Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  “I was texting and texting and texting,” Abuela says when I approach her.

  “I know, Abuela,” I reply. “Papi no viene. Lo siento.” I don’t know why I apologize on Dad’s behalf, but I do.

  “Ah,” she says, surprised. “Bueno, it’s just the only thing I ask. It’s fine. He’ll go next week when we’re all back together.”

  It feels like she has just poured every ounce of guilt she could muster over me, like clumpy oil.

  Abuela hands out a flyer to someone standing near the table. The lady hands it back to Abuela.

  “Thanks,” she says. “But I’ll be at the school board meeting on Thursday.”

  Abuela nods and returns the flyer to her stack. The lady joins another woman. I can hear bits and pieces of their conversation as they pick up and examine my Harry Potter LEGO Quidditch set. I built that thing in six hours.

  “Well, imagine,” she says. “Our neighborhood is going to be overrun.”

  “I just don’t feel comfortable.”

  “Me neither!”

  Abuela puts little stickers on my old toys and writes prices on them. We sell an assembled TIE fighter for two dollars. The TIE fighter took me about forty-five minutes to put together when I first got it. I was seven. Mami wanted to get me the LEGOs that use power functions, but Dad was home on leave and surprised me with a four-thousand-piece LEGO Death Star. Abuela was really annoyed at the expense. When Dad left, Abuela reminded my mom every day how expensive it was, like it was Mom’s idea to buy it. Mom mostly ignored her.

  “Well, my cousin said those folks from over there have fifteen or more family members living in a house at one time. They’ve got cars parked on the lawns and it just looks awful,” says another woman. She has my Harry Potter Quidditch LEGO set in her hand.

  “That’s because there isn’t a lot of street parking,” I blurt out. “And there’s only one park for the kids in the neighborhood to play in. Our neighborhood has three parks and they’re mostly empty.”

  The two women give me a look like they didn’t expect anyone to crack their code.

  “I mean, I have no problem with those kids at all,” one of them says.

  “Neither do I!” says the other. They both scoot away from my LEGOs and lower their voices to a whisper. But I have good hearing and I’m laser focused on their conversation.

  “You remember that piñata I bought at the Latino store for Eddy’s birthday? I mean, I’m completely supportive of that community. But I moved here for the good teachers and the small class sizes, you know? That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Me too,” the other replies.

  Just then Gus’s family pulls up to the church parking lot. Gus steps out of the car and helps get the baby stroller out of the trunk. He comes back around and takes Tita’s hand to help her up the church steps. I suddenly feel nervous because we haven’t spoken since Friday.

  “¡Hola, Tita!” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Mi’jita,” she says. “¿Todo bien?”

  “Sí,” I say, looking at Gus. “Gracias.”

  “Qué bueno.” She shuffles over to Abuela next.

  Gus’s dad and mom move closer, with Gus’s dad holding Gus’s baby sister, Daniela. Soon the church steps are full. The two ladies who were talking earlier must have felt squished, because they quickly turn around to leave.

  “Lo siento, señor.” I apologize to Señor Orestes for making him drive to Clarissa’s party.

  “Yo sé, mi’ja,” he says. “Don’t worry, okay?”

  I spot Gus, but he turns away when we make eye contact.

  The church bells ring and Abuela asks me to pack up the table so we can head inside. I think about asking Gus to help me, so we can talk, but he’s already guiding Tita to her seat.

  “Vamos,” Abuela says, putting the rest of the toys inside a cardboard box. She slips the envelope of money we made from these sales into the box and hands it to an usher.

  “Gracias, Doña Aurelia,” he says. “We can keep the toys for the next service.”

  I’m hoping Abuela will want to sit in the back pews, but she doesn’t. She follows the usher all the way to the front of the church and takes a seat. She pats the wooden bench and makes room for me to sit. It’s embarrassing to sit so close to the altar. I have to pay attention the whole time because I’m right in the priest’s line of sight the entire Mass.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did the school send a paper home to sign?”

  I think about the crumpled paper jammed in my backpack.

  “Yes,” I tell her.

  “We need to sign it and return it to school Friday,” she says.

  “How did you know?”

  “The school called your mother and asked about it,” Abuela says, sounding irritated.

  “I talked to Mami last night. She didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, I spoke to her this morning and she reminded me about the paper.”

  “This morning? It’s three hours behind in San Francisco. What time did you call her?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Emilia. Do you have the paper?”

  “Yes,” I say, wondering why Mom didn’t just ask my dad when she called him. It’s like she doesn’t trust me to get it signed. I can remember when I want to. I shift on the uncomfortable pew.

  “Quédate quieta, niña.” Abuela shoots me a look until I’m still again.

  “So, what did Mom say?”

  “Emilia, Mass is starting. Just give me the form to sign, okay?”

  I turn all the way around to see if I spot Gus and his family. Sometimes we’ll make funny faces at each other to pass the time. We’ve almost come up with our own language to communicate silently with our expressions.

  Gus is in the middle of the church, on the left side. We make eye contact for a second before he turns his attention to the front of the church. It seems like he’s listening, but I can tell he isn’t really.

  “Presta atención,” Abuela whispers loudly.

  I tune in to what’s happening at the lectern and, in Spanish, the lector says what psalm we’re supposed to sing. I slouch a little. Great. I forgot that Sunday morning is Spanish Mass, which means I have to pay extra attention in order to keep up with everything the priest is saying.

  I sit in silence while my thoughts run wild. I turn back to Gus again. Every time I do, Abuela gives me stink eye.

  Keeping still in church is the hardest thing to do. When I was younger, I got to draw or play with my LEGOs. But after my First Communion, Abuela said I have an agreement with God to pay attention. Does she know how hard it is to stay focused when there are a million words swirling in the air? And in Spanish?

  * * *

  After Mass, Abuela invites Gus’s family over for lunch. We all walk to our cars. I don’t ask to go with the Sánchez family like I do sometimes, because I can tell Gus is still mad at me. When we get home and open the door, my dad has a look on his face like someone just ran over his foot with a bicycle.

  “I thought we could use the company,” Abuela says, smiling.

  Papi tenses up but remains silent. Gus’s dad senses the tension and says that maybe they should plan to visit another weekend.

  “Mejor, otra semana,” Señor Orestes tells Abuela.

  Abuela tries to convince everyone that it’s perfectly fine to have a little lunch then to go home, but Señor Orestes insists.

  “Gracias, Doña Aurelia,” he says. “Pero hay que hacer mandados hoy. I’ll see you around, T.”

  My dad nods without looking up.

  “Sí, gracias, Aurelia, muy amable,” Gus’s mom thanks Abuela for the kind offer while holding a sleeping Daniela.

  Abuela relents and agrees to host a barbeque after church next weekend. This weekend is barely over and she’s already planning a church thing for next weeke
nd. Abuela really wants to make God happy, I guess.

  She steps outside and waves as Gus’s family drives off. She turns back to the living room and glares at my dad.

  “Antonio,” she says. “That was very rude.”

  Papi gets up and moves closer to Abuela.

  “I told you not to spring people on me like that, Mami. Even if it’s great people like the Sánchez family.”

  Abuela tells my dad that he needs to start going out more and socializing. She says he needs to at least go to church. I can see Papi tuning out. He walks back to the sofa and sinks into it. He shakes his head in frustration while Abuela goes to the kitchen.

  Papi offers me the seat next to him. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, since he’s not in the best mood, but I walk over and sit anyway. Abuela stomps around in the kitchen. I hear the faucet running and plates clanging against silverware.

  “We have a dishwasher, Mami!” Dad yells. “Geez, I don’t remember her being like this,” he says to me. “This is too much.”

  “I know,” I reply. “Maybe she’s stressed with Mami gone or maybe she’s worried about y—” I stop myself. I don’t want to tell him that maybe he’s the problem. Maybe we all are.

  My dad sets his big arm across the sofa. He takes the remote control and starts flipping through channels.

  “Any suggestions?” he asks.

  “How about Rock My Wreck?” I say. It’s a car show about a bunch of guys who fix junk cars.

  Papi lets out a laugh and the room revs to life. “I love that show,” he says.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  He clicks on the guide and searches for the channel.

  “It’s two-forty-two,” I tell him. “That’s an on-demand channel. It’s in the saved folder.”

  He hands me the remote so I can find the show.

  “There’s a new fixer on the team now,” I tell him. “Her name is Shirley. She’s awesome.”

  “I bet,” he says.

  We press play and watch quietly together. I can see Abuela’s reflection on the television screen. She’s standing in the dining room, watching us without saying a word. My dad doesn’t notice, but I do.

  At school the next day, Mr. Richt asks if anyone would like to update the class on their project.

  “I warned you I’d do this,” he says. “Would anyone care to share what they’ve been up to?”

  I almost never raise my hand in class, but I have so much to share.

  “Yes, Miss Torres. Take it away!”

  I tell the class all the other stuff I’ve learned while working on this project. About the ACLU, about anti-immigration laws. I tell them that my mom says the biggest thing people can do when they turn eighteen is to register to vote, and fight for that right even though some lawmakers make it hard for everyone. Because voting decides a lot of things in a person’s life, like where they can live and where they can go to school.

  “But that’s not enough,” I say, feeling charged up. “We’re kids, but that doesn’t mean we have to stay silent and wait till we’re old enough to vote. We can speak up and help right now. Like my mom says, we need to look out for one another.”

  It all spills out at once.

  “What in the world? That’s not a tourism guide!” Clarissa interrupts. “Where did you get all that information? You didn’t find that junk in the library.”

  “It’s not junk,” Gus says. “It’s hidden information. Like a monster under your bed.”

  “You and your stupid monsters, Gustavo. Why don’t you just keep quiet for once?”

  “I’m not going to keep quiet, Clarissa. You’re the one cutting people off all the time.”

  Mr. Richt gets up from his seat. “Hey, let’s get back on track, you two. And, Miss Anderson, watch your language, you understand?”

  Clarissa glares then busies herself by organizing her pens by size and color.

  Mr. Richt moves toward me. “Do you have your sources, Miss Torres?”

  I pause for a second before nodding.

  “They’re on my phone.”

  “You can’t use the Internet!” Clarissa blurts out.

  “I didn’t! I mean, most of my research is from the library.”

  Mr. Richt asks me to get my phone from my locker. I take it out to show him my list of folders in the notes app.

  “This is thorough, Miss Torres, but these are websites.”

  “See? She can’t use those!” Clarissa shouts.

  “No, she can’t,” Mr. Richt says. “These books and these interviews, yes. I bet you can find some of this other information, and more, by going to city hall.”

  “Mr. Richt—” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish.

  “I’m sure you’ll continue to find things within the parameters of my rules, right?”

  “I guess so,” I tell him. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Clarissa smirking.

  So is Mr. Richt allowing me to use the information I found or not?

  “Anybody else have addendums to their projects or other expansive updates like Miss Torres?”

  “Mr. Richt!” Jay shouts. “It’s not nice to call students dumb dumbs!”

  The class laughs, and Jay puts his hand up for Richie to high-five him. Richie ignores him and Jay scans awkwardly around before putting his hand back down. Richie then raises his hand to ask a question.

  “Yes, Mr. Barre?”

  “Actually, Mr. Richt, I . . . I kind of want to change my topic if that’s okay.”

  “To what?”

  “Well, I want to do more of a historical tourism guide, to find out more about what Merryville was like during the Civil Rights era,” Richie says.

  Mr. Richt nods for Richie to continue.

  “Hey,” Jay says, angling at Richie. “What do you care about that for?”

  “I started my tour at the rec center, and I learned that it used to be a meeting place for organizers in the sixties. I want to know more about that.”

  “But you’re not black, dude.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t learn about it.” Pretty soon, almost everyone in class asks to change their project or add more to it.

  Chinh raises his hand.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Nguyen.”

  “I’ll work with Jay,” he says.

  “Wait, what?” Jay is totally shocked.

  “But,” Chinh continues, “I want to focus on football head injuries and safe measures to take when playing.”

  “What?!” Jay blurts out. “Chinh, what kind of tourism guide is that?”

  “‘Tourism,’” Chinh says, reading from his phone. “By definition, it’s ‘the commercial organization and operation of vacations and visits to places of interest.’ The football field is a commercial place of interest, and a tour guide can offer more information than just how it was built.”

  Jay is silent for a moment before he barks, “No way! I’ll think of my own project, Mr. Richt.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Richt says. “Mr. Nguyen, excellent choice for a project.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now put your phone away before I confiscate it.”

  Chinh quickly shoves his phone into his backpack and puts his hands on his desk.

  “In the locker, Mr. Nguyen. Phone in the locker.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chinh says. He pulls the phone out and stares at it lovingly like a baby. “I’ll see you later, precious,” he says, kissing the screen.

  Gus shakes his head and we make eye contact before he turns away. I really wish he would talk to me.

  Lacey jumps in and says she’s going to add information on women performers to her tour.

  “Did you know that a woman is responsible for the theater in town? She was one of the first female business owners in Merryville. I didn’t know that. I think
I want to add a musical component for my visitors too.”

  “Can I dump my project and join up with Lacey?” Jeff asks while raising his hand.

  “If Miss Roberts agrees, I don’t see any problem with it.”

  “Oh, totally!” Lacey gives Jeff a thumbs-up.

  “Duet tours!” they sing out in unison.

  “Uh, Lacey,” Clarissa says. She looks like she ate a rotten peach. “You said at my party that you were thinking about working with me.”

  “Well, yeah, but I like this project more, Clarissa. I’m sorry.”

  “Fine,” Clarissa says. “I’ll change my project too, Mr. Richt.”

  “Go ahead, Miss Anderson.”

  “I want to change mine to how great Merryville’s schools are and how they don’t need more students. Especially from Park View.”

  She sounds like a dusty old car muffler. And like a muffler, her words leave a cloud of noxious gas in the air. A few students look genuinely shocked. But a few also nod in agreement.

  “What do you propose that tour to be, Miss Anderson?”

  “Well, I’d take visitors to each school in Merryville. I’d give them a brochure showing how clean and nice Merryville is and what would happen if the schools take in students from Park View. You said it could be anything that talks about visiting a place, right, Mr. Richt?”

  “I did,” Mr. Richt says. It’s like Clarissa is testing his patience.

  I can’t believe she wants to argue for closing schools to students from other areas! She won’t make eye contact with me.

  “The point I want to make with these projects,” Mr. Richt says, “is that you should take risks, challenge yourselves. Disagreeing is okay as long as you support your argument, with facts.”

  It’s hard to focus for the rest of class. I’m excited and furious at the same time. When the bell rings, I slip out quick. I don’t really want to talk to anyone right now.

  * * *

  After math class, Ms. Brennen pulls me to the side and hands me my math grade.