Jayden tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling. “I wish we could go tomorrow. Why is it only Tuesday?”
“How about Sunday?” I want to go soon, too. After this, we three will share a memory.
“Sunday’s good,” Zuri says. “Text when we get the okay from our parents?”
Going to class, Jayden falls into stride next to me, leaning over my phone to see the Eagle Lake trail map. I like the fresh-laundry smell of his shirt. At the classroom door, he says, “I can’t wait!”
“Your parents are easier than mine,” Zuri reminds him.
I cross my fingers on both hands and make an X with my forearms. I hope we get permission; I hope Jayden will like me as much as he likes Zuri; I hope my life is becoming what I’ve always dreamed—filled with people and places I am curious about.
In class, Ms. May shouts, “Y’all hush now,” and she reads us a poem about two roads diverging in a wood, but I don’t see the poem the way she does. A traveler comes upon a fork in the path. He chooses one, and Ms. May says, “Choices create your future.” The kind of thing my dad would say.
But the man in the poem sighs. He can’t come back to this place and try the other road. He can’t take both, only one. I picture my Carrillo cousins walking away on one road, and my friends disappearing around the curve of another. Is there a third road somewhere, wide enough to hold us all?
In choir, we warm up our voices, singing a scale up and down. Sitting up straight and using my voice helps me set aside other thoughts.
“Today we’ll put all four parts together,” Mr. Green announces. Yes! I do a little seat jump. Until now, we’ve been learning our song’s parts separately: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass by themselves, with Mr. Green banging out each one on the piano. “Let’s take it slow, all right?” he says. “First chord. Basses, give us the root.” The boys in the bass section concentrate and blend their voices into one note. “Now tenors.” We stack the chord, then move to the second one. The song unfolds in slow motion. I soak in the sound, listening both to myself and the whole room. As we reach the final phrase, I’m filled with hope. The bike trip, the bus to Grandma’s—if I think hard and plan, I know it can all work out.
ON THE BUS HOME, I’m picturing how I’ll ask Mom and Dad about the bike trip. They have to say yes if I show them the map and prove that we’re organized. I think about my money plan, too. Maybe I could get a job. If there’s a job to get. The people a few houses down have a dog I could walk. . . . “Quijana, hope your day was good!” says Mom. “Can you make dinner for you and your brother? Dad had to stay late tonight, and I have class.”
Ah, a job already. Too bad it’s unpaid.
I have to show them how responsible I am if I want to go on the bike trip, so I stand up straight and listen. “There’s bread and cheese in the fridge. Rinse the pan when you’re done, not only the dishes, and then run the dishwasher. Make sure to wash off Memito’s tray by hand.” She kisses me on the forehead and cups a hand under my chin. “Thanks, sweetie. You’ll be on your own until eight.”
That leaves me, the big sister, in charge—watching Memito, flipping cheese sandwiches, and cleaning up. Not to mention homework. No money-planning tonight.
“De tal palo, tal astilla.”
I tilt my head.
“From such a stick, such a splinter,” Mom says, grabbing her purse. “You’re like your dad—the oldest kid and reliable. Of course, it’s only the two of you instead of six!” She gives me a wink.
Mom’s keys jangle out the door, and Memito raises his arms. “Up!” One of the few words he’ll say.
“Okay, little guy.” I hoist him up.
“Mama?” he says. That’s another.
“No. Just me and you.”
Memito is deciding whether to cry, a top starting to wobble.
I give him a new spin with, “Outside?” and he wriggles down. I grab my backpack on our way out.
Memito’s favorite toy is a tricycle that he drives between our mailbox and the neighbor’s. He circles our driveway and pedals up the sidewalk. Watching him is pretty easy since I know what he likes.
As he makes engine noises, I sit on a plastic yard chair and open my earth science book. Ms. Gupta is serious. Assignments every day. I reread the first section and put a heading on my paper. I answer the first question in a complete sentence. Pretty boring.
I wonder if Jayden or Zuri is doing this same assignment. I think of texting them, but then stop.
It’s too quiet.
Scanning the sidewalk, I throw my book into the chair. “Memito?” The yard stands empty. Did he pedal too far to be heard? I follow the sidewalk to the neighbor’s, beyond the neighbor’s house, and to the next one. Would he go this far? I run past a third house, then turn back, gulping air as I approach our yard again. “Memito!”
If I’ve lost my brother . . . I can’t even think the end of that sentence. “Memiiiiiito!” What if he’s hurt, kidnapped, eating a poisonous plant, crossing a busy street, crying, scared? Why did Mom think I could do this?
If he is okay, I think to myself, I will get 100s for the rest of the year. I will clean his room. I will always help put away groceries. Worry squeezes my throat.
I catch sight of the tricycle in our side yard. “Memito?” Its seat is empty, but it looks unharmed. I check the backyard. Make a full circle around the house. Where is he?
Then the front door opens and out he toddles, chugging a sippy cup. I whoosh him up, press him close. He smells of apple juice and crayons.
“Qui,” he says. Tears spring to my eyes.
“Yes, Memito. I’m Qui. And you are beautiful.”
“Full?” he says.
“Yes, ‘-ful.’” I don’t know if boys can be beautiful, but it is the only word with enough syllables, enough length to wrap all the way around us, like the giant towels Grandma Miller wraps us in at the beach.
He goes back to his tricycle, but I can’t go back to school-work. I watch him until my stomach nudges me to make dinner.
Inside, we go to the kitchen. I warm a pan and butter slices of brown bread while Memito plays with refrigerator magnets. I cut thick slabs of cheese, like Mom does, add a slice of tomato like Dad. I want to comfort us both. To make the house feel cozy instead of sprawling, lively instead of empty. Windows go gray as sunlight fades. I go from room to room, turning on lights. They help, but I still feel a gnawing emptiness. I think of last night’s grand scheme. Can I actually handle riding that bus to Florida alone?
I flip one sandwich too late, the other too early. I’ll eat the burned one, I decide, and fasten Memito into his booster seat.
I check the time. The kitchen clock ticks quietly, its hands in no hurry. Dad’s still an hour away. Mom, even more. For now, I’ve landed our rickety airplane. Memito eats fast. I chew slowly, trying to make dinner last as long as possible. I’m ready to give back this pilot’s hat.
At the sound of Dad’s car, relief floods through me. “Dad!”
He’s smiling, but after I hug him, he pulls back and gives me a funny look. “You missed me that much?”
I’m so glad not be in charge anymore that I tell him, “Yes!” even though I feel six years old again for admitting it, even though we’re both kind of dippy-dunky happy.
Then just as immediately, I’m clobbered with exhaustion, as if all the stress gave my muscles a workout.
But I still have one more thing to do tonight, so I lie in bed, listening for the garage door.
“Dad, is that Mom?” I say, padding into the kitchen.
“You’re still awake?”
“I have to ask you guys something.”
Mom bustles in with her book bag and backpack. “Well, you’re up late. Everything okay?”
“Sure. But Zuri and Jayden and I, we want to take a bike ride. A bike trip.”
“A trip, huh?” Mom walks up behind Dad, gives him a kiss on the cheek, and rubs his shoulders. He sips his coffee and grasps one of her hands.
“Yes. A trip. Aunt Jess
told me about it—the Eagle Lake trail. Here’s the map.” I bring out my phone. “We want to go on Sunday. And, oh, we’ll need a ride,” I add.
Mom nods. “How did it go today?” She looks at Dad instead of me. Are they even listening?
“She did well. Pan washed. Memito fed.” Dad gives me a smile. The memory of Memito’s empty tricycle comes back to me, and I look away.
“How long is this trail?” Mom asks.
“Fifteen miles out to the lake.”
“So thirty miles?” Dad says. “What is that, fifty kilometers?” He’s always converting U.S. measurements to metric, like they use in Guatemala. He whistles. “That’s a ways.”
“Quijana, are you up to that?”
“Google says it takes less than three hours each way.” I may not be an expert babysitter, but I can Google all right.
“These young people and their energy,” Dad says. “I can drive them out there in the truck. Bikes in the back.”
Mom frowns. “So this is Zuri and Jayden? What are their parents saying?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Mom turns to Dad. “Weren’t we going to see Pancho, Lencha, and the kids on Sunday?”
“They won’t mind,” he says. “And you and I can still drop in for a few hours.”
“Mm,” she says. “Do you know how to fix a flat?”
“Um . . .” I think quickly. “We’ll find a YouTube video and practice.”
Mom looks at Dad, who gives a tiny nod. She says, “If the other parents agree, you can go.”
“Thanks, y’all!” I give them a joint hug. “We’ll be careful. We’ll take water bottles. And a lunch.”
“I know you’ll plan carefully,” Mom says.
“Get your friends’ addresses,” Dad adds, “so we can pick them up.”
“By the way, Qui,” Mom says, her voice quieter. “I got a text from Grandma today. She’s in some pain, so they gave her a new medicine. Just something to keep in mind if she’s not on Skype with you so much this week.”
I open my mouth and close it again.
She nods and gives me a small smile. “It’s okay. I just want you to know, in case she doesn’t call very soon.”
“We’ll all be patient with her, won’t we,” says Dad.
“We will,” I say. I hate to think of Grandma in pain. Not even on purpose, my voice comes out soft, wishing that that alone could help. “Do they know if it’s cancer yet?”
“Not yet, sweetie,” Mom says. “We’ll hear soon.”
I SEND A ROW OF X’S AND O’S to Grandma, kisses and hugs. Then I text Zuri and Jayden about the bike trip.
Mom and Dad said YES! As long as yours did.
And they did! At school, we make lists of supplies and watch two YouTube videos on how to fix a flat. Lunch feels five minutes long.
At home, I’m slurping on an apple-juice Popsicle, thinking through our plans, when I hear the car, and Dad brings Memito in from preschool.
“Hey, Dad. Memito!” I swing my little brother around. When I set him down, he turns me into a flagpole and runs circles around me.
“You’re in a good mood!” Dad hangs up his jacket.
“I’m excited about our trip! We’re all going!”
“I’m excited you’re excited finally! We’ll see that lake in person.” He points over my head to the painting of Lake Atitlán.
No, Dad. “I meant the bike trip.”
“Oh.” He pulls on his right ear. “Speaking of Guatemala, though, remember we’re getting passport photos tomorrow.”
“Do I have to?”
He laughs. “Only if you want to be able to leave the country.” He starts flipping through the mail.
“But I don’t want to leave the country.”
“Well, you also need a passport to get back in. Unless you want to stay in Guatemala for a few years.”
“Dad!”
Finally, he flashes an I-was-kidding smile. I guess I’ll have to play along tomorrow—sign a form, I bet, and pose for the camera. But they can’t make me smile.
My phone vibrates, and Jayden’s number glows on my screen. I could handspring across the house. “Phone,” I say, handing Memito off to Dad and bounding toward my room.
“Bike trip!” Jayden yells.
“Bike trip!”
“Okay, but first algebra?” “Mine’s done.”
“What’d you get for number sixteen?”
I sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor and pull out my paper. “Eleven.”
“Oh no!” Jayden calls algebra a bad marriage between letters and numbers. “But what about the negative?”
“The negatives cancel,” I say.
“Where?”
Jayden can do impressions of famous people better than TV comedians and ace Ms. May’s poetry tests, but he needs, well, practice with math, to put it politely. For me, numbers behave. X hides, but the other numbers point to it until there’s only one place to look.
“See that first step,” I say. “The ‘minus five’ becomes ‘plus negative.’”
“Oh yeah! Eleven!” he says. “I had the weirdest déjà vu just now. Have we done this math problem before?”
“No.”
“I swear I remember this exact conversation.” “First time. Promise.”
He hums the opening notes of The Twilight Zone theme.
“What do you think it means?” I ask. I think it’s a sign. We’re two factors of a composite number; we’re a solution set.
He hits it back to me. “What do you think it means?”
My face warms. “Maybe it means we’re on the right track. It’s like the fruit cups. Like, this is good.” By this I mean adding our lives together, multiplying the ways we can connect.
“So we should always check our math on the phone?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. “And talk and stuff.”
“Well, duh. We’ll always talk.” The word always echoes in my head like a repeating decimal. “I just hope it means I’ll remember how to do this equation stuff. Hold on,” he says.
I lean back against my bed. It’s different, this feeling. I’ve had crushes before—boys I stared at but didn’t talk to. Here I am, jokey and comfortable with Jayden. He’s a magic number that solves two equations at once, a friend who could (couldn’t he?) be a boyfriend. I just hope I’m a magic number for him.
“Back. Had to fill a sippy cup for my brother.”
“Been there,” I say. “Hey, Jayden?”
“Mm?”
“Have you ever kept a secret from your parents?”
“I guess. Little stuff. Why?”
I close my bedroom door and go into my closet, shutting that door, too. “Have you ever run away?”
“What are you talking about? You’re not running away, are you?”
“No, no. I mean . . .”
“Qui. What. Is. Up?”
“Okay. Here it is.” I take a deep breath. “I’m not going to Guatemala for Christmas.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I go, I’ll be miserable. So I’m taking a bus to Grandma’s.”
“Without your parents? Doesn’t she live in Florida? Are you crazy? Does she—do they—know this?”
“I Googled departure times. I’m saving money for the ticket. I can’t tell Grandma; she’ll tell my parents.”
“So you are crazy.”
“Look, you don’t know what it’s like not being able to speak Spanish.”
“But you’re in Spanish class.”
“So yeah, I’ll be able to count to ten, say what time it is, and talk about the weather.”
“How will you get to the bus without them finding out?”
“Sneak out the night before.”
“Whoa.” He sounds actually serious.
“It’s not that big a deal,” I snap. “People ride buses all the time.”
“I’m just surprised is all,” he says. “Hey, how about I walk you to the bus station. It must be two or three miles.”
“Seriously, Qui. Do you think you’ll be safe on that bus? And what are your parents going to do? They’ll think you ran away.”
I sidestep the second part of his question. “I rode that exact bus just a few months ago. There was a kid who rode alone, too. He had a special card around his neck that said Unaccompanied Minor. The driver kept him up front. He was going even farther than we were.”
“Too bad you can’t ride your bike to Florida!”
“You never know,” I say with a laugh.
When I hang up, I feel like I’ve run a race. I convinced him, but it tired me out. Does he have a point? What if he’s right about Mom and Dad thinking I’ve run away? They might even call the police! I’ll have to write a detailed note, explain everything. I can call them from the bus and let them know I’m fine. I open Notes on my phone and type reminders: Leave a note on my pillow. Call home at their wake-up time. I should be eight hours down the road by then.
I lie on my bed looking up at my manatee poster. Grandma says manatees were on the verge of extinction when she was my age. It was schoolkids who started a movement to protect them. They voted to make the manatee Florida’s state marine mammal, and that brought scientists like Grandma in to make protection plans and safety zones. Because of kids, there are more than triple the number of manatees now.
My bus plan is simple compared to saving a species. No one believes it yet, but I can do this.
THE NEXT DAY GOES SMOOTH as jam on a pancake until we go to Walgreens after school for passport photos.
Memito squints and whines at the bright lights. I don’t see other kids tearing up and rubbing their eyes, but I do see other customers looking at us, annoyed. “Can you take his picture first?” Mom asks the camera lady. “I’ll go next, then take him to the car, I guess.” It seems like we’re doing things differently for Memito more and more. A few days ago, Dad had to cut all the tags out of Memito’s shirts because Memito hunched his shoulders, twisted his head, and pulled at his shirt collar until it ripped.
Mom bundles Memito out to the car, and then it’s my turn. Dad says, “Smile, hija. A lovely smile you have.” I don’t smile. The button clicks. “Wait, do it again,” Dad says.
The Other Half of Happy Page 6
