萨莉是一个描着埃及的眼圈，穿烟灰色尼龙丝袜的女孩。学校的男生认为她很美，因为她的头发像渡鸦羽毛一样乌黑闪亮，她笑的时候，把头发往后一甩，像一面滑缎方巾披在肩膀上，然后大笑起来。

她爸爸说长这么美是麻烦事。他们非常严格地遵从他的信仰。他们不能去跳舞。他想起他的姐妹们，很伤心。于是她就不能出来。我说的是萨莉。

萨莉，是谁教会你把眼睛涂得像克莉奥帕特拉？如果我把这个小刷子用舌头卷一下，舔成尖尖的，蘸到小泥饼里去，那个小红盒子里的，你会教我吗？

我喜欢你的黑色外套和你穿的那些鞋。你在哪里买的？我妈妈说这么年轻穿黑色太冒险了，可我就想要买你那样的鞋，像你的那双黑色小羊皮鞋，就和那些一样的。等哪天我妈妈心情好的时候，也许我的下一个生日之后，我还会要求买一双尼龙长袜。

切芮儿，她再也不是你的朋友了，从复活节前的那个星期二起，从你弄得她的耳朵流血那天起，从她那样骂你，并在你手臂上咬了个洞的那天起，你看上去好像要哭，大家都在等着，可你没有哭，萨莉，从那时起，你没有一个最好的朋友可以一起靠在学校操场的栅栏上，可以跟着你嘲笑男孩子们说的话。没有人会借给你她的梳子。

男孩们在衣帽间里讲的事情，它们不是真的。你独自倚靠在操场的栅栏上，闭起眼睛，仿佛没有人在看，仿佛没有人能看到你站在那里，萨莉。你把眼睛那样闭起来时在想什么？为什么一放学你总是得直接回家？你变成了一个不同的萨莉。你把裙子拉直。你擦去了眼皮上的蓝色眼影。你不笑，萨莉。你低头看着脚，飞快地走进你不会从里面出来的房子。

萨莉，你有时会希望自己可以不回家吗？你希望有一天你的脚可以走呀走，把你远远地带出芒果街，远远地，也许你的脚会停下来，在一所房子前，一所美丽的房子，有鲜花和大窗，还有你可以两级并一级跳上去的台阶。台阶上面有一个等你到来的房间。如果你拔掉小窗的插销，轻轻一推，窗就打开了，所有的天空都会涌进来。那里不会有爱管闲事的邻居在张望，不会有摩托和汽车，不会有床单、毛巾和洗衣店。只有树，更多的树，还有足够的蓝天。你会笑出来，萨莉。你睡去醒来时不用去想谁喜欢你谁不喜欢你。你合上眼睛不用担心别人说了些什么，因为你毕竟从来不属于这里。没有人会使你伤心，没有人会认为你怪，只因你喜欢做梦做梦；没有人会冲你叫喊，只因他们看到你在黑暗里倚靠着一辆小汽车；倚靠着某个人而没有人觉得你坏，没有人说这是错的，没有一整个世界都在等你犯错误，而你想要的，你想要的，萨莉，只是爱爱爱爱，没有人会把这说成是疯狂。

Sally

Sally is the girl with eyes like Egypt and nylons the color of smoke. The boys at school think she's beautiful because her hair is shiny black like raven feathers and when she laughs, she flicks her hair back like a satin shawl over her shoulders and laughs.

Her father says to be this beautiful is trouble. They are very strict in his religion. They are not supposed to dance. He remembers his sisters and is sad. Then she can't go out. Sally I mean.

Sally, who taught you to paint your eyes like Cleopatra? And if I roll the little brush with my tongue and chew it to a point and dip it in the muddy cake, the one in the little red box, will you teach me?

I like your black coat and those shoes you wear, where did you get them? My mother says to wear black so young is dangerous, but I want to buy shoes just like yours, like your black ones made out of suede, just like those. And one day, when my mother's in a good mood, maybe after my next birthday, I'm going to ask to buy the nylons too.

Cheryl, who is not your friend anymore, not since last Tuesday before Easter, not since the day you made her ear bleed, not since she called you that name and bit a hole in your arm and you looked as if you were going to cry and everyone was waiting and you didn't, you didn't, Sally, not since then, you don't have a best friend to lean against the schoolyard fence with, to laugh behind your hands at what the boys say. There is no one to lend you her hairbrush.

The stories the boys tell in the coatroom, they're not true. You lean against the schoolyard fence alone with your eyes closed as if no one was watching, as if no one could see you standing there, Sally. What do you think about when you close your eyes like that? And why do you always have to go straight home after school? You become a different Sally. You pull your skirt straight, you rub the blue paint off your eyelids. You don't laugh, Sally. You look at your feet and walk fast to the house you can't come out from.

Sally, do you sometimes wish you didn't have to go home? Do you wish your feet would one day keep walking and take you far away from Mango Street, far away and maybe your feet would stop in front of a house, a nice one with flowers and big windows and steps for you to climb up two by two upstairs to where a room is waiting for you. And if you opened the little window latch and gave it a shove, the windows would swing open, all the sky would come in. There'd be no nosy neighbors watching, no motorcycles and cars, no sheets and towels and laundry. Only trees and more trees and plenty of blue sky. And you could laugh, Sally. You could go to sleep and wake up and never have to think who likes and doesn't like you. You could close your eyes and you wouldn't have to worry what people said because you never belonged here anyway and nobody could make you sad and nobody would think you're strange because you like to dream and dream. And no one could yell at you if they saw you out in the dark leaning against a car, leaning against somebody without someone thinking you are bad, without somebody saying it is wrong, without the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake when all you wanted, all you wanted, Sally, was to love and to love and to love and to love, and no one could call that crazy.