The Other Half of Happy

by Rebecca Balcarcel

  “I will, Grandma.”

  “Well, sweet pea.” Her head tilts and she leans forward. “I have some news, too. I wish it were happier.” She looks right at the camera. “I went to the doctor, Quijana. A specialist. She’s running a few tests because . . . I’m in some pain.”

  A falling feeling starts in my head and sinks through my body. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not too bad, but I needed to check it out. And I was right, for what it’s worth. I’m sick, all right.”

  “But . . . Grandma. You look fine.”

  “I know, sweetheart. But inside . . . well, the tests will tell us what’s going on.”

  “But they’ll treat it, right? You’ll get better.” My voice comes out cloggy.

  “I think so, sweet pea. They have so many therapies these days. I’m not worried. Remember what I always say.”

  Tears pool in my eyes. “Everything’s okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

  “Exactly.” She smiles at me and I try to smile back. “I wish I could be there in person, little one. I’d hug you until suppertime!”

  This makes me laugh, but also makes my tears trickle onto my cheeks.

  “Quijana, is there anything you want to know? I will always be honest with you.”

  Her bravery steadies me, and I wipe my eyes. I shouldn’t ask, but recklessness takes over. I want to know the worst. “Could it be, you know, really bad?”

  “Well, worst-case scenario, it’s cancer. But even that has a treatment.”

  “Cancer?” I thought she would wrap it in blankets. Now a pang shakes my heart.

  “That’s only one possibility.” She smiles. “Whatever happens will be an adventure, in this world or some other. And you know I like adventures.” Her face looks half happy, half mischievous, the same as the day she took off to Nigeria to tag manatees. A marine biologist gets to do that kind of thing. She’s even scuba dived in the Philippines.

  She doesn’t feel sorry for herself, and she won’t let me either. Still, my head feels heavy and I let it drop. I’ll cry more if I look at her.

  “We’re at the beginning of this. I’ll tell you when I know more. Meanwhile, we’ll savor every moment even more than usual! You’re coming out to see me for Thanksgiving?”

  I raise my head. “Yes, Grandma. Of course.”

  “Good. We’ll have pancakes for breakfast every day.”

  Pancakes are my favorite. “What about manatees?”

  “I’m not sure if we’ll see any on this trip. They’ll be heading further south, looking for warm springs for the winter.”

  Since I was little, Grandma has taken me in her canoe to see the manatees. We paddle through shallow water, where their wide backs surface and sink. Sometimes a fat fan tail sticks up or a gray muzzle snarfs a tuft of grass.

  “We might spot a few bald eagles,” she says. “And the songbirds will be migrating in. Will you help me put out the suet feeders for the woodpeckers?”

  “I sure will.” It’s a relief to hear her talk about the future as if it’ll be normal. It has, has, has to be.

  When we sign off, I go to my tree-limb swing in the backyard. I sit and dangle my legs, leaning my head against the plastic-coated chain. Darkness falls, and from here, the house windows are rectangles of yellow light. I try to think of good memories with Grandma, but her news smudges everything. My own shoes are barely visible in the gray light, as if I’m being smudged too, rubbed out of existence.

  I kick at the grass. I’m here. Here in this world. How could Grandma not be here too?

  I see Dad’s silhouette move across the kitchen window. With Mom at class, he’s making supper by himself. I’m not hungry, but I go in.

  “Well, well! Did you enjoy your swinging?”

  “Grandma told me,” I say.

  Dad sets his stack of plates on the table.

  “She could die, Dad.”

  He pulls out a chair for each of us.

  “What if I never see . . .” My voice cracks.

  “No, no, no,” he says, taking both my hands in his. “It may not be serious. That is why they run these tests. And your grandmother, she is strong.”

  I peer into his face. Does he mean it?

  He squeezes my hands. “She has much to live for,” he tells me. “Much that needs her. The wildlife people want her help with—what do they call it?—coral reefs. Reef restoration. She cannot let them down, yes? And her lights project on the . . .”

  “On the beachfront. Where the baby sea turtles hatch,” I sniff.

  “Yes. She is the one telling people, ‘Turn off your lights,’ so that the turtles crawl out to sea, not to the houses. She loves that job. It needs her, and she needs it.”

  “And us, right? She wants to live for us, too.”

  “Of course she does, m’ija.” The outside corners of his eyes look damp, but he tries to smile. “Can you go get Memito for supper?”

  I trudge down the hall to Memito’s room. He’s spinning the wheels on his upside-down Tonka truck.

  “Memito, want to eat? Time for supper.” He doesn’t stop, and I know how he feels, wanting things to stay the same. “Memito, supper.” I try to think of something he likes. “Juice?” I could pick him up, but then he’d cry. And I can’t take crying right now.

  I open his closet and dump over his clothes basket. Dirty clothes can’t get much dirtier, right? “Memito,” I say, kneeling on the floor and pushing the empty clothes basket right up to him. He climbs in, and I give the basket a push. He’s heavier than I remember, and my knees burn on the carpet. In the hall, I stand up and push him fast along the tile. He squeals, and I feel better for the first time since I talked to Grandma.

  We eat steaming vegetable soup under the warm dining room light. Maybe Dad’s right. It isn’t serious. Grandma’s strong. And she can’t go anywhere while I and her family and all the baby sea turtles in the whole state of Florida need her. Can she?

  THE NEXT MORNING, I’m all washed and dressed before I remember Grandma. Worst-case scenario, it’s cancer. The last word rams into my chest, knocking my breath out. I can’t believe I forgot. I woke up thinking about eating lunch alone again. That problem seems small now. I lift my sea turtle bracelet with special care and tie it on.

  Everyone’s up early. I hear Dad shaving in the bathroom and Mom clinking silverware in the kitchen.

  Seeing me plod down the hallway, Memito lets out a happy squeal from his booster chair. He can’t tell that I’m sad. He doesn’t know he could lose his grandmother. His world is happy.

  I let his bright eyes pull me over, and I rub noses with him. “¿Qué tal, hermanito?” This phrase feels cuter than the English, like little balls of sugar in my mouth.

  Memito says nothing, as usual. We’re still waiting for him to talk. He has some words, but no sentences. My father thinks he’s like Einstein, a genius whose brain is building a math machine inside. My mother thinks I help him too much, guessing his words before he needs to say them. Even Grandma says he’s quiet for his age. I think he’s listening to music in his mind, some delicate melody we can’t hear. I just hope he talks before other kids start making fun of him.

  He finishes with his breakfast. Mom wipes peach juice off his face and takes the cutting board to the sink. “Sleep well?” she says.

  “Sure. Except . . .” I’m not sure how to ask her about Grandma.

  Memito kicks his legs and grunts. Mom turns on the faucet. “He might want some water,” she calls. “His sippy cup’s on the table.”

  He’s pushing at the tray and twisting his body.

  He doesn’t want water, I know. Me and Memito, our minds are like two strings of Christmas lights, one plugged into the next. Grown-ups don’t remember what it’s like living at knee level, but I do. “Down?” I say, and his face relaxes.

  “Make him say it, Qui,” Mom says.

  “Down,” I say. I stand right in front of him. “Say ‘down.’”

  He arches his back,
straining against the tray. “Aahh!”

  I frown. Memito used to do everything I showed him. If I ate my broccoli, he would, too. Wherever I went in the house, he’d crawl behind me. But it’s not that easy anymore.

  He’s twisting his head from side to side. Even angry, he’s cute. Cheeks plump as Easter eggs. But I have to catch the bus soon.

  Yet I can’t leave him stranded there. Dad says Memito is partly my responsibility since I’m the eldest. He actually says that—“eldest.” Sometimes his English is more proper than Mom’s and mine.

  I curlicue my voice like ribbons. “Memito! Lookie, lookie. Up!” I hold my hands high in the air, then whoosh them down to his chin. “Down!”

  He gives a half laugh, so I do it again. This time he smiles and bats my hands. The third time, I’m wondering if he will ever let me stop when he says, “Duh.” Close enough!

  I rip off the tray and he’s down and running. Who cares if he was supposed to learn this word a year ago? (True. His teacher told us.)

  If he can learn “down,” maybe he can learn “water.” Maybe “apple.” “Brother.” Maybe even “big sister.”

  I check the clock. We still have a few minutes. “Hey, Mom?”

  “Mmm?” She dries her hands and starts gathering her schoolbooks and purse.

  “Did Grandma talk to you?”

  She looks up, pauses, then drops her stuff into a chair. She spreads her arms wide and steps toward me. “She sure did, Qui.” She wraps me in a tight hug. “She wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  I nod. “She told me last night.”

  Mom pulls away to look me in the face. “First comes testing, then we’ll see. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. It could be something simple.”

  Sounds flimsy.

  “I know you’re worried.” Her voice falters. “I am, too. We’ll know more soon.” She finger-combs my bangs.

  “I’m scared.” I surprise myself, saying it out loud.

  “I know. We all are. Your grandma’s always been so active, so healthy. Traveling the world helping animals. It’s hard to believe anything can slow her down. You know what, though?” She lifts her head. “I bet she can beat this.”

  I let Mom’s words stand since I know it’s time to go. I guess I feel a little better. She gathers up her books again.

  “Hey,” she says. “Want me to take you to school? You’ll get there way early, but it’s on my way.”

  On any other day, I’d be embarrassed to be dropped off by Mom. But today I say, “That’d be great.”

  THE FIRST DAYS OF SCHOOL whoosh by. Grandma texts me each morning with a smiley face or “Love ya!” and I’m finally getting the hang of the school building layout.

  In English I watch Jayden. Every day I like him more. He does yo-yo tricks before class and even shows other kids how. He and I are always the first to laugh when Ms. May makes a joke. Today when I add a comment to discussion, he says, “Good point!” and I hear nothing for the next two minutes but his voice replaying in my mind: “Good point!”

  When Ms. May announces lunch, I trudge down the wooden steps of Port 3, picturing the usual kid clumps in the cafeteria. Where will I sit this time? I’ve stayed away from the Latina girls. Yesterday a girl with cowboy boots and an East Texas twang said, “It’s cool with me if you sit here.” The day before that I landed in a group of volleyball players. Maybe I should talk to one of the kids in Minecraft T-shirts.

  “It’s Quijana, right?” Jayden catches up to me and matches my step.

  “Right.” I feel like a strummed string. “You’re Jayden.”

  “Yup.” He opens the door to the main school building and flicks his yo-yo at the same time. “You’d think they could find us a classroom inside the building,” he says.

  “I like Port 3,” I venture.

  “You do?”

  “It’s ugly, but now it’s our own little . . .”

  “Clubhouse?”

  “Yeah, clubhouse. Plus, Ms. May can be as loud as she wants out there.”

  “Ha! She is loud.” His yo-yo zips up the string.

  “I like her though. Hey, how did you learn to yo-yo?”

  “YouTube. And practice.” The yo-yo rolls along the floor for a second before climbing back up to Jayden’s hand. “And more practice.”

  I thought I’d be nervous, but Jayden’s easy to talk to.

  We unpack our lunches, and the giant cafeteria shrinks to just Jayden and me. The Latina girls are sitting at the next table, but their voices blend with the general noise.

  “Hey, look,” he says.

  We’ve got matching fruit cups. First the song, and now this!

  “Health-nut dad,” he says.

  “Health-nut mom,” I say.

  He reaches toward me and we cheers our fruit cups. Our knuckles touch, and I notice his green eyes have a tiny circle of brown around the pupils.

  Then a girl with a pink shirt shows up. Bright as July. I recognize her from English, too.

  “There you are!” Jayden says as she sets down her tray. He points his chin toward me. “Quijana.”

  “I’m Zuri. I was looking at your hair clip in class. I sit a couple of rows behind you. Great colors.”

  “It’s my mom’s.”

  “I’m always stealing my mom’s hair stuff too! She has wigs and scarves and beads and . . .” She throws her hands up. To Jayden she says, “I had to take a note to the office for Ms. May.”

  So much for being alone with Jayden. At least Zuri doesn’t seem to mind my sitting here. She must not be his girlfriend, or she’d act jealous. Unless she’s that secure. While I chew on my sandwich, they pick up a conversation that clearly doesn’t involve me.

  “That picture you sent was amazing,” she says.

  “Fun, huh?” says Jayden. “Where’d you get an emoji that shows a z-snap?”

  I worry that they’re a pair, like shoes, chopsticks, windshield wipers. She even calls him Jayday. And she sounds super mature because she talks like she’s from England. Her hair makes a smooth, even wedge all the way around.

  “So y’all went to the same elementary school?” I ask.

  “Since fifth grade,” Jayden says. “It’s better here.”

  “Where you can live down the musical?” Zuri says.

  Jayden snorts. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Last year’s school play.” Zuri leans toward me. “We all had to be in it, but Jayden was supposed to be the star.”

  “Do we have to tell her?”

  “Of course!” Zuri turns to me. “So Jayden has memorized his lines, practiced after school, the whole bit. He sounds great in rehearsal.”

  “I was great in rehearsal,” Jayden puts in.

  “Yes, Jayday, I said that. So all the parents come. The cafetorium is packed.”

  “Can we skip this part?” Jayden says.

  “Shush. The first half goes fine, but then he walks out for the biggest song and FAINTS.”

  “Faints?”

  “I was nervous!” Jayden says.

  “Dead away.” Zuri slaps the table with her hand with each word.

  “I hadn’t eaten.”

  “He fell onto the cardboard tree, which fell on pretty much everybody.”

  My chuckle turns into a laugh.

  “That tree saved me from splitting my head open.”

  “Well, it didn’t do the rest of us much good!” Zuri leans across the table and looks him in the eyes.

  “Okay, you’re right,” Jayden says, his hands up in surrender.

  “So, Ms. May?” Zuri asks. “You like her class?”

  “I do,” says Jayden.

  “She’s cool,” I say. “How about that poem she assigned?”

  Zuri bats the air with one hand. “I’d rather do a hundred math problems! I stink at poetry.”

  Jayden imitates her accent and puts his nose in the air. “Well, ladies, mine will be enchanting!”

  Through my laughter, I’m noticing how Zuri sits up strai
ght. Her black skin glistens. I look for a horrible flaw, but all I see are pluses: storytelling talent, princess cheekbones, and math smarts.

  “Hey, let’s text each other when we finish our poems,” Jayden says. “Whoever finishes last has to share dessert! Quijana, what’s your number?”

  I’m strummed again. As he taps Contacts, I trace the shape of his hand with my eyes. I watch a curl on his forehead as I say the digits.

  “Got it! Text you later.”

  “Great!” His grin makes my stomach flip.

  Lunch ends and we trek back to class. Zuri walks next to Jayden, and I make an effort to not care. I wince when they bump shoulders and Jayden grabs her forearm to make a point. Her shine doesn’t take away from yours, says a voice in my head. It sounds like something Dad might tell me, but I’m not sure where it came from. I walk ahead a little, trying to look more confident than I feel.

  We’re almost to the door when Zuri asks, “Quijana. Is that a French name? I never heard it before.” Her accent makes the r’s drop off, and it sounds more elegant than anything I’ve ever said. Nevah hud it befoe.

  “It’s Spanish,” I say without elaborating. The truth isn’t cool. I’m not named after a movie star or even a great-grandmother. My namesake is a fictional, delusional knight named Don Quixote who scattershot justice across Spain in the 1600s. No one needs to know that.

  “Unique.” Jayden flashes a smile, and my head swirls.

  “Let’s hear it for names that start with rare letters.” Zuri toggles her index finger back and forth between us. “We could start a club!”

  I like this trio we’re making. Does anything come in sets of three? Three musketeers, three primary colors, a trilogy of adventure stories. It could work. At the same time, I picture texting Jayden later. Just the two of us.

  After English, I head to choir. Walking toward the far end of the building, I wonder why Zuri’s accent sounds fancy while Dad’s accent doesn’t.

  A heavy door opens into the choir room, which is large and echoey, with semicircles of chairs on wide risers. We crowd around the folder slots, reaching for our music. I’m glad we’ll really sing today. Voices chatter, feet tromp. Every mind popcorns except mine. Finally, I’m in a place where my mind can settle. I take my seat in the second row.