Three cheers for The Epic Fail of Arturo Zamora!
“Irresistibly exquisite.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“At turns funny, beautiful, and heartbreaking . . . engrossing.”
—Booklist
“A vibrant debut novel about family, friendship, and community.”
—Publishers Weekly
2018 Pura Belpré Author Honor Book
E. B. White Read-Aloud Middle Reader Award Finalist
2018 Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year
Amazon Best Children’s Books of 2017
Publishers Weekly Flying Start
Kirkus Reviews Best Fiction of 2017
Chicago Public Library Best of the Best Books of 2017
NYPL Best Books for Kids 2017
2017 Nerdy Book Award Winner
2018 Texas Lone Star Reading List
2018–2019 Dorothy Canfield Fisher Children’s Book Award Nominee
2018–2019 Sunshine State Young Readers Award Nominee
Charlotte Observer Best Books of 2017 for Young Readers
News & Observer Best Books for Young Readers
KOKILA
PENGUIN YOUNG READERS GROUP
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
Copyright © 2019 by Pablo Cartaya
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Ebook ISBN 9780451479730
Design by Jasmin Rubero
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Jacket art © 2019 by Camila Rosa
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Version_2
To Penelope, Leonardo, and Paloma, who teach me something new and remarkable every single day
CONTENTS
Praise
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Emilia’s Video
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-twoSchool Board Redistricting & The Faces of Merryville’s Park View Neighborhood
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-sixDad’s Video
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“When we wake up in the morning, we can choose between fear and love. Every morning. And every morning, if you choose one, that doesn’t define you until the end. . . .”
—Guillermo del Toro
EMILIA’S VIDEO
#30
The camera light blinks like a winking red eye, telling me it’s time to start. I take a short breath. I know each detail of my face is being recorded—every eyebrow movement, every twitch. What if the spinach smoothie I just drank left little green flecks in my teeth? My stomach swirls like the red, white, and blue sign outside of Butch’s Barbershop. The one off Main Street. Right next to Delucci’s, my favorite restaurant.
“Emilia?”
“Hmm?”
“We’re recording,” Gus says in a whisper.
What am I going to say? Even though I’ve done this twenty-nine times, I feel like I should have written a script. I stare straight into the lens. Gus watches quietly behind the camera. Focus, Emilia. Breathe.
And:
Hi, Papi! It’s me, Sweet E. Emilia Rosa. Your daughter. You know that. So, how are you doing? I miss you. I had a good birthday. Abuela made flan de coco. You like flan, right? Abuela signed me up for piano lessons, but I’m not very good. She says I just have to practice. I’d rather join the makers club at school. They’re going to teach kids how to wire-circuit boards. Mom says it’s a great idea. But part of me wonders if I’d get bored because I’m already good at circuit boards. Remember? Mom showed me. It was pretty easy. So, I, well, is it cold where you are? Is it in the mountains this time? I miss you, Papi. Oh, hey! I drew something for you. Here, see? It’s like the tattoo you have on your shoulder, only I ran out of green marker. That’s why the wings are pink. And that’s purple fire coming out of its mouth. Mom said I had creative license to draw the fire whatever color I wanted. Maybe you can use this drawing to get another dragon tattoo? Like on your other shoulder. Right above your Semper Fi one. Anyway, it’s for you. I’m going to scan it to send with the video file. I know it’s hard for you to Skype where you are, so I hope you get this soon. And the drawing. Bye, Papi. I love you.
END VIDEO
I wasn’t fast enough. Abuela appears behind me, already dressed with her makeup on, hair in a perfect bun. “Ven,” she says, holding two brushes and a flatiron. She gestures for me to follow her into her room. I really wanted to get a few knots out of my hair before she got started.
She sits me down on the footstool facing her full-length mirror. As soon as my butt touches the seat, she hammers away with the hairbrush like she’s some kind of blacksmith hairstylist.
My head jerks as Abuela pulls. She takes a skinny comb with a long, pointy handle and splits my hair into sections with hair clips that look like chomping alligators. With one section in her hand, she takes the flatiron in the other. She feeds my hair into the iron and clamps down on the strands. Steam curls out like a dragon exhaling as the iron slides from the top of my head to my tips. Even though she’s never burned me, I get nervous when Abuela gets close to my ears.
I don’t have my mom’s jet-black hair, but I have her curls. Or waves—my hair swooshes like a rolling tide. But after Abuela’s done with it, it’s as flat as a pancake. Today she straightens my hair out and puts it up into a ponytail.
“Pa’que se quede liso,” she says. I guess she’s worried that if I don’t put my hair up, it will get wavy later. Abuela turns my head toward the window and keeps working.
There’s something comforting about the way the sun enters the room through the curtains in the morning—it’s like a tap-tap-tapping on the window, telling me it’s time to get the day started. A cardinal chirps on the branch of our cedar tree. It flits around, and I’m jealous of the little bird for having so much energy in the morn
ing. I lean over to draw the curtains open and let in more light.
“Quédate quieta, muchacha,” Abuela says. “You’re moving around too much.”
“Aurelia,” Mom says, popping into the room. “Déjala con su pelo risado.”
Abuela stops tugging and looks back at Mom.
“She’s going to go to school with her hair curly and out of control? She won’t be able to focus,” Abuela says.
“What?” my mom replies. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, what will people think? I’ll tell you: that she doesn’t have anybody to take care of her. Is that what you want?”
“That’s what this is about,” my mom says. “It’s always about what other people think.”
“It’s important to put your best foot forward,” Abuela says, continuing to brush out my ponytail.
“And I think her wavy hair is beautiful. It’s her best foot, and I won’t let you tell her otherwise.” Mom winks while she scrunches her own hair.
“It’s fine, Mom,” I finally say.
It’s not really fine—Abuela’s daily hair rituals hurt, and I think my hair is like a lion’s mane. And I love lions. But I’m not interested in Abuela and Mom getting into another argument over my hair.
Abuela finishes by putting a large blue bow on top of my head. I get up and move toward my mom, who is still standing at the door. She’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a tank top and has her favorite fluffy argyle socks on. Her long, curly black hair falls along her shoulders like a waterfall in the dead of night.
I look back at my grandmother. She’s wearing freshly pressed pants and a blouse with circles and stars on it, her auburn hair perfectly in place without a loose strand. Her round rosy cheeks and thin lips are stained the color of an Arkansas Black apple, and she’s wearing the same gold-and-pearl earrings she’s worn since my abuelo died.
Between my mother and grandmother, I’m a blend of both. Short, head of wavy auburn hair, eyes large with dark yellow-green colors.
I don’t have Mom’s complexion. One that, as she once said, shows she is a “descendant of the Yoruba.”
“Emilia viene de sangre española,” Abuela replied. “She resembles my side of the family.”
“She may have some Spanish ancestry,” Mom said. “But she also has West African blood coursing through her veins. She needs to know all parts of her heritage, not just the European one—”
“Bueno,” Abuela interrupted. “Remember, most of our family came from Spain. And some from Ireland. That’s why your hair is that color, mi’ja.”
“Si, pero you can’t deny the orishas guide her spiritual journey as well,” Mom said.
“Aye, muchacha,” Abuela responded, clearly frustrated. “She’s baptized Catholic.”
“You baptized her Catholic, Aurelia,” Mom said. Then she whispered to me loudly enough for Abuela to hear: “No matter what, nunca dudes lo que está in your mind and spirit, mi amor. That, and sea como sea, our Yoruba heritage teaches us to respect your elders.”
Mom kissed my forehead.
I smiled. Abuela frowned.
“Come on,” Mom says now. “Let’s eat breakfast.”
“Espérate.” Abuela stops me before I head out.
She slathers her hands with gel and smooths the hair at the top of my forehead so it’s flat against my scalp. I stare at myself in her full-length mirror as the plastering continues. My eyes follow Abuela’s arm to the short cylindrical can she’s digging into. Actually, it’s pomade she’s using. Not gel. Pomade is greasier and stays in my hair longer. It gives it a slick sheen, but honestly, I hate it because it takes forever to wash out. I don’t say anything, though.
We walk downstairs, past the dining room that leads into the kitchen. Mom and I start our daily ritual of making café con leche, with a little slice of Cuban toast and melted butter, plus a large glass of my daily spinach-peanut-butter-banana-and-almond-milk smoothie.
“Doctor’s recommendations!” Mom says, pouring the last of the smoothie into my glass.
“Why do I have to drink that horrible green monster every morning? It leaves specks of green in my teeth.”
“It’s not that bad! Here, take your fish oil pill.”
“I hate that thing!”
“The doctor did say it’s a natural way to help you concentrate.”
Mom tries to add healthy foods into my diet all the time. She says it will help with my lack of focus. I think she’s just trying to cut out sugar. Which I love.
As the coffee brews, the sweet and bitter smell wafts my way. Whoever figured out that those opposite tastes could blend together so perfectly in a coffee drink was a genius.
Mom puts her arm around me, and I lean into her shoulder.
“What’s up, Not-Buttercup?” she jokes.
I perk up and smile.
I recently saw an old movie called The Princess Bride with Mom and Abuela. It’s about this princess named Buttercup who falls in love with a guy named Westley. At one point in the movie, they’re in a forest and these gigantic rats attack them. Westley falls to the ground while wrestling the rat, but Buttercup doesn’t do anything. There’s a humongous rat chewing on Westley’s shoulder, and Buttercup doesn’t even pick up a stick to bash it! She just stands there screaming for Westley to save her. It really annoyed me. Mom and Abuela eyed each other and said they never saw the movie that way.
Mom rubs my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
“Ready for school?”
“No,” I say, looking out the kitchen window, slurping up the last of my smoothie. Mom goes to the toaster and pulls out the warm bread and cuts it in half. Steam rises when she adds butter, and it melts instantly. She moves the knife like she’s conducting an orchestra across each slice.
My mouth feels dry, but it’s not because I’m thirsty.
“Do you have to leave?” I ask her.
“Yes, baby girl. The conference starts tomorrow.”
“But it’s, like, a thirty-hour time difference, Mom.”
“It’s San Francisco, mi amor. Not China. And it’s only a little more than a week. Who knows? Something exciting could come of it.”
“Like what?” I ask, moving over to help her. I grab a paper towel and start wiping the loose crumbs off the counter.
“We’ll see! Anyway, Dad is coming home tonight,” she tells me. “You’ll get some one-on-one time with him for a few days!”
“And apparently he’s okay with your mother leaving even though he’s been gone for eight months,” Abuela says, stern at the kitchen door. It doesn’t seem to faze Mom at all. She’s used to what she calls Abuela’s “puyas”—side comments meant to get under her skin. Abuela throws shade like a chameleon changes colors.
Mom rubs my forearm and squeezes my hand a little. “Bueno, Aurelia, luckily my husband and I have communicated, and fortunately for both of us, we understand that our jobs may require a certain amount of travel on occasion. As I’m sure you’ve experienced over the years with his deployments.”
Abuela huffs and leaves the kitchen. Mom exhales slowly.
“How do you not get flustered by her, Mom?”
“Patience, mi amor,” Mom says. “The older you get, the more important patience becomes.”
I glance over at my backpack and think about all the classes I have and how Mom is always there to help organize my work and how I can’t let Abuela help me because she won’t understand and suddenly I feel the vibrating in my head that happens sometimes when I get nervous. It’s like a whole bunch of little bees buzzing around and it’s hard to concentrate.
“Mom, who’s going to help me with my homework when you’re gone?”
“Dad will!”
The calendar Mom and I go over every Monday morning to help me organize the week sits in front of me. Friday is circled with two little stars and a que
stion mark next to it.
“Oh, Mom! Clarissa is having a party on Friday. Can I go?”
“It’s Monday, Emilia. And that’s not really relevant to our discussion, is it?”
“So?”
“Well, we’re talking about your dad coming home tonight and since it’s Monday, I think planning for your school week is the priority, don’t you think?”
“Mom, please don’t start that priority–organizational thinking thing again. I know it’s Monday.”
“Okay, but you have a math—”
“I know! Geez.” I take a breath and exhale. Patience . . . Right.
“Don’t make that face,” she says.
“What face?”
“The one that looks like you ate day-old bacalao.”
Mom drops her upper lip and her eyes sag a little.
“I hate salted cod,” I tell her.
“Oye, your ancestors are probably rolling in their graves.”
I drop my head onto my mom’s shoulder again. When I lift it, she hands me her mug. “Bueno, at least you like café con leche.”
I take a sip, and everything comes into focus. There is nothing like café con leche. Nothing.
“C’mon, mi amor. Let’s hang out a little before the bus gets here,” she says.
Mom pats my back and heads to the dining room, carrying the café con leche. I follow her with the buttery Cuban toast and sit at the dining table, where we’ve done homework together hundreds of times. Probably thousands. Maybe millions. Abuela moves past us to the kitchen.
“Should we get him balloons or a sign or something?” I ask.
“No, you know he doesn’t like a big welcome like that,” Mom says. “Be there with a hug and tell him you’re glad he’s home.”
“Well, I am glad he’s home. I just wish you were going to be home too.”
“I know, baby. But this is going to be good. Trust me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, swinging my feet and munching on toast and talking about the week ahead. She likes to go over my agenda for the week, but it’s kind of annoying because sometimes that’s all she talks about.
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