“These look like the ones Abuela has outside,” he says.
I’m embarrassed. Just as I’m about to apologize again, Abuela walks in through the back door.
“¿Qué pasó?” is the first thing she says. How does she know something happened? She wasn’t even here!
“Nada, Mami,” my dad says. “Emilia gave me some flowers.”
Abuela takes the flowers and steps closer to inspect my face.
“¿Y esa mugre?” Abuela asks, wiping dirt from my cheeks. “You said you were going to go study for your project.”
“I was,” I tell her. “Gus’s project is about monster myths from Merryville. We went to the woods to film.”
“Your face is covered in dirt, Emilia,” Abuela says. Then she notices my sleeves. “And your clothes are filthy. Is this the way a young lady is supposed to look?”
My dad steps around the sofa. Just as I hope he’s going to come to my defense, he moves past me toward the stairs.
“This seems like a discussion for the ladies of the house. I’m going to go upstairs.”
I shake my head and feel my cheeks get hot. Why doesn’t he ever take my side?
“Don’t look at me with that face, Emilia Rosa,” Abuela says. “You are running around in the woods with Gustavo Sánchez, playing monsters, when you should be concentrating on your studies and spending your time in more appropriate ways for your age.”
“Fine, Abuela,” I say. It’s harder than usual to control my frustration.
“When you leave this house, you represent this family. What are people going to think about us?”
I want to yell that all she cares about are other people. But then I remember the Yoruba rule Mami taught me: “We must respect our elders.” Why are there so many different rules I have to follow?
Before I can say anything, my feet take over and I rush up the stairs. I close the door behind me and throw myself on my bed, bury my face into my pillow, and scream as loudly as I can. I scream until my voice cracks and my temples hurt. I wish I were back in the woods, playing in Gus’s imagination.
* * *
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember, I’m groggy and my phone is buzzing. I hope and pray that it’s Mom, but it’s just an alert from one of my puzzle games. I decide to try her anyway.
Me: love you mami
The squiggly lines pop up and I get excited. Maybe she has a moment to talk.
Mom: Hi, baby! You good? You wanna talk more about your project?
The truth is, I don’t want to talk about my social studies project or my math homework or anything like that. I just want to hear her voice.
Mom: Hey, how’s it going with Dad? He’s not talking much.
I think about how to respond. My mom and dad are really close—like best friends. They joke around with each other. Snuggle on the sofa and hold hands. They both love comedy specials, and when they’re home, they go on dates to eat chili dogs at Jimmy’s Diner and sometimes drive all the way to Atlanta to watch a Hawks game when it’s basketball season. When they’re both home, it’s like they breathe easier. Even Abuela doesn’t challenge them as much when they’re together.
Mom: You okay, mi amor?
I don’t want to say the truth, because that would feel like telling on Papi. I could tell her about Abuela trying to buy me dresses and saying I have to act like a lady. But that would probably only cause an argument. And sharing any of this with Mom won’t bring her home. So I just type:
Me: good. miss u. bye.
Before my phone lands on my bed, Mom calls.
“Hey, Mom.” I throw myself onto my bed and stare at the ceiling.
“Boo, I know you’re going through a lot right now. I’ve been lighting candles to bring good spirits home to you.”
“Thanks,” I say, sitting up to see myself in the mirror. My wavy red hair is big, and freckles dot my entire face. “But, Mami, I don’t think that’s going to work. I don’t have Yoruba in me.”
“Why would you think that?” she asks. “Did Abuela say something?”
“No,” I tell her, lying back down.
“Baby, you are my daughter. When you came into this world, you got parts of me whether you believe it or not.”
“It doesn’t look like it. I don’t very feel Cuban sometimes.”
“When I get home, we’re going to talk more about this, boo. But for now, what I can say is that there isn’t one way to be Cuban. There isn’t a ‘good’ way or a ‘bad’ way. And yes, some people will make you feel like there is a good way or a bad way based on how you look. But that says more about them than about you. It’s my promise to you that I’ll always tell you about where you come from and your history. The more you know, the stronger you will feel.”
“I’m super-flustered, Mami. All these things I’ve found in my research. I’m tired and angry and worried at the same time.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Like, could that happen to me? Could I be deported because my mother and grandmother came from another country?”
“No, mi amor. The law currently protects those who were born in this country.”
“What about you or Abuela?”
“We’re both citizens now.”
“What about Don Felix?”
“From what Abuela tells me, he moved to Atlanta from Mexico in the nineties, then Alabama to work at the chicken plants, then Merryville, where he got a job as Don Carlos’s butcher.”
“Can he be forced to leave?”
Mom doesn’t say anything for a moment.
“I hope not, but honestly I’m not so sure, mi amor. As I understand it, he’s tried to apply for citizenship for years, but it’s a long and involved process. They don’t make it easy and sometimes it seems like the same rules don’t work for everyone.”
“It just doesn’t seem fair.”
Again, Mom is quiet.
“No, it’s not fair,” she finally offers. I can hear her exhale. “I’m sorry it’s been such a whirlwind, baby. Maybe I should change my flight and come home sooner—”
“No!” I yell, stopping her before she can finish. “It’s fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“How can I not worry?”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Talk to Papi,” she tells me. “He’s a little down right now, but he’s an incredible listener and supporter.”
It doesn’t seem like it, but I don’t tell Mom that.
“Okay, I’ll text you tomorrow.”
We finally hang up. It feels like I’ll always be chasing that firefly in the dark.
Mom sends me an emoji that explodes into a million hearts across my screen. I put my phone down and decide to grab my backpack to distract myself from how I feel. I pull out a few folders and take out some crumpled papers from the main zipper compartment. There’s a form Mr. Richt gave the class this morning. I didn’t bother reading it because I was rushing to get to language arts.
I straighten out the edges and read. They want us to confirm our address in Merryville and the grade I’m supposed to be going into next year. My parents have to sign and return it to the administration by next Friday.
I toss the wrinkled page onto my desk. Mami isn’t here to sign it, and I don’t really want to ask Dad to do anything right now. Papi still feels like he’s thousands of miles away.
I start my proposal for Mr. Richt’s class. I list my tour stops: Don Carlos’s Grocery Latino and the library. Two stops is probably not enough, so I think about other places to add. Maybe the Cherokee rose shrubs in the woods? I think tourists would like to see the beautiful roses and learn about their history. I write that down. Three places seems like a good start for a tour around town.
Next I write a few sentences about why I chose these locations. Finally I propose what I want to investigate. I sl
ide the paper into my social studies folder and put away my backpack. It’s almost seven thirty.
Papi’s preferred dinnertime has come and gone, but that doesn’t stop Abuela from trying to get us out of the house for “un poco de aire.” She opens the door to my room and walks right in. She never bothers to knock or ask if she can enter. Abuela just assumes she can.
“Let’s find a place to eat out,” she says. “It’s still not too late, and I think we all need some fresh air.”
I don’t disagree.
“Can we finally go to Delucci’s?”
Dad pops his head into my room.
“The garlic rolls are awesome,” he says.
“The best,” I tell him.
“Mind if I come in?” he asks.
I nod and stand up.
“Hey, Sweet E,” he says.
I was five when he came up with that nickname. “Something that only I get to call you,” he said.
“You haven’t called me that in a while, Papi.”
“True,” he says. “Are you too old for it?”
“I don’t mind,” I say.
Abuela stands between us and ushers my dad out of the room.
“Cámbiate primero,” she says to him. “And wash your face.”
* * *
We arrive at Delucci’s and the hostess seats us at a booth near the window. She hands us three menus and we set about looking at the various choices, when my phone pings. Abuela shoots me a look as I check the screen. Gus has sent me an image of the Pan’s Labyrinth movie poster, only he’s photoshopped the image to read:
LOS MONSTRUOS DE BOSQUE MERRYVILLE
WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY
GUSTAVO MIGUEL SÁNCHEZ
STARRING
EMILIA ROSA TORRES
I have to admit that I like the way my name appears on a movie poster. Gus changes film titles a lot. I start to tell him that, but I hear a tap-tap-tap on the table. Abuela is watching me intently.
“You shouldn’t be on your phone at the table, Emilia.”
“Sorry,” I say.
I put my phone in my pocket. It’s noisy in the restaurant. People are talking at all the tables, and the booths lined up against the walls are full. The lighting is soft at Delucci’s, and there are red-and-white tablecloths on all the tables. The clanking plates and silverware are just enough to make it a little distracting. I’ve gotten used to it for the most part, though. Mom said to look at one object if I get uncomfortable, and focus on it.
A few guys from town approach our table and say hi to my dad.
“Great to see you out and about, Toni!”
“You been here a few days and we haven’t seen you around, buddy! Let’s hang out soon!”
My dad mostly just nods and doesn’t offer much in the way of small talk. His eyes dart around the room. I follow his gaze as the restaurant sounds get louder.
Doors opening and closing. A person asking for the soup of the day. A lightbulb above one of the tables goes out and the people sitting under it try twisting it. My dad’s knees bounce up and down, up and down, while he fidgets his thumbs. He flashes an uneasy smile at Abuela, but Abuela seems oblivious to what’s going on. I get it. I know exactly what Dad is going through.
“Papi,” I say, trying to get his attention. “Papi?” I try again, but he’s clearly distracted. Watching him look around is making me nervous. The noises start to crowd my head. Abuela is talking about something, but I’m not listening to a word. It’s all too much.
“What can I get you!” a server says suddenly.
My dad and I both jump back.
“Dang, man!” Papi says. “Is it necessary for you to yell like that?”
The server seems scared. My dad is very muscular, and when he’s upset can be kind of intimidating.
“I’m sorry, sir. Are y’all ready to order?”
Papi points to the shrimp Alfredo and asks for a Coke. Abuela chooses the lemon-roasted chicken with vegetables and a small Caesar salad with the dressing and croutons on the side. She repeats the “on the side” part.
“I’ll have the angel hair pasta Bolognese with an extra serving of garlic rolls.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Water is fine, thanks.”
We wait for our food when I suddenly hear a loud bell followed by a group of servers clapping and cheering. The commotion across the restaurant is a bunch of servers gathered around a table singing the most obnoxious rendition of “Happy Birthday” in the world. I love Delucci’s. I hate when someone celebrates a birthday here.
My dad puts his napkin on the table and gets up.
“I’m going to get some air.”
He leaves through the dining room, around the hostess stand, and through the doors to the sidewalk. My dad paces a bit, and I can see through the window that he’s finally calming down. His noise has dimmed, but mine continues bouncing around in my brain like a pinball.
Even though I know this isn’t my fault, I still feel guilty.
The server arrives with our order, and Abuela hands back the food.
“We’ll take this all to go,” she says.
The waiter seems annoyed that we just made him go through all the trouble of setting us up for dinner only to box our food.
“You serious?” he says. He’s young, like maybe he’s still in high school or something. And he’s skinny like PVC pipe. He’s all limbs and seems uncomfortable in his oversized red-and-black Delucci’s button-down shirt.
He walks back to the kitchen with the plates. I overhear a couple talking and turn around to see that they have a little girl who’s about six or seven in the booth with them.
“Yo creo que va a ser bueno.”
“Sí, Pedro, pero ¿qué vamos a hacer con la transportacíon? ¿Y todos los niños aquí que no hablan español?”
“Pues, que aprendan. Isabel aprendió hablar íngles.”
They’re talking about schools—the redistricting. It sounds like they might have to move their daughter to Merryville from Park View for first grade.
The server returns with our to-go boxes and a large brown bag. He drops the check and moves to the couple I’ve been listening to behind us.
He interrupts their conversation to take their order. “Um, I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Spanish,” he starts. “Are you going to order?”
The two parents look stunned. Their daughter blows bubbles in her plastic water cup with a straw.
“Well, sir, you interrupted our private conversation,” the woman says. The server seems confused. “Now that you’re here, I’d like to order the spaghetti Bolognese.”
I snort as the waiter scribbles down the order in his notepad. Even Abuela finds it hard to hold in her chuckling.
As we get up to leave, Abuela winks at the couple with their daughter.
“Buenas noches, señores. Que disfruten de su cena.”
The little girl waves goodbye to us. On our way out the door, Abuela flags down the manager.
“That young man should learn a little Spanish,” she says. “And to be more polite as a server.”
A small bell dings as we head outside with our boxed-up food to meet Papi. I’m a little surprised Abuela said anything to the manager. She’s usually much more reserved in public. Dad taps his feet impatiently like he’s ready to go. Abuela seems disappointed. I know how she feels. Nothing we do for my dad seems to be working.
Clarissa hasn’t been on the bus for a few days, so I haven’t seen her as much. She says her mom has decided to drive her since things might change a lot if the school board votes to redraw district lines and allow Park View kids to come to Merryville Middle.
Before Mr. Richt’s class starts today, she reminds me to fill out my address form and have Papi sign it.
“We have to show them that there are alr
eady enough students at this school,” she says. “We don’t need any more.”
I wish Clarissa heard the couple last night at the restaurant. I don’t think she’s actually talked to anyone from Park View.
“So, what’s your tourism guide on?” she asks. “Mine’s on the Red, White, and Boom Boom Fourth of July Festival.”
Even though we’re only supposed to have our places picked out at this point, Clarissa has brought a poster board with pictures of town hall and a few photos from last year’s festival.
“You did a lot of work already,” I say.
“Did you know we have one of the oldest Fourth of July celebrations in northern Georgia?”
“I didn’t.”
“What’s yours on?”
Before I can tell her, Jay Renter barrels into class.
“Hey, everyone! Check out my awesome project!” He’s holding a magazine article about the one state football championship Merryville High School won in its history, way back in 1971. “I printed out the schedule of the football season so tourists can check out every game!”
“Who’s going to want to check out a middle-school football game, Jay?” Barry asks from his desk.
“My grandpa will!”
Barry just shakes his head and organizes his folder. Clarissa’s face looks like she ate a sour lemon. She leaves our corner to talk to Lacey about her project, and Gus takes his seat in front of me.
“You and Mr. Nguyen can’t both do a project on the football team,” Mr. Richt says.
“But, Mr. Richt!” Chinh pleads. “Jay is doing it on the football season, where I am doing it on the actual football stadium. Mine is an architectural ode to the gridiron!”
“Intriguing. I’ll allow it if you two partner up.”
Chinh and Jay stare at each other like the other one farted.
“I’ll change mine,” Chinh says.
“Wait, you don’t want to do a project with me?”
“Well, no.”
Each Tiny Spark Page 11
