When the bell rings, Ms. May shouts, “Galway Kinnell!”
Is this some new kid?
“He wrote the poem on the screen. ‘Blackberry Eating.’ Who wants to read it aloud? Notice his vivid descriptions!”
The poem is an ode to deliciousness. It makes me crave lunch.
“Now rewrite your poems, taking Kinnell as inspiration,” Ms. May announces. “Imitate his style. Use his structure. Push yourself!”
I’m not sure how to start, so I make my first line almost a copy of Kinnell’s. “I love to go to the freezer in late July . . .” Then new pictures come to mind. Vivid words pop in. I follow his poem’s path. The plain description I brought to class becomes high-def and surround sound. “Drips of juice trickle / the slushy tip gives way between my teeth.”
“Lunch! We’ll share these in groups when you return.”
I stand up slowly, not wanting to leave the words, not wanting to lift out of the flow. Right now I wish my whole world was this desk.
“You coming?” Jayden nudges me with his shoulder. His touch brings me to the surface, and I walk out with him and Zuri, my mind still drifting.
“Check out my new yo-yo trick!” He throws down the yo-yo, grabs up the string, and makes a triangle. Inside, the yo-yo swings like a pendulum. “Yes ma’am! Rocking that baby.”
“Wait, do it again,” Zuri says, watching closely.
Jayden goes through each step more slowly for her, then hands her the yo-yo. “Start with Sleeper, then grab. Now spread your fingers. Swing it. Let go. That’s it!”
Zuri does it again, then drops the toy into Jayden’s hand.
My joy deflates just a little. Her orange shirt splashed with flowers, the British accent, skill with math and yo-yos. How can Zuri be so perfect? Even Grandma Miller would like her. Of course I would! I imagine Grandma saying. And then, I love you, too, Quijana. Love isn’t a cookie jar that runs out. It’s infinite cookies.
“You want to learn?” Jayden holds out the yo-yo to me.
“Sure!”
“Put your middle finger through the loop. Here, let me tighten it for you.” I breathe in Jayden’s soapy scent as he bends over my hand. “Now throw it down, then jerk the string up.” Instead of snapping back, the yo-yo hangs limply above my shoe. “Try again. It takes a while to get the feel of it.”
“Quijana!” Ms. May startles me from the steps of Port 3, and I worry that I’m in trouble. “I bet you’re named after Don Quixote!”
Oh no. For once, I wish Ms. May wasn’t so loud. Jayden and Zuri look up. “Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Major literary character of Spain. World-famous knight!”
Yeah, famous for screwing up.
Ms. May is off in her own world. “A dreamer, but he always fights for the little guy. He does more than tilt at windmills.” Suddenly she’s back in my face. “Are you going to live up to your name?”
“I—I’ll try to.”
“Do! You can.” She winks, and I want to say, You have the wrong girl. I’m not fighting for anyone, and I’m not anything like the insane knight who charges at windmills.
“So that’s where your name comes from,” says Jayden, taking back the yo-yo as the three of us walk to lunch.
“Yup.” I sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Zuri says.
“You want the truth?”
“Of course,” she says.
“He’s not even a knight. His real name is Alonso Quixana. He’s an old guy who dresses in ratty armor and rides his farm horse.” They slow down and look at me. “The thing is, there hadn’t been any knights for a hundred years when he went on his quest. He just read about them. It’s all a fantasy. He’s crazy.”
As we open the cafeteria doors, Jayden says, “Sounds like this dude needs to talk to Batman, get some better gear.”
“What’s with the windmills?” Zuri asks.
“He thinks they’re monsters.”
“O-kay . . .” She’s getting the picture now.
We sit down at our usual table. “Why would your parents name you after this guy?” asks Jayden.
“Because they hate me?” I laugh, knowing this isn’t true, knowing that Mom and Dad love Don Quixote. I’m the hater.
They laugh, and for the rest of lunch I’m trying to listen, but I feel like a smashed can. I’m not doing much better than Don Quixote. My cousins’ faces spring up in front of me, then the confusing Spanish book page, and finally the dumb gleam in Ms. French’s eye. The knight and I do have something in common; we’re both major disappointments. I shake my head to erase the pictures and try to focus on my friends.
As she talks, Zuri’s absently folding a paper napkin.
“Hey, can I show you something with that?” I ask. She slides me the napkin, and I fold it in half lengthwise. In a few more folds, I bend the whole thing at the middle and pinch the center between my thumb and index finger.
“A bow tie!” Jayden says, reaching over and holding it up to his neck. “How does it look?”
“Like a professor!” Zuri says.
“Like a hipster,” I say. “All you need is black glasses.”
“Can you make them out of a napkin for me?” Jayden winks.
I laugh. “I’ll have to learn.”
“Can you do an animal?” Zuri asks.
Jayden hands me his unused napkin, and I smooth it out. It’s nice and square. Can I remember the swan I made for Grandma’s birthday party last summer? “It works better with cloth,” I say. I make the two folds and stop to think. Then my fingers take over, remembering for me. I fold down the beak and extend the body.
“It’s a swan!” Zuri squeals. “Right?”
“Right,” I say, swimming it toward her.
Jayden leans over the table to look. “Are these cool or what?”
When we ramble back to class, Jayden walks on one side of me, Zuri the other. It feels good, like we’re rock, paper, scissors or an equilateral triangle. Dad once said three is a magic number, and Grandma agreed. “Solid, liquid, gas. Proton, neutron, electron.” I wasn’t sure there was something special about three, but today, I believe it.
AT HOME THAT EVENING, Mom gives Memito a bath and reads him to sleep while Dad folds laundry and I make my lunch for tomorrow—PB&J again and a pear from the farmer’s market.
I’m flossing my teeth when I hear a question coming from the dining room. “I know this was my idea, but can we afford it?” It’s Dad’s voice, but he’s dialed it down; he thinks I can’t hear. I stop and listen.
“It’s a great idea. Your mother hasn’t seen Quijana since she was a baby,” Mom says, “and they’ve never even met Memito.”
My abuela saw me as a baby? I only know her from photos and Dad’s monthly phone calls. Plus the letters that used to come in the mail, envelopes with little airplanes on the corners and POR AVIÓN stamped on the front. Inside was delicate paper, thin enough to see through, and blue handwriting wiggling from edge to edge.
Dad drops his voice even lower. “When Pancho talked about our mother yesterday, un anhelo se agitó en mi corazón.” I recognize the word “heart.” “I miss her. And everyone.”
“Por supuesto, mi amor, of course. Will the station give you time off?” Mom asks.
“I haven’t taken a day off in . . .” I know Dad is thinking back years. He never misses work. “Since Memito was born.” Dad’s a sound engineer. At the radio station, he chooses the music that plays between news reports—not whole songs, just clips, to put the story in the right mood. He always picks the right one. A lone violin after sad news and jumpy trumpets after funny stories. “The newscasters speak to the head,” he always says. “I speak to the heart.”
“Well, I’ll check flights to Guatemala City in December.” Mom starts clicking keys on the laptop.
Guatemala? The floor drops away from my feet. It’s Spanish class all over again, plus those Latina girls, plus Raúl, plus the fact that Guatemala will be crawling with cousins and not one of them speaks En
glish. This cannot happen. I’ll be a mute cardboard girl they drag from one gathering to the next.
I march into the dining room. “Mom. Dad.” They look at me, their eyebrows arching at the same time. Even surprised, they’re like the most in-love couple ever. “If you’re talking about going to Guatemala, I can’t go. I can’t go to Guatemala.”
“Honey,” my mother starts.
“No,” I say.
“Quijanita.” My father pours out my nickname, sticky-sweet like pancake syrup.
I picture the daughter they must wish I were. My stomach feels filled with crumpled paper.
“It’s not until Christmas, sweetie,” my mother coos.
“I don’t care when it is. I’m not going. You didn’t even ask me first!” Tears form, but I won’t let them fall.
“Could she stay with your sister?” Dad says to Mom quietly.
My head lifts. Aunt Jess! She’s awesome. She has no kids and talks to me like a grown-up. She has a butterfly tattoo on her ankle. Plus her condo has a pool. I look at Mom.
“No. I mean, of course she could, but she should see your side of the family. That’s the whole point.”
Dad’s nodding and rubbing his ear. He knows she’s right. Even I know she’s right.
The thing is, I wish I did want to go. I wish I wanted to meet these strangers who are actually family. At the same time, I wish there was no Guatemala. No place that would ever make me feel stupid and not-good-enough. I blink fast, trying to stop the tears.
“Quijana,” says Mom, “it will . . .”
I’m in my room before they can say anything more. On my bed, I cry into my pillow, wishing the manatee on my pillowcase would come to life and hug me.
When my tears run dry, I text Grandma Miller.
They’re planning a trip to Guatemala. Help!
But nothing comes back. She’s probably asleep.
“Qui?” It’s Mom coming to get my phone to charge it in the living room overnight. This keeps me from using it past bedtime.
“Here.” I hold the phone up without looking at her.
She doesn’t take it. She sits on my bed and pushes my long hair out of my face, pressing it behind my shoulders. “Why don’t you want to go?”
The reasons pile so high that I can’t see her. I can’t answer.
“The airplane ride will be fun. We’ll still have Christmas presents.”
None of that matters.
She exhales. “Well, can you take your phone out to the living room?” she says, her voice almost calm enough to soothe me. “Your dad wants to talk to you.”
Can this night get worse? I stomp down the hall. Dad’s stationed in an easy chair by the charger.
“Quijana,” he says, “I know a new country can be . . . frightening. I know it from experience, eh? But we’ll be with you. And I want to show you the place I come from,” he says, “where I played as a boy, where I went to school. And your family. Your abuela wants to see you.”
No one cares what I want.
“Besides, you’ll love it. And they’ll love you.” He smiles as if this solves everything, as if he can change my mind with nothing but good intentions. I promise myself to hate Guatemala.
I plug in my phone and walk back in my room without saying good night. Who cares if I’m sulking? They should have called a family meeting and discussed this. I am not a piece of luggage.
When I try to sleep, I still see Raúl laughing at me—going silent when I come in and then smirking. I’m sure he was talking about me. A drowning feeling makes me gasp for air, and I sit up. I cannot go. I will not.
I slide out of bed and open my laptop. I type Bus fare from Bur Oak, Texas to Ocala, Florida. If I tried to run away to Aunt Jess’s across town, they would just come and get me. So I have to go all the way to Grandma Miller’s. It has to be Florida.
It’ll be just like last summer’s family trip. We took the bus to Grandma’s when airport workers went on strike. I remember the stops and the fast-food places and what the Ocala station looks like—everything I need to know.
A list of fares and dates pops up. Next to BOOK NOW is a dollar sign and a big number, bigger than I expected. $177. I count up my birthday money and allowance in my head. I have about $40. That leaves $137, not including tax.
What if I could earn the bus money? Maybe I could sell some stuff or walk neighborhood dogs? I’d buy a ticket and leave on the day of the Guatemala trip. Wait. The day before. I have to be gone before they can stop me. Better yet, the night before.
I picture the events in order: I sneak out when everyone is asleep. I get on a night bus and ride to Grandma’s and spend Christmas vacation with her.
But is there a bus that leaves at night? The times aren’t showing on the screen. I click BOOK NOW to see what happens. A schedule runs down the page. 8:25 a.m., noon, 7:05 p.m., 10:35 p.m.—that’s it! 10:35 is after my bedtime. I can pretend to go to bed, climb out my window, and walk to the bus station. I tremble, thinking, This could actually happen.
Money is my only problem. And telling Grandma.
I could tell her at Thanksgiving. But then she’ll tell my parents. I could say Mom and Dad are letting me stay with her. Tell her it’s their idea. But can I lie to Grandma? Somehow lying feels more dangerous than riding a bus a thousand miles by myself. Okay, I could surprise her. Call her from the road. Meanwhile, Mom, Dad, and Memito would be flying to Guatemala without me.
It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s a start. I can sort out more details later. The main snag is bus fare. Looking around my room in the dark, I don’t see anything to sell. But it’s only September. I have over three months. It’ll be okay. One thing at a time. Make more plans tomorrow.
I WAKE UP and make a list of things to sell on eBay. My lava lamp. A snow globe with a music box in the bottom. In my closet, I find old games and puzzles. Nothing’s worth much. My bicycle? Too noticeable. In the shower, I remember something else.
The huipil.
A hand-woven top must be worth something. Mom and Dad would never let me do this, but I’m going to anyway. After all, I’ll never wear it.
I bring up eBay on my laptop and click Register. I enter my name, my email address. Oh no. I have to click “I am at least 18 years of age.” My mouse hovers over the box. Well, how would they know? I imagine sirens going off or a voice coming through my computer: “You are twelve! Your computer will now be confiscated!”
I can’t figure out how the computer would know that, but I’m still worried. I don’t want to know what happens. I “x” that window. I’ll have to think of some other way to sell it.
A text comes from Grandma.
You’re going to Guatemala? World traveler! Embrace the adventure! Enjoy the day, sweetie. :-)
I should have known she’d think Guatemala would be fun. Sure. As fun as collecting fingernail clippings.
By the time I get to school, I’m a self-doubt sandwich. Normal on the outside, worried on the inside. Where can I sell the huipil? Or how else can I earn money? Will it even work? It has to. I’m so wrapped up in the plan that Mr. Wilson, my Texas history teacher, has to say my name twice before I hear him.
Even English isn’t much fun, and I’m glad when lunch comes, though I’m not hungry. I toss my lunch sack on the table, leaving it unopened. Jayden takes the round stool opposite me, and Zuri sits next to him. A soft thud thumps my chest. I was stupid to sit down first. Tomorrow I’ll let Jayden sit first, then claim the next-to seat.
They chat about the usual things, but I can’t concentrate.
Zuri finally notices. “What’s up, Q?”
I can’t help but grumble. Just thinking about this trip makes my stomach spasm. “My parents want us to fly to Guatemala for Christmas.”
“And you don’t want to go?” Jayden looks shocked, like he’s wanted to tour Central America all his life.
“No way. I won’t be able to talk to anyone. It’ll be horrific.”
“Talking’s overrated,” Jayden sa
ys. “You have a great smile.”
The whole cafeteria has magically brightened.
“Your parents can translate for you, right?” Zuri says.
“They could, but . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t want to go. I just don’t.”
“But you have to, right?” Jayden shrugs, and I realize that they don’t understand. I want to explain, but no words come. Just a twisting in my gut every time I imagine the trip.
“Hey,” Jayden says, “your trip reminds me of an idea I had. A movie!”
“Going to one?” I ask, thinking, Yes yes yes.
“Making one!” The light in Jayden’s eyes makes me forget Guatemala and buses and money for a second.
But Zuri’s face looks like she’s swallowed flat soda. “I’m not starring in any more homemade horror movies.” She looks so serious, I can’t help but laugh.
“Oh, come on,” Jayden says. “That was fifth grade. It’ll be different this time. No ketchup blood, I promise. Anyway, that old video camera was cool. How could I resist? QuiQui here would have tried it out, right?”
I’m giggling, imaging Jayden behind an old-style camera choosing a location, setting up a shot.
“Admit it; it was fun.”
“It was not fun.” Zuri drops each word like a brick, but she’s grinning.
I count back to fifth grade, when they met. Two years ago. That’s four birthday parties, a lot of shared jokes, and at least one homemade horror movie. I can’t figure them out. Are they truly just friends? They sit with each other, not a group. Mom says I overanalyze. Can a girl and a boy be just friends?
“Okay, fine. No movies. But let’s at least do something outside of school for once. What if we took an all-day bike ride?”
A tingle climbs up my spine. “I know a place! There’s a bike trail about a half hour from here that goes to Eagle Lake and back. Fifteen miles each way. My Aunt Jess told me about it.”
“Perfect!” Zuri says. “Only, do you think our parents will let us do it?”
“We’ll be together,” says Jayden. “Besides, you and I have biked all over town.”
Years of bike rides. How will I ever catch up?
The Other Half of Happy Page 5
