The Other Half of Happy

by Rebecca Balcarcel

  “Well, that’s good.” Why is she telling me this?

  “My point is, watch first, understand later. Eventually, you’ll see where you fit in. Keep your eyes open, Quijana. This world is vast and beautiful. You’ll see amazing things.” She leans back and takes a few deep breaths. Her chest moves up and down faster than usual.

  “You okay?”

  She bats the air with a hand.

  “I love you, Grandma.”

  “I love you, too, little one.” Finally her breath slows a bit and she closes her eyes.

  “Grandma?”

  “Yes?” Her eyes flutter open.

  “We’ll see you soon, at Thanksgiving, right?”

  “I’m planning on it.” She smiles. Then she looks offscreen. “I see they’re bringing my supper here. I’ll try to Skype again when I get home. You be brave. Love you, sweetheart.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I take my phone out to the charger in the living room and sink into the couch. Grandma looked thinner. Frail. But she’ll go home soon. She’ll get better. It’s nearly November. Like I said, we’ll see her soon.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I dress for school and check my phone. It shows two messages, but I swipe the screen and send a quick heart to Grandma first. Then I click Zuri’s bolded name. We have a buyer! is the first message from her at 10:35 p.m. The second one is from ten minutes later. :-( Her credit card didn’t go through.

  Aww. Thx for the update. So close! This proves that there are buyers out there, though. And that our price for the huipil is fair. I bet the next buyer will come along soon.

  As I eat Organic O’s and almond milk, a thought makes me stop. Credit card. Buyers need credit cards. How will I buy my bus ticket without one?

  I pull up the bus website on my phone. Nothing about payment in the FAQs. I bring up the schedule. Nineteen more seats left on the 10:35 p.m. I click BOOK NOW and finally find a list of payment options. Visa, MasterCard, American Express. Something called Paypal. Finally I see a printed line in a small font at the bottom. Cash purchases may be made in person at the bus terminal. Whew. I’ll have to walk over there ahead of time, but at least they’ll take my money.

  I call out a goodbye and walk to the corner. As I wait for the school bus, I watch the two Spanish-speaking boys. They still wear button-down shirts, tucked in. They still stand together and keep quiet. I wish my cousin Crista were here. She’s so smiley and eager, she’d walk right up to them and talk their ears off. Without speaking Spanish—which I am not going to do, especially at the bus stop—there’s no way I can help them. But I still wish they felt more welcome. They stand tall, looking serious and kind of dignified, like my dad in his First Communion picture. If he were here, he’d make them feel great. That’s another difference between us; I didn’t inherit his sunny, social gene.

  At school, history class seems easy compared to my bus situation. Even Spanish goes smoothly. I’m not even worried when Señora Francés calls me up to her desk after class.

  “Quijana, I’m pleased that you’re passing Spanish now! I have to confess, when I heard your authentic pronunciation, I assumed you spoke Spanish at home.” She pauses, and I realize that this is a question.

  “No, ma’am, but my parents do.”

  “So your parents are fluent?” Two lines form between her eyebrows, and I can tell she’s trying to puzzle it all out.

  “See, my dad is from Guatemala. My mom learned from school and from being an interpreter there.”

  “But they didn’t . . .”

  “Teach me, I know.” I shrug. Sometimes I wish they had taught me. As a baby, it would have been easy to learn. But whatever. I may never be as fluent as my cousins, but at least I’m passing the class.

  “Even hearing Spanish actually helps a lot. Your r’s are just right.” She smiles with too many teeth, and I wonder if she feels sorry for me. “When I learned, I started from scratch. Not even good rs. You’ll do fine if you keep up with your daily work.” So much for feeling sorry for me!

  “I will, ma’am.”

  In English, Ms. May greets us with a discussion question on the board: Describe the personality of the main character in Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart” in 200 words. I read the story last night, but the main guy is pretty strange. He murders someone and then can’t help confessing to it—it’s so not my reality. My shaky letters gain confidence as I write. The guy’s so bizarre that he starts to be a little more fun to write about. I hear pencils scratching paper until the lunch bell rings.

  “My hand still hurts,” says Zuri as we walk to the cafeteria, shaking out our wrists, she with a blue medical boot for her ankle now.

  “I thought I had nothing to say about ‘Tell-Tale Heart’ until I started writing,” says Jayden.

  “You never have nothing to say,” I tell him. “You’re, like, a genius with characters and their motives and stuff. And then there’s your writing. Ms. May gives you bonus style points on almost every assignment. How can you be all that and a nice person, too?” Suddenly I realize that we’ve stopped walking, and my friends are staring at me.

  Jayden gives a little laugh. “Well, wow. What’s with all the compliments?”

  Oh no! I’ve said way too much. “Uh . . .” I wonder if I look as stupid as I feel.

  Zuri jumps in. “I’d say all that too, if I didn’t know it would give you a big head.” She starts us walking again, and I silently thank her. “You’re already impossible, Jayday.”

  Jayden makes some funny comeback, but I can’t hear it over my own embarrassment. Heat rises into my cheeks. Did I embarrass him? What does he think of me now? I didn’t mean to sound like a gum-chewing groupie sticking praise all over him. Yuck.

  Zuri makes for the lunch line as soon as we reach the cafeteria. Now I’m afraid to say anything.

  Jayden reaches the table first and lifts applesauce out of his lunch bag. I sit down stiffly. It’s like my muscles aren’t responding. Can he tell that I like him? Can everyone tell?

  “Whatcha got today?” he says, nodding toward my lunch.

  I understand from this that I should skip mentioning the whole episode.

  “Nothing new,” I say, getting out my pear. As we drive on with the conversation, I pretend to feel completely great. But a sinkhole opens under every word. I’m not relaxed like usual. I’m fidgeting with my food. I feel like we’re driving down a road made of lies.

  I watch Jayden as he dips a carrot stick in dressing. I love the way his hair falls. I love the shape of his hands. No wonder all this loving leaks out. Maybe it should.

  “Jayden,” I say, bold as Quixote in front of a windmill.

  He looks up.

  “The compliments. The reason is . . .”

  “You have good taste!” He grins.

  “It’s more than that. I . . .”

  “Man oh man, that line was so long today!” Zuri finally joins us.

  Jayden immediately turns to her. “You’ll hardly have time to eat,” he says.

  “I’ll get ‘tell-tale’ heartburn,” she jokes.

  They laugh, but I can’t turn away from my windmill that fast. I was all set to tell Jayden how I feel, but my chance has passed. Even when Zuri disappears to get ketchup, Jayden talks quickly about the play and their first run-through with costumes. He looks up, but never stops talking. It’s like he’s performing. But why? And why is something in his voice strained, like a guitar string over-tightened?

  I think he knows what I was going to say. I bet he’s talking right now to keep me from saying it. Maybe he can’t relax because he’s afraid? This would be the day we read “The Tell-Tale Heart”—a guy who loses his nerve trying to hide the truth. But is Jayden afraid of his own heart or of mine?

  I’m off-kilter for the rest of lunch, and I walk a step behind them as we go to class. Pep-rally posters shout action verbs: Charge! Pounce! Win! I want to do exactly that—text him a drastic message, grab his shoulders and look into his eyes. He must know, right? Zu
ri does.

  Jayden texts me every day, hugs me hello, sits across from me at lunch, yet he’s like a dresser drawer that won’t open all the way. Not for me, at least. Or not yet.

  Choir gives me a welcome break. In my usual chair, I feel more like myself. We mark dynamics in our music, noting where we’ll sing louder and softer.

  Maybe that’s the problem with Jayden. I turned up the volume too loud too fast. I’ll try a little decrescendo, and see what happens.

  WALKING HOME FROM THE BUS, I turn “Quijana + Jayden” over in my mind like a Rubik’s Cube. I line up colors on one side, then mess it up trying to line up another side. His actions never form a pattern I recognize.

  At home, in my hour of freedom, I pull down the guitar from its hook and pour my heart into “Tears in Heaven.” My fingers have learned what to do now. Sometimes I move them to the next chord without even looking at the frets. Then the chords are like friends singing right along with me.

  When I get tired of how sad the song is making me, I sing one version of my Jayden song, using the words I have so far. Then I sing another variation, but no new lines come to mind. How do people write songs? The first lines came to me so easily. But now what? I send Grandma a selfie of my hand on the guitar strings. She sends a Love it! right back.

  Like usual, I hang up the guitar when I hear a car in the driveway. Dad and Memito come in with corn on the cob, which is almost as good as spaghetti in my opinion. “Yes!” I cheer and get out the butter so it’s nice and soft by suppertime.

  “Quijana?” Mom’s voice carries from the living room. “Come see what else we bought.”

  She and Dad stand side by side behind huge plastic shopping bags, smiling broadly.

  “¡M’ija! What do you think?” Dad unveils four wheeled suitcases. Two stand as tall as Memito, one is smaller, and one is tiny. All are red with black zippers.

  Memito squats down and inspects them from a distance.

  “Watch this,” Dad says. He pulls a telescoping handle out of the littlest one. Memito understands immediately and starts pulling his suitcase around the room.

  I lay mine down and unzip each compartment. The biggest section has a new-car smell. I’m already picturing rolling it to the bus station. I see a handy pocket for socks and another for my phone-charger cord. The stiff canvas feels durable. “These are nice, Dad.”

  He beams, and a twinge of guilt weakens my smile. He has no idea that my plans for this suitcase are very different from his.

  Mom says, “Plan to bring a backpack, too, for books and snacks on the plane. That’s your carry-on. These, we’ll check through as luggage.”

  I nod, thinking how I’ll use her advice for my own trip.

  “Guess what else.” She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a manila envelope. “Our passports came!” She pulls out four booklets bound in blue covers. Each has a bald eagle embossed in gold on the front and PASSPORT above it. She hands me mine.

  Behind a rigid cover, the first page shows the non-smiling picture we took over a month ago, then my personal information, and at the bottom, a long string of characters that must be my passport number. Across the top, it says The United States of America in fancy letters. A surge of pride in my country shoots through me. Does Dad feel this way about Guatemala? Or America? Or both?

  “I’ll keep them all together in the desk drawer until we go,” Mom says, taking them up. “Isn’t this exciting? In a little over a month, we’ll be in Guatemala!”

  “That soon?” I ask, panicking a little. “What day exactly?” I hope this question doesn’t sound suspicious.

  “Well, about six weeks. December twentieth.”

  I make a mental note of the date. It’s not the first day of Christmas vacation, and not the date I planned to buy a ticket for.

  “You’ll miss a day of school, but the airfare was cheaper, and this is important. Educational, in fact.”

  In the bathroom, I type in the new date on the bus company’s website. With relief I see that they run a night bus on December 19, and it has twenty-two seats left. As soon as the huipil sells, I can buy one of those seats. I hope it’s soon.

  Jayden’s text message comes through while we’re eating dinner.

  Can you talk?

  “No phones at the table, please,” Mom says as she slices apple chunks for Memito on his tray. Thursday’s a no-class night for her, so we’re eating together.

  I lay my phone in my lap, but my attention follows it. Look at those words: Can you talk? I’m nothing but JaydenJaydenJayden and the urge to type YesYesYes. I don’t hear my dad’s next comment or my mom’s reply. It’s all I can do to stay in my chair. I eat faster.

  Mom makes eye contact. “Don’t gulp your food, please.”

  “It’s good to keep boys waiting,” Dad says, taking more salad. I guess I’m glancing at my phone a little too obviously. Still, annoyance twists my mouth.

  “It’s not a boy,” I lie. In the silence that follows, I’m sure they can tell I’m lying. The lie seems like a new food at the table, taking up space, but I don’t care.

  Anyway, Jayden isn’t a boy. Not like that. Not yet. He’s a friend. He’s not calling for a date.

  “Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres,” quotes Dad.

  “Yes, so true. Choose friends carefully—you become like them,” Mom paraphrases. I huff and roll my eyes at her like I knew what Dad was saying, but I didn’t.

  I like that idea, though, that you become like your friends. I’d like to be confident like Zuri and clever like Jayden. I chew on, eating the distance between Jayden and me, swallowing the seconds.

  Soon evening has dimmed the room, and Dad gets up to switch on the overhead light. I’m biting through a new potato that needs more salt when Memito screams.

  We stop our chewing and look at him. Surprise makes it seem like Mom’s in slow motion as she checks his tray, the seat strap’s latch—anything that might be pinching him. He starts tearing up and covering his eyes, still yelling. Now Dad lifts him up, and Memito’s little head burrows into Dad’s shoulder. He’s writhing and gripping Dad’s shirt.

  I’m wondering what is hurting him and what I can do when his head-turning makes it clear. “The light!” I say.

  “The light?” Mom reaches the switch in one step.

  In the sudden dark, Memito goes quiet. We all release a held breath. Memito lifts his head. Mom and Dad exchange startled looks.

  “Quijana, thank goodness you thought of that,” Mom says. Her eyebrows pull together, like she’s still uncertain of why it worked.

  “M’ijo, what’s wrong with the light?” Dad carries Memito to the switch and says, “You turn it on. You like switches, yes?”

  Not today. Memito’s body twists away. Dad puts him back in his booster seat. “I guess we eat in the dark tonight.” Walking to his own chair, he says, “Extraño.”

  “Maybe we should check with the doctor,” Mom says.

  Dad shakes his head, saying, “She already saw him.”

  “We know his hearing is okay,” I say.

  Mom searches the ceiling. “But now lights?”

  Memito finishes his food, and Mom takes off his tray without making him say “down.” No one else seems to be able to eat, including me. At least this takes my mind off wondering what’s up with Jayden—until my phone throws glitter into the air with its magic-wand sound. But I’m not in a hurry anymore. I don’t move. I don’t want to move.

  Mom looks up. “Go ahead,” she says. “Supper’s done anyway.”

  “It can wait,” I say. “I want to know what we’re going to do.”

  But nobody says anything. Finally, Dad pushes away from the table, lifting his plate. “We’ll think about this later, won’t we Mamá? Talk to your friends, Quijanita. Don’t worry.”

  From my room, I hear Mom reading to Memito. That’s a normal thing, but still, everything feels off-balance, like the house is a boat, pitching to one side.

  Here, I text, hoping J
ayden is still near his phone. While I wait, I type late talker into Google. Parenting sites come up, and lists of words that kids should know by age three. Memito, I know, knows only a fraction of them. Maybe it’s just his personality, I tell myself. Maybe he’s fine. Several people mention that Albert Einstein didn’t talk until age four. The Internet always scares people anyway.

  Hey. There he is.

  Everything okay? I ask him.

  My mom’s not coming to the play next Saturday.

  What?! I’m surprised that any mom would miss her kid’s play.

  Something at work.

  She has to come. Can’t she cancel?

  You’d think!

  I wait to see if he wants to talk about it more. The screen starts to dim.

  Play rehearsals good?

  He doesn’t even answer that.

  I’m not sure she’s thrilled about my whole acting thing.

  What, she wants you on the debate team or something?

  Yeah, or the Mathletes.

  Now I see why he’s upset. If she came, she’d see how perfect you are for theater.

  You’ll come, won’t you?

  Of course! I wouldn’t miss it!

  Obviously! I’ve already planned what to wear. It’ll be fun to cheer him on and see him in costume. Then when he quotes a line, I’ll know what he means. I hope his mom changes her mind.

  I think back to what Zuri said. A girlfriend. Someone likes him.

  Tell me about this girl who likes you. I picture each theater girl. Lauren?

  Who said any girl likes me?

  Zuri.

  The reply doesn’t come right away. I wonder if he’s had to go do something else.

  I didn’t say that.

  Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?

  Okay. Sorry. She said you mentioned a girlfriend or someone who wanted to be or something.

  I was kidding!

  I should be happy, but what is he saying, exactly? A tumbling-down happens in my chest.

  So no girlfriend for you, huh?

  I hope my half joke hides the fallen feeling I’m trying to ignore. I’m still confused, but I can’t figure out what to ask.