Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  “Mr. Richt,” Clarissa starts up. “I mean, I thought the project was just canceled?”

  “The old one is canceled,” he says. “But they can’t stop us from observing and discussing the democratic process. You should all attend and report back on Friday with your thoughts.”

  The class seems to have mixed feelings about this new project. A few students say we shouldn’t have to do anything now. Others say they worked really hard on their projects already.

  “I know you have,” Mr. Richt says. “But my hands are tied. I am required to oblige, but I am also required to teach you and I have elected to do so in this manner. Okay?”

  A few students move in their seats, but no one says anything. Mr. Richt continues his lesson and I make sure to keep pace, jotting down notes quickly while looking up and trying to find the right moment to talk to Gus. Mr. Richt pauses to write something on the board. I lean forward and whisper.

  “Gus, I just want to say that I’m so sorry. That’s it. No excuses.”

  “Thanks . . .” he says, not turning around. “But I just need some space, Emilia. Okay?”

  Mr. Richt continues his lesson, but I keep trying with Gus. I drop my pencil in front of his desk and he picks it up and turns around. We watch each other for a moment.

  “Look, I know I don’t know everything. But I want to keep learning. To do better. That’s gotta count for something.”

  He hands me the pencil.

  “And I do understand, Gus. I might be friends with Clarissa, but that doesn’t automatically mean that I think like her. That’s unfair, too. But I promise I’m not going to sit around quietly anymore, especially when I learn that things are wrong. No más. I’m keeping this Millennium Falcon in hyperdrive, Gus Sánchez.” I take the pencil from him and tap-tap-tap it on my desk. “I’m ready for whatever galactic battle awaits us.”

  Gus looks at me and softens. “That’s real, Emilia Torres.”

  “¿Amigos por siempre?” I ask.

  “So, am I Chewbacca on this Millennium Falcon of yours?”

  “Nah,” I say. “Let’s make our own Star Wars story. Together. If you want to.”

  “Órale,” he says.

  “I will always be here for you, Gus. And I really am sorry I haven’t been doing a good job of that lately.”

  “I know it’s been hard with your dad,” Gus says.

  “It has. But I don’t want to use that as an excuse.”

  After social studies, we walk together to Gus’s math class, even though mine is the opposite way.

  “I’m going to talk to Principal Andrews,” Gus says. “I should be in honors classes.”

  “You should.”

  We start our special handshake before we head off.

  “Let’s meet up after school,” he says.

  “Órale!” I holler back, and he laughs.

  When I drop off Gus, I think about all the things we still have to talk about. I honestly can’t wait to get started.

  * * *

  After school, Gus and I walk down a trail until we come across a fork. I tell him that I’m worried about talking to Abuela.

  “It’s family, you know?” he says. “It will work out eventually.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Hey, are you still going to finish your movie even though the project is canceled?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I can use my talents for more serious things.”

  “But monster movies can say serious things. Like Guillermo del Toro, remember?”

  “You’re right. He really likes to hold up a mirror to society. At least that’s what all the critics seem to say.”

  I stop in my tracks because what Gus says gives me an idea.

  “That’s perfect! Let’s hold a mirror to the town. I mean, a camera.”

  “What?” Gus asks.

  “People here are so upset about this school board vote,” I explain. “Let’s film interviews with Park View residents and students about their opinions on the redistricting. We can’t vote, but we can at least help Park View be heard and provide more information to the school board members who do vote.”

  “Yeah!” Gus is totally fired up. “No one has bothered to ask Park View students and parents what they think. How do we know they even want to come to our school?”

  “Exactly.”

  Gus beams. “Do you think Mr. Richt will let us?” he asks.

  “I mean, he didn’t say we couldn’t have partners, right?”

  “Very true,” Gus replies. “Let’s do it!”

  We get to the auto shop, and I spot Abuela’s bun through the little office window. Gus tells me he’ll hang out with his dad while I talk to her.

  “She’ll listen. She’s tough, but she loves you.”

  That makes me feel better.

  I take a deep breath and walk over to the door. The AC hits me first. Abuela’s wearing her reading glasses as she fills out some paperwork.

  “Hola, mi’ja,” she says, without an ounce of anger in her voice. She gets up.

  “Abuela, can we talk?”

  She moves to the door and walks through it, leaving me in the office by myself. So much for trying to make amends. She heads to her truck and hops in. The air-conditioning blasts inside the office. I seriously can’t believe she’s doing this!

  I step outside and let the warm air wash over me. Abuela is fidgeting with the radio knobs in the truck. I try to make eye contact with her, but she ignores me.

  Agustín comes out of one of the stalls, carrying two empty gallons of synthetic oil. I wave, and he nods.

  “Hola, Emilia,” he says, tossing the gallons in the recycling.

  “Hey, Agustín.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good, wild day at school. Wild couple of weeks, actually.”

  “Yeah,” he says, shifting the bill of his baseball cap to the other side. “You going to the school board meeting?”

  “Oh yeah,” I tell him. “Gus and I are going to film it.”

  “Awesome.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “Well, my little sister might have to move to a new school next year, two years before she graduates high school, so, no, I’m not down.”

  “Yeah, high school students shouldn’t have to move to a new school right before they graduate.”

  “And the selection has nothing to do with choice. Somebody decides for us.”

  Gus steps outside and watches me talk to Agustín.

  “Hey, Gus?” I yell out.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think we have our first interview.” Agustín nods like he’s ready to speak his mind. Gus rushes over with his video camera and starts shooting.

  “Agustín Reyes,” I say just to the side of the camera. “Can you tell us how you feel about the pending school redistricting that will affect students in both Merryville and Park View schools?”

  Agustín lifts his cap. He stares directly at the camera and begins talking.

  Gus leans over.

  “He is so action-hero cool,” he whispers while we film Agustín. I turn around to find Abuela watching me from inside her truck.

  She’s lowered the window and nods for me to join her inside.

  “¿Quieres ir conmigo?” she asks.

  I look over to Gus.

  “Go,” he says. “I got this.”

  I hop in and Abuela backs up out of the shop. We drive in silence through the streets. I have no idea where we’re going.

  It’s quiet in town. The only sound in the truck is salsa music from the radio, tuned low.

  “Me encanta esta canción,” she says.

  “It’s a good song.”

  We drive down Main Street toward the train tracks, and the woods come into view.

  “I n
ever had a quinceañera,” she offers.

  “Wait, really?”

  “We left Cuba when I was a little girl, not too much younger than you.”

  Abuela says she and her family lived in a factory town called Hershey, Cuba.

  “Like the chocolate company?”

  “Sí,” she says. “There was one in Cuba. When the factory closed, we came to the United States.”

  Abuela says that her dad tried to find work in factory towns all over the Northeast. They would pack up their things to follow whatever job was available.

  “He didn’t speak much English, but he worked hard. Eventually we ended up living right here.”

  “Abuela, did you know Sara J. González?”

  “No, ¿quién es?”

  “She was a business owner from Cuba who lived in Atlanta and fought for the rights of people who weren’t born in this country and work here. She helped them settle and made them feel welcome.”

  Abuela says she hasn’t heard of her. “Pero me interesa saber más.”

  “I want to learn more about her life too, like, at what point did she become an activist? Did you know there’s a park named after her? It’s in Atlanta.”

  “Maybe we can go and visit it,” Abuela says. “That will be nice, ¿no?”

  “Yeah, as long as you don’t trick me into going dress shopping again.”

  “Pero, Emilia, eventually you have to let me plan your quinceañera.”

  “We’ll see, Abuela.”

  Abuela drives below the overpass.

  “So, you moved to Merryville after that?” I ask.

  “Not quite.”

  She drives farther and farther away from Main Street. We pass the parking lot of Don Carlos’s Grocery Latino and the sign for the Mexican restaurant attached to Don Carlos’s store and the Vietnamese nail and hair salon.

  “The best years of my teens were when I lived in Park View.”

  We end up at a tiny one-story house sandwiched between two other little houses. The paint has peeled off and the lawn is patchy. There’s an old swing on a large beech tree to the side.

  Abuela parks the truck and stares at the house. “I was fifteen when we moved here.”

  “Really?”

  “It was the first house we lived in for more than two years. I planned my quince all year long, but my mother got very sick. Y cuando Mami murió, nos mudamos otra vez.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Emilia, when you were born, I thanked God for giving me the treasure of my life.”

  “Thank you, Abuela,” I start. “But if you loved living here in Park View as a kid, and you shop here, and most of the friends you hang out with are here, why did you move to Merryville and why do you only remind me of my European ancestors?”

  Abuela opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

  “Park View is part of your history, Abuela, and Mami says we should recognize every part of who we are.”

  Abuela opens her mouth to say something two more times. On the third try, I guess she figures out what she wants to say.

  “Emilia, I just want you to avoid the things I endured. I don’t want you to suffer like I did, mi’ja.”

  “What do you mean, Abuela?”

  “After my father passed away, I ended up living in Forsyth County,” she says. “Not too far from here. I met your abuelo at a church event. He was un flaco with big ears and had the greatest laugh in the entire world.”

  I smile, reminded of the pictures of my abuelo that are sprinkled throughout our living room.

  “When your father was born, we wanted a stable home for him to grow up in. We saved money, bought our house, and saved more money to buy the auto shop.”

  The song on the radio changes and so does Abuela’s face.

  “Then your abuelo got sick and people kept trying to buy the place because they didn’t think a woman, much less a Cuban woman, could run the only auto shop in town.”

  “Why would anyone think that?”

  “Because people can be ignorant, Emilia.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I tried to make friends with everyone in town. I hosted barbecues, organized church events, went to parades, and cheered for the football team. At home, I could play my music, cook my picadillo, y pude expresarme de cualquiera manera. But outside, I was careful. I know you know. Think about what you learned with your project.”

  All this time, I thought Abuela was disappointed in me.

  “Abuela,” I say, “but after everything you’ve been through, why would you want to hide?”

  She lifts her brow.

  “Your dad wasn’t afraid to find work when he came here from Cuba and didn’t speak English.”

  She lets out a laugh that I think surprises her.

  “You are very smart, Emilia.”

  “Abuela, I don’t want to hide or erase parts of myself. Especially the parts I got from Mami. That makes me feel bad.”

  Abuela grips the wheel tightly in silence. Finally she turns to me.

  “Okay, mi amor. No more hiding anything. Okay?”

  I nod.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Abuela.”

  “You needed to get that out,” she tells me. “I understand. Pero no me faltes el respeto, okay? Sigo siendo tu abuela.”

  “Okay,” I tell her. I understand that I shouldn’t disrespect her by yelling.

  “Talk to me,” she says. “I reserve the right not to listen, but I promise I will hear you.”

  I’m not sure what she means, but I decide to accept it anyway. It’s baby steps with Abuela. “Okay, deal.”

  Abuela starts the truck up again and we pass Don Carlos’s.

  “Don Felix seems to like you,” I say.

  Abuela practically turns into a tomato.

  “¡Aye, niña! ¿Cómo vas a decir eso?”

  “I mean, he gives you free samples, you two are always smiling at each other when we go to the store, and you invite him to sit with us at church sometimes. He’s cute, in that grandfatherly way.”

  “He is a very kind man. And he has a very well-groomed mustache.”

  “Is that your thing, Abuela? Mustaches?”

  “¿Qué?” Abuela says. I think she was daydreaming of Don Felix’s mustache. “No! Enough talk about this!”

  I can’t help but giggle as we drive back to the auto shop.

  “You must be excited that your mother is coming home soon,” she says.

  “Why do you two always fight?”

  “Supongo que we’re more similar than we’d like to admit.”

  “Stubborn and overprotective?”

  “Oyeme, no te pases.”

  “What? It’s true.”

  Abuela laughs. When we return to the shop, Gus is showing his dad the camera. Señor Orestes keeps opening the flap to look at the screen.

  “You should go talk to your father,” Abuela says, parking the truck.

  “Is he super-angry?”

  “He was sad, but he’s fine now. I think he wanted to give you some space. He’s at home if you want to see to him.”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  I’m not ready to talk to my dad.

  I hop out of the car and rush over to Gus.

  “He wants me to film him replacing a tire, but he keeps insisting I use the screen so he can see himself while he works.”

  “I didn’t take your dad for a movie star diva.”

  “I regret ever telling him that I could put him on YouTube. Seriously.”

  Abuela waves as somebody pulls into the shop. She is tough. Strong. Stubborn. Overly protective. But she’s my abuela. I wouldn’t want her any other way.

  The day after the school board meeting, homeroom is buzzing with energy. It
seems like everyone showed up, and we’re all ready to talk about it. Mr. Richt didn’t require his other classes to attend—just us. He said Principal Andrews came to a compromise where we could go (as long as we were quiet and saved the discussion for class), but not the entire sixth grade. Mr. Richt had no choice but to agree.

  I watch as Gus and Barry talk in the hall before the bell rings. Barry nods quietly as Chinh steps in and puts his arms around both Barry and Gus. Gus told me that things haven’t been the same with his friends since Clarissa’s party. I’m really glad to see them together again.

  Once the bell rings, practically the whole class raises their hands to speak.

  “Well,” Clarissa starts, but Lacey hushes her before Mr. Richt can.

  “Clarissa Anderson,” Lacey says, “I am tired of you raising your hand and speaking before you’re even called on. You always go first, and that isn’t fair.”

  Clarissa opens her mouth, but Jeff Samuels cuts her off.

  “Stop interrupting, Clarissa!”

  Clarissa waits for Mr. Richt to say something, but he just motions for Lacey to continue. “Go ahead, Miss Roberts,” he says. “Miss Anderson, wait your turn.”

  Lacey explains that the school board meeting felt like a courtroom drama.

  “The school board district members were like the judges at the front of the room, listening while everyone spoke their opinions freely.”

  “That’s an excellent point, Miss Roberts. The right to speak openly is a tremendous freedom we enjoy in this country.”

  “Made me proud to be an American,” Lacey says. “Plus, I loved the way Mrs. Loretta got up and shushed everyone who was interrupting TJ, the Park View football player. That was awesome.”

  Mr. Richt nods in agreement.

  “We should get that kid!” Jay butts in. “He’s huge! We’d win districts for sure. I’d vote to have the redistricting in that case.”

  “We should get that kid?” Chinh argues. “You think he’s like a toy to collect? He said he didn’t want to move next year because he wants to play on the team his dad coaches, Jay.”

  “So?” Jay croaks. “This school is way better. We have a better field and better equipment.”