Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  Papi is beaming.

  “How’d that feel?”

  “Awesome,” I say.

  He comes over to look at my bead line.

  “Not bad for a first try. Not bad at all. I can’t wait to show you your present!” he says excitedly. “You’ll be my partner working on this car.”

  Partners. My dad and I are going to be partners. Just like before.

  I feel a surge of energy and calm at the same time. He tells me to step back now so he can continue working.

  “Until you get gear that fits, okay?”

  I nod, a little disappointed. But he doesn’t send me all the way back to the shed. He lets me stay a little bit closer.

  “Don’t take off the goggles. At any point.”

  “I understand, Papi.”

  He moves on to welding the side panels next to the hood. He explains what he’s about to do before he starts.

  “We’re going to make inch stitches along here,” he says then turns back, aims, and pulls his helmet down.

  Every time he finishes a weld, he pauses to talk.

  “My days are so different now, you know?”

  I nod even though I don’t know.

  “A normal day out there started pretty early,” he says, almost like he’s talking to himself. I hardly even breathe. “I’d swing by the chow hall as soon as the sun was up, for scrambled eggs with cheese and ham.”

  He stares out for a moment, like he’s thinking about what to say next.

  “Our eggs were probably local or something, because that’s the thing we never ran out of.”

  “You like eggs, Papi, so that’s good.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, next it was off to the shower trailer for a quick rinse. We had it pumped out of the local river and into tanks on base. It was pretty gross. Poo and all kinds of other stuff floating in it sometimes.”

  He starts to laugh a little. I guess that means it’s okay for me to laugh too, so I do.

  “Man, that stuff was nasty! Had to make sure it didn’t get in my eyes or mouth.”

  The thought of my dad having to sometimes rinse in poo water suddenly makes me feel horrible. “I’m sorry, Papi.”

  “Wasn’t all bad,” he offers. “Just some rough parts at times. Met some really good people over there. Not just in my unit. And I loved my unit.”

  I want him to keep talking. Maybe he’ll say something about my videos.

  “So how’s the social studies project going? Mom told me about it. Seems like a cool idea.”

  I tell him about my research.

  “You’re just like Mom, Emilia. Neither one of you gives up until you come to the truth of something.”

  He nods like what he just said makes him happy.

  “All right, so I made an inch stitch here, no weld, inch stitch here, no weld. You see?”

  “Yeah,” I say, walking closer to inspect. The helmet doesn’t feel so big anymore, and I’ve gotten used to the stinky sock smell inside. We both stare at the Shelby. “Clarissa seems kind of mad at me,” I say. “Like she doesn’t want to hear anything bad about Merryville.”

  “Clarissa’s reaction doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “I think some people prefer to stick their heads in the sand.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask him.

  He points at the frame rail and tells me he’s going to make three quick tacks where he cut out a seam in order to bond two small pieces of the rail in place. “Well, if you find out your neighbor’s life isn’t perfect and you’re unwilling to help them, it forces you to examine who you are. Some people don’t want to do that.”

  For once, it seems like my papi understands what I’m saying and is taking my side.

  “Hey, I think we need a new nickname for you after today, Sweet E.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Chispita,” he says. “Little spark.”

  “I like it,” I tell him.

  Papi turns off the welder and we put all our safety gear back in the shed.

  “Hey, it’s right around dinnertime. You hungry?”

  “A little.”

  As we clean up, I think about how easy it is to talk to my dad tonight. Maybe he’s finally relaxing. Maybe he’s ready to talk about everything.

  “Hey, Papi?” I feel a fluttering fire in my stomach, nervous but sure at the same time.

  “Yeah, Chispita?”

  “I’m just wondering,” I say, my voice steady but my chest all thunder and lightning. “You know those videos I sent you? Can you tell me why you never talked about them or sent one back?”

  My dad shifts his weight. He seems uncomfortable. He gets up and walks over to the shed. I hear a few grunts and then he starts mumbling.

  “We’re having a really nice night here working together,” he says just out of earshot. “Now is not the time.”

  I get off my stool and look at him, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s watching me from the corner of the back lot like a wounded animal afraid of a hunter who’s just popped out of a bush.

  I start to wonder if Papi is one of those people who likes to keep their head in the sand.

  I get home exhausted. I tell Papi that I’m not hungry, and go up to my room to think about something I have more control over, like my social studies project. At least it’s information that isn’t going to run away when I ask questions.

  Mr. Richt said we couldn’t use the Internet, but I’m alone, so I decide to connect. I pick up my phone and look at the note I made when I was at the library. My computer takes a few seconds to power up, and I search for the American Civil Liberties Union of Georgia. At the top left of the page it says ACLU Georgia and under it the words, “Defending Our Rights to Equality, Liberty, and Justice.”

  I read through several articles and cases. One says that the Board of Elections proposed to close voting locations in an area where mostly African American people live. One of the locations is right near Park View!

  Another post is in Spanish, with hard-to-read legal information.

  I click to a new section. There is a quote from James Madison, one of the Founding Fathers and the fourth president of the United States:

  “America was indebted to immigration for her settlement and prosperity. That part of America which had encouraged them most had advanced most rapidly in population, agriculture and the arts.”

  Mom says we have to vote to change laws we don’t like. But what if laws make it hard to vote?

  It’s like I’m flying in circles, looking for somewhere to land. I remember the woman I read about, Sara J. González. She didn’t sit by and do nothing. She fought for immigration rights in Atlanta. I know I have to do something, but I don’t know what or if a kid can even make a difference.

  I type in “Merryville and Park View Schools” to see if anything comes up on Google. The county public school website has a photo of the school board on the home page. Under the Agenda tab, there’s an entry for the next public hearing on the proposal for redistricting elementary through high school students.

  It seems like there will be several public meetings before the vote. One to introduce the redistricting, which already happened. The second to hear public opinion, which happens next Thursday. And the third, which will take place in front of the community in a month, is for the vote.

  I open up a new tab to look for more articles. There’s a map of the school district. The whole district is diamond-shaped, with Merryville right smack in the middle and Park View on the outside looking in. Park View is a neighborhood of Merryville, yet the map shows it as being separate.

  At the bottom of the page, in the comments section, parents and other community members are worried about overcrowding. Some say it’s more about “safety” when students don’t share similar “values.” My head is like one of those centrifuges where astronauts train that
I saw in a movie. Around and around and around it goes until . . .

  Abuela enters my room, like always, without knocking.

  “I set up a fund-raiser for church this Sunday,” she says. “I asked your father to come help you.”

  “Help me? With what?”

  “With the toy sale you volunteered for. At the church.”

  “Abuela,” I say, confused. “I didn’t volunteer for a toy sale.”

  “For the LEGOs and toys you wanted to get rid of? I thought we could sell them and donate the money to the church.”

  “Okay,” I say, because honestly, I like that idea. “Abuela, have you had something happen to you because you’re an immigrant?”

  By the stern look on her face, I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about this.

  “Did you know that people are upset about the school redistricting proposal because they think kids from Park View are going to be a ‘bad influence’ on the kids in Merryville?”

  “No me gusta que estás leyendo esas cosas.” She doesn’t approve of what I’m reading. “Eso no es un proyecto para una niña de doce años. The adults will take care of it.”

  I don’t understand. Abuela thinks I’m old enough to start planning for my quinceañera, which is not for another three years, but I shouldn’t be learning about something that affects my town and my family right now?

  Abuela changes the subject before I can say anything. She asks me if I want to go dress shopping with her tomorrow.

  I exhale loudly.

  “Mira,” she says. “Your father can come with us. Maybe we can grab some dinner in Cartersville. You know, have a nice evening together. What do you think?”

  I remember our “nice evening” at Delucci’s. And the last time I went shopping with Abuela at Plaza Fiesta near Atlanta, it took me twenty minutes to figure out how to get into a dress that had so many layers and puffy parts, I could hardly fit my arms through. The slip was really itchy and felt more like sandpaper than silk. The dress came with a thin belt that I had to wrap around twice to get it to stay in place. It pressed down on my stomach so hard that I worried I’d accidentally pee on myself. I waddled out of the dressing room, afraid to put my arms down because it was surely going to cause itching in other parts of my body.

  “¡Qué linda!” Abuela said, examining me.

  “I can’t move, Abuela,” I replied. “And it feels like a thousand mosquito bites in the summer. I have to take this off.”

  Mom was with us and couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t funny.

  Abuela leaves, defeated, and my dad knocks on the door shortly after, while I email myself the websites I found. I want to make sure I can access them on my phone.

  He steps inside with a box.

  “Hey . . . I never showed you the present I got you,” he says. He carefully puts a large box at the foot of my bed.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t you want to open it?” he asks.

  I shrug. I don’t know how to act around my dad anymore. I can never tell what’s going to make him angry.

  I peel off the tape to look inside. There’s a pair of metallic blue MIG/Stick welding gloves that look just my size. A pair of safety goggles, a really cool shimmering black welding jacket, some black coveralls that look like they’re a little big but definitely smaller than the ones at the shop, and an industrial duffel bag. Papi smiles shyly.

  “There’s more,” he says.

  I dig further and feel something round secured inside a plastic cover. It’s a welding helmet with a fire-breathing dragon painted on both sides. This time, my excitement is impossible to hide.

  “Now you can help me in your own gear,” he says. “If you still want to.”

  “I do,” I tell him. And I mean it.

  His eyes are droopy. His hair is starting to grow out. It seems like he wants to say something, but it’s almost like there’s a cable around his waist, pulling him back every time he wants to move forward.

  “I love it,” I tell him.

  I admire my helmet. What will be my first welding project? Well, besides rebuilding the Green Hornet with my dad. There’s a tree outside my window that almost touches the roof of our house. There was a bird nest there a year ago, but now there are just a few squirrels that run up and down the trunk. Would welding a metal frame into a tree make a safe tree house?

  “I think I found two axles for the Green Hornet at an auto shop in Cartersville,” my dad says. “I’m going to go pick them up tomorrow and maybe you can come with and later help me weld them together. You can use your new gear.”

  I nod.

  “Cool,” he says. “Good night, Chispita.”

  “Good night,” I say.

  My dad leaves the room. I put on the jacket, the pair of gloves, and the helmet. I can see me lighting up everything I touch. And I can hear the clack-clack-clack coming from every direction.

  Actually, it’s just my phone.

  Gus: where r u?

  Me: home. why?

  Gus: i went to clarissa’s. u weren’t there

  Oh no. I totally forgot about the party! The dragon’s scales on my new helmet cast sparkles on my phone.

  Me: im sooo sorry gus!!! totally forgot!!!

  Gus doesn’t answer for a little bit. I can’t believe he actually went. I was distracted with my dad and my project and then the helmet, and I just didn’t remember. Squiggly lines on my screen let me know Gus is typing.

  Gus: its fine. gotta go. my dad just got here

  Me: k bye. sorry again

  I put the phone down and hope at least Gus had a good time. But by his short responses, I’m worried that he didn’t and I feel awful.

  Saturday morning starts with my dad moving pots and pans around in the kitchen. He’s trying to cook fried eggs but isn’t having much luck keeping the yolk from running.

  “I can lead a platoon ten thousand feet above sea level, but I can’t keep an egg yolk from running,” he says. I walk over to the stove and take a spatula to mix the eggs around.

  “We can make them scrambled,” I tell him. “Do we have cheese?”

  My dad pulls out a bag of shredded cheddar from the refrigerator.

  “How about this?” he asks.

  “And some salsa!” I tell him.

  He perks up and dives back into the fridge for the jar of salsa. He opens it and grabs a spoon from the drawer.

  “What next, chef?”

  “Well, I think some breakfast tacos are in order, no?”

  “Oh man, why didn’t I think of that?”

  I pour the salsa on top of the scrambled eggs and pile on half the bag of cheese.

  “Do we have tortillas?”

  “Papi,” I tell him. “We always have tortillas.”

  “True,” he says. “Who taught you how to make breakfast tacos?”

  “You remember that time you were home, like, two years ago, I think?”

  My dad shakes his head. “Sometimes it blurs into one long deployment,” he offers. He stares out the window.

  “Well,” I say, wanting to keep the conversation going, “Gus’s family came over to celebrate you being home. Tita made these incredible corn tortillas and Abuela made scrambled eggs with chorizo and salsa.”

  “Not sure I remember that, but I’m positive it was delicious.” Dad takes a spoon to the pan to scoop some eggs and salsa onto a tortilla. He scarfs it down, but he has to keep opening his mouth to let out steam.

  “Man, it’s too hot, but it’s good!”

  We set the table and make more tacos.

  “Abuela is at church,” Dad says. “She’s dropping off your toys for your toy sale before Mass tomorrow.”

  “I just said I didn’t want some of my old toys,” I say. “She’s the one who came up with that idea.”


  “She wants to go into Cartersville after that. Maybe we can all go together? I can pick up those parts I need.”

  “You want to come?” I ask, trying not to sound as excited as I am.

  “Yeah, I mean, sure. Let’s stop at Shaney’s. We haven’t been there in a while.”

  “We haven’t been to Shaney’s in at least a year,” I correct him. It’s the best costume and trinket store around.

  “You think they still have those cool spears and shields?” he asks.

  “I happen to know they do. Gus and I wanted to be knights for Halloween and Mom took us. They have those massive helmets with the horns on the sides. We didn’t get them, though, because Mom said they were way too expensive for just a Halloween costume. We ended up making our helmets out of tinfoil and cardboard.”

  “Impressive.”

  “And they have some new stuff too,” I tell him, hoping he really goes with us. It will at least get him out of the house. “Hey, you want to walk through town to get to the auto shop? We can ask Abuela to meet us there once she’s done.”

  My dad slides the dining room drapes over a bit and peeks outside.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It does look like it’s a nice day.”

  Papi walks with a slight limp. It’s not too noticeable, but I can see the way he favors his right leg a little. It’s new.

  He lets go of my hand and swings his big arm around my shoulders. Together we walk and talk about the weather and about how tall the trees are in Merryville.

  Papi must have walked these streets thousands of times as a kid. I’ve probably done it hundreds of times. Now here we are together, and it feels like we’re walking it for the first time.

  “Hey,” Papi says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “About feet,” I say.

  My dad laughs a little then takes my hand as we cross the street.