez family went back to Denver for school. The Garcias
stayed; their children would go into the special room when they
returned, to have English lessons and to catch up in other
studies--or rather, to try to catch up.

"But me, always I am two years in back of myself," Vicente
regretted one day, "even with specials room. Early out of school
and late into it, for me that makes too hard."

Now Farmer Lukes went through the Beechams' acres, lifting the
beets loose by machine. Rose-Ellen could not believe they were
beets-great dirt-colored clods, they looked. Not at all like the
beets she knew.

Topping was a new job. With a long hooked knife the beet was
lifted and laid across the arm, and then, with a slash or two,
freed of its top. The children followed, gathering the beets
into great piles for Mr. Lukes's wagon to collect.

Vicente and Joe did not make piles; they topped; and Joe boasted
that he was faster than his father as he slashed away with the
topping knife.

"It looks like you'd cut yourself, holding it on your knee like
you do!" Grandma cried as she watched him one day.