Five Things About Ava Andrews

by Margaret Dilloway

  Nana Linda can be a little hard to deal with sometimes. She gets an idea and she starts forcing everyone to do it. Last year, she made my brothers and me go to the women’s march, which was too noisy and crowded for me. She’s like Zelia’s grandma, who makes Zelia go to church and stuff, except with causes.

  I thought Nana Linda would just talk about Navegando Point, not actually make me do something. I spoon ice cream into my mouth, focusing on the cold creaminess. I wonder what the others are eating at Fosters Freeze right now.

  They’re probably relieved I didn’t go so they don’t have to look at me sitting there all awkward and silent.

  “Here.” Nana Linda turns the screen around for me. “This Facebook page, Rescue Navegando Point Now!, is the only thing I can find about it. Plus some news articles about how great it will be.”

  “Aren’t newspapers not supposed to take sides?” Mr. Sukow had us do an assignment on bias, where we read the same news story from multiple places and compared them. You’d think the news would be all facts, but everyone has a different spin on what happens.

  Nana Linda nods. “That’s how it should be, but it never is.”

  This Facebook page has about eleven thousand followers. That seems like a lot of people who care. So why isn’t anyone doing anything?

  I click on the corporate plan for the new buildings. There’s a map of what it will look like. They’re basically going to tear down all the old wooden shops. Then they’ll build a high-rise hotel and put in new stores.

  “See?” Nana Linda points at the map. “The part they want to save—the shops—is only four and a half acres. But the whole project is going to take up more than just Navegando Point—they’re going to use up seventy acres.”

  “That’s huge!” I had thought they were just getting rid of the shop area, too. But this is massive. There’s an aquarium, but we already have other aquariums—the Birch in La Jolla, SeaWorld, and one in Chula Vista, the south part of the county.

  And the entire area where the theater was is gone, too.

  I know I should have realized that when Dad and I saw all the shops were closed, but this hits me right in the chest. This means that even if the theater did pay more money in rent, the developers were going to kick them out anyway. I guess I thought the stores who paid more money would be able to stay, and that’s not true at all. So why would anyone want to pay more, knowing they’d be closed soon no matter what?

  That means the cupcake shop isn’t going to stay, either.

  “That’s not right,” I say aloud, and Nana Linda pats my shoulder.

  Plus, there’s no park at all where the peninsula was before, where people could just picnic and hang out. Instead, the old park area is filled with something called luxury villas. I point. “What are these?”

  Nana Linda peers at it. “I would guess it means places for people to stay. Expensive places right on the water.”

  “But that means only those people get to see the view!” This seems totally unfair, sort of like if Mom and Dad gave allowance only to one kid even though we all needed the same stuff. I squint at the plan. The only public place is a paved courtyard.

  “Big deal.” Nana Linda shakes her head. “Just one more place that will cost way too much to go to. You have to pay for parking and all the stores will be expensive.”

  “It reminds me of Waikiki Beach in Honolulu,” Jīchan muses. “You can’t see the beach for the hotels.”

  “Why should the developers be favored?” Nana Linda demands. “This city’s in the developers’ pockets, I’ll tell you that!”

  “Calm down,” Jīchan says. “You know, those developers helped me get a lot of jobs.”

  “But you hated working for them,” Nana Linda points out.

  “We can’t stop progress.” Jīchan shrugs. “The old Navegando Point is all run-down.”

  I glare at my grandfather. “Do you mean—blighted?”

  “Yeah. It is,” he says.

  That’s just like what they told Dad about his warehouse. I don’t know, I’m starting to agree with Nana Linda about this.

  “So renovate it!” Nana Linda says.

  I can see picket signs dancing in her eyes. “You don’t want to, like, chain yourself to the theater or something?”

  “That’s an idea.” She laughs.

  “Not again.” Jīchan sighs. He disappears into the back bedroom.

  “I know.” Nana Linda pushes the laptop to me. “How about writing a letter to the Port of San Diego? The port commissioners are in charge of Navegando Point.”

  “Why don’t you do it?” My heart speeds up. I barely want my own teacher to read my writing—why would I want the port people to?

  “I’m not the one taking improv there.”

  I groan. But I know I have no choice. So I start typing, writing the shortest note I can think of.

  Dear Port Commissioners,

  Why would you take a perfectly good place and make it so yucky on purpose? Please stop immediately.

  Sincerely,

  Ava Andrews

  Nana Linda furrows her brow. “It needs to be more persuasive.”

  Mr. Sukow would make me change it, too. But this isn’t English class, Nana Linda can’t give me a bad grade, and I don’t feel like working on it anymore. My face flushes as I try to figure out what to say to her that will be a good enough reason for quitting.

  Nana Linda looks at me patiently. I think she’s going to tell me I’m lazy, but that’s more like the kind of thing Luke would say, not her. Then my phone pings, saving me. I grab it. Zelia texted back.

  Fosters Freeze is gross anyway.

  That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say that.

  Is this Zelia? I type. Or did a monster steal her phone?

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Ava,” Nana Linda nudges. “Just a quick rewrite.”

  My stomach feels sour from the ice cream and Zelia’s weird text. I want to be done with this. Besides which, there are thousands of grown-ups who haven’t done anything to stop the development—I can’t make a difference. “Nothing’s going to happen if I do write a letter, Nana Linda. I’m only eleven.”

  “Yet more articulate than most adults.”

  Yes, and, I hear Miss Gwen saying. What would happen if I said yes?

  What if I do my best on this letter and they still don’t care? It’ll be a double failure. It’s better not to try. I don’t want to yes, and. “This is how I want it. This way or nothing.” Now all I want to do is hit send. Like throwing a ball of paper into a fire. I doubt they’ll read it, anyway.

  Jīchan wanders back into the room, pausing to watch us.

  Nana Linda squints at me as though I’m speaking Parseltongue. “Just let me edit it.”

  She’s not going to stop unless I say something dramatic. “You’re triggering my anxiety now.” I want her to leave me alone so I can go into the den and watch my saved TV show.

  Nana Linda blinks at me and takes a few seconds before she speaks. “Sweetie. I know you have anxiety, but you can’t use that as a shield. In life, sometimes you have to do things that are uncomfortable, or that you don’t want to do. Otherwise, you’ll never get what you want.”

  A sharp bolt of shame cuts into me. If only she knew about all my other problems, like running away from Fosters Freeze. What would she say if she knew I didn’t want to even tell her about them? I shake my head.

  “Maybe Ava just doesn’t feel like stirring the pot, Linda,” he says to her gently. “She’s been working at school all day long. Give her a break.”

  I nod vigorously. “Yeah.”

  “Well.” She looks at me thoughtfully. “How about we send this to your improv teacher first? Maybe she has some ideas for getting more people involved. There’s power in numbers.”

  This sounds like a good solution to me. Mostly because it means I don’t have to worry about it anymore at the moment. “Okay.”

  “Okay, then.” She exchanges a look with my
grandfather. “Go watch TV.”

  Finally. I hop up and run to the den, making sure to give Jīchan a big hug on my way.

  Chapter 14

  The next day, I drag myself over to the ultra-noisy lunch arbor. There are these metal awnings overhead that make the sound bounce off, and there’s no way five hundred middle schoolers can eat quietly.

  I scan the crowds of kids at the picnic-style tables, hoping someone will wave, and yell, “Ava, over here!” If I see the improv kids, I can sit with them. Tell them about Nana Linda and her making me write a letter.

  Maybe they’re all hiding from me because of Fosters Freeze. My brain tells me that’s probably not true. They probably already have their own lunch routine and aren’t even thinking about me. But the little thought won’t go away. It’s like a tiny crab burrowing into the sand, sinking down into my head and crawling around in there.

  “Stop,” I say out loud.

  “Stop what?” It’s Ty, at a table right in front of me. He’s spooning some refried beans into his mouth from a recycled cardboard cafeteria tray. He glowers a little and takes a swig of chocolate milk. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  Not again. I don’t know what to say, so I quick-walk away from him, wishing a hole would open itself up so I could hide myself in it. I find a place on the end of a random bench and shove the chicken salad sandwich into my mouth, my ears ringing. The kids next to me keep on eating and talking as if I’m not there.

  Every muscle in my body is steel-hard. My shoulders ache and my calf has a charley horse. I move my foot around, trying to loosen it. That happens when I get tense.

  I wish Zelia were here. I can’t take it anymore. I get out my phone and text her, hiding it under my backpack because we’re not supposed to have it on until after school.

  Hey.

  I can’t think of what else to say, so I send that.

  To my surprise, the phone pings almost immediately.

  Hay is for horses.

  This makes me smile a little bit.

  I watch more characters appear. Aren’t you at lunch? Zelia types.

  Yeah, but I miss you. She’s been weird lately, but I still need her.

  Can’t talk. At a thing.

  I send a smiley face back. My shoulders unclench. Talking to Zelia has always been one of my “coping mechanisms” I have to write on my self-care plan. So just the thought that I’ll get to talk to her helps me.

  I finish my lunch and go to the blacktop, where other kids scream and run around playing balls, or walk in groups gossiping. I’ve never been part of a group. Just a duo.

  I sit under a tree and get out my journal, but for once in my life, I don’t feel like writing. I feel like the Little Mermaid, wanting to be where the people are. Wanting to be something I’m not.

  In English class, Cecily doesn’t even glance over. Is it because of Fosters Freeze? My stomach cramps thinking about it. Right away, Mr. Sukow gives us a little class time to work on our project. I turn my desk around to face Ty. Ty sticks his legs out straight in front of him, slouching down. He’s pretty tall for a sixth-grade boy. His ankles, in thick white athletic socks, stick out beyond his jeans, making him look even taller.

  He moves his feet under his desk. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing.” This is going to be just great. I open my Chromebook. “Let’s get to work.”

  We both stare at our own screens. Around us, everyone buzzes with ideas. Are we the only group not getting along? Cecily cackles from the other side of the room—she’s working with a boy named Grant. I wish I could be her partner.

  “So.” Ty seems to read my thoughts, following my sight line over to Cecily. He gets up. “I’m going to ask if we can switch.”

  I follow him to Mr. Sukow’s desk. I’m pretty sure this won’t work, but who knows. I kind of admire Ty for trying. Mr. Sukow’s sorting some papers and doesn’t look up. “Already done?”

  I stare at the floor. Ty speaks up. “No, but we want to change partners. This isn’t working.”

  “What about it isn’t working?” Mr. Sukow puts down the papers. His face looks like it’s been carved out of stone.

  “We don’t get along.”

  “You weren’t even talking,” Mr. Sukow points out. “You didn’t try.” So he was watching the whole time, not just pretending to work like I thought. Teachers are so sneaky.

  Ty lowers his voice and glances back at me. “I just don’t want to . . .” He slips into a whisper. “Work with her.”

  I wish I could melt into a puddle and slip away under the door crack. I didn’t do anything. I’m not like one of those kids who doesn’t do their share of the work. I listen to my partner. I do all the writing.

  If he acted just a little bit nice toward me, we wouldn’t have this problem.

  “Ava,” Mr. Sukow says, “do you feel the same?”

  And then I get a hot little flame in my chest, like the one I get when Luke’s bugging me. Dad would flip out if I told someone in front of them that I didn’t want to work with them.

  I shrug.

  Ty gives me a what the heck? look but I only see it out of the corner of my eye because I’m still mostly staring at the floor. I should have stayed at my desk.

  “Nobody’s switching.” Mr. Sukow folds his hands. “When you enter the workforce, there will be all kinds of people you’ll have to learn to get along with. You might as well start now, while the stakes are low.”

  Ty and I cross our arms at the same time and I try to keep my eyes from rolling out of my head. Low stakes? What does that even mean? That middle school doesn’t matter at all?

  Mr. Sukow begins his paper-shuffling again. “Go back and try again, please.”

  We shuffle back to our desks. Ty throws himself into his seat. “I’m going to do research today. Alone.”

  I nod, but he’s already got his back to me, so I’m sure he thinks I’m ignoring him. I should probably say something, but it also seems like it’d be useless to try.

  “Hey.” Cecily’s kneeling beside me. “You want to come over after school tomorrow and hang out?”

  She’s not mad at all. Relief makes my insides turn into goo and I almost jump out of my seat. “Yes.” And just like that, I forget all about Ty and the assignment.

  That evening, I’m washing my face in our bathroom and catch sight of what looks like a big tick bite or something on the side of my nose. Another zit. Not today.

  Hudson, like a good older brother, taught me how to squeeze these things. I run a washcloth under hot water, then put it on my pimple until I can’t take it anymore. This makes the whitehead show up. Then I take two Q-tips and carefully squeeze.

  Mom walks by and stops at the open door. “No! You’ll make it scar!”

  “It’s fine.” Will it scar? The thing pops and bleeds, and I press a tissue against it. I take out a Band-Aid and tape it over my nose.

  “Do you guys have acne wash in here?” Mom tosses out an empty bottle. “You need to tell me when you run out of stuff.”

  “I don’t use that. It’s Luke’s.” Sharing a bathroom with two brothers is bad in some ways. One, they usually don’t clean up after themselves. I guess this could be true with girls and I’m not the cleanest person ever, either, but my brothers have taken it to the next level. But it’s good in some ways, too. They don’t take long to get ready.

  “This bathroom is disgusting.” Mom shakes her head. “It’s Luke’s turn to clean.”

  I feel a twinge of guilt. Every Saturday, we have to clean before we go do stuff. I was supposed to do it, but I only wiped the counters. The shower and toilet are gross. I couldn’t stand to clean them. “Actually, Mom . . . I was supposed to . . .”

  Mom doesn’t hear. She’s grumbling about the luxury of indoor plumbing and how we take everything for granted and no child of hers will be spoiled. I scurry out of there. I’ll fix it later.

  Chapter 15

  Cecily lives in a two-story house near the school. She lead
s me through her living room and kitchen, where a Puerto Rican flag is displayed above the dining table. Wind chimes hang along the patio overhand. It looks like an outdoor living room, with a squishy couch, a ceiling fan, a carpet, and even a TV hanging underneath the patio eave. A big barbecue sits at the other end.

  “Wow.” I sink into the cushiness. “I’ve never seen a TV outside before. Except at a restaurant.”

  “My dad watches football out here a lot.” Cecily does a one-shoulder shrug. “You want a soda?” She hops up, opens a refrigerator that’s attached to the barbecue, comes back.

  “You have an outdoor fridge, too? That’s so cool.” I accept the can. Lemon-lime. Fine with me. “Are your parents both at work?”

  She nods. I open the soda, wondering if my parents would be okay with Cecily’s parents not being home. What if something happens? What if there’s a fire? Or what if there’s an earthquake? Or a robber?

  I’m actually allowed to stay home alone, but I don’t like it. Not only do I make sure all the doors are locked, sometimes I lock my room and push a chair in front of the door. Just in case.

  “Ava? You okay?” Cecily’s leaning over. I realize I’m all scrunched up like I’m scared, hugging my knees to my chest, caught up in my anxiety daydream. “My dad gets home at four. That’s only an hour.”

  I nod, forcing my legs down to the floor. “Being alone makes me scared,” I admit. My heart thumpity- thumps—I don’t usually go around really admitting what I feel. What if Cecily makes fun of me?

  She doesn’t. “I’m used to it—I’m an only child.” She points at the neighbor’s house. “Besides, I know everyone on this street, so they’ll help me if I need it.”

  “Oh,” I say. I try to imagine a life without my brothers and I can’t. “Are you ever lonely?” Zelia’s an only child, too, but she and her mom act more like sisters than mother and daughter a lot of the time.

  Cecily shrugs. “Nah. I like it.”

  We sit sipping our soda for a minute, listening to the wind chimes tinkling softly in the breeze. Then Cecily says, “Hey, want to play an improv game?”