by Andi Teran
“¡Ándale, chiquita!” Rolo shouted.
“Cállate,” Vic responded, his back turned to both of them as he plucked the highest part of the bush.
Ana began to pick faster per Rolo’s not so subtle suggestion, but she was glad Vic had told him to shut his mouth. The two men mumbled to each other in Spanish. It had been a while, but Ana understood parts of what they were saying. Some words or phrases were more audible than others, but there were certain ones she’d heard again and again over the years, especially the ones uttered bemusedly by Rolo—“ay, ay, ay”—which she wasn’t sure was said in jest or if his part of the blackberry bush had thorns. Vic remained quiet, chiming in every now and then, telling them to get back to work, said in English for Ana’s benefit.
“¿Listos?” Rolo asked, walking over to Vic to see if he was finished.
Vic threw a few more berries into his own modest haul before turning to Ana.
“Done?” he asked from under the brim of an old straw cowboy hat.
“I think so. I mean, they’re a little more than half full like Manny said, but that’s what I’m supposed to do right?”
“No sé, bebe,” Rolo said, his face contorting into something that reminded Ana of a hippopotamus clown, cherubic and inflated with a wide grin full of tiny teeth. “You good, chiquita.”
“Vamos, let’s go,” Vic said.
Ana followed a few steps behind them through the fields, the morning’s sunshine beginning to warm her shoulders. Her stomach somersaulted at the thought of lunch and, even though she was still desperate to sample a few of the blackberries strapped to her waist, she took a swig from the water bottle instead. Rolo continued to antagonize Vic, taunting him in Spanish, mock inspecting his coffee cans, and taking a tone of voice she imagined was his version of Manny. They reminded her of a cartoon comedy duo, much like the one she used to watch as a child that featured a skinny Chihuahua and a fat cat who got into all kinds of outrageous mischief. She wondered where these men came from, how long they’d been working on the farm, and if they had families of their own. Her mind flitted to even more comedy duos, Bert and Ernie, Tom and Jerry, Cheech and Chong, who had been her parents’ favorite, and she decided that Vic and Rolo were worthy of their own show set on a farm and starring a squealing pig and eye-rolling chicken.
Manny waved as they approached the packing station.
“How’d it go?” he asked, though Ana was unsure to whom he was speaking.
“Fine, I think,” she said as Rolo hoisted his cans onto the table with a heavy thud.
Manny gave Rolo a look before scolding him in Spanish, his voice light yet stern.
“This is a lesson in what not to do,” Manny said. “Nothing but a show-off.”
Rolo smirked as Manny and Vic patted his back, picking on him in Spanish. He seemed to blush, she noticed, and then gave a thumbs-up to what he deemed a perfectly unblemished batch of berries, even though he’d picked too many. Another man, older than the rest and dressed in an oddly formal buttoned-up shirt, sorted through Vic’s berries. It was the same man who had rescued Abbie’s gardening hat. He caught her staring.
“Hola,” he said. “Me llamo René.”
“Ana,” she responded. “Mucho gusto y gracias.” The gardening hat slid down her forehead as she tipped it toward him. She watched as he put all of the perfect blackberries into multiple plastic containers, packing and closing them with a delicate hand. Manny tossed the empty coffee cans back to Rolo and Vic, who slung them over their shoulders and walked over to the wooden fence to lean up against it, Rolo resting one hand on his rotund belly in triumphant satisfaction.
“Ana, let’s take a look,” Manny said, beckoning her over. He and René went through her berries, removing quite a few of them. “Not bad, especially for your first batch.”
“Why are you separating so many?”
“Well, we’re going to have to toss a few, but this is a good start. Come over here.” He motioned for her to join him on the other side of the table. “See how these over here are dark black and yours are more red and purple?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we want the black ones, not the others. And these over here have a little bit of fuzz on them? No good.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. It’s your first time out.”
Rolo shouted something Ana was sure was meant for her as Manny, René, and Vic all shushed him. He continued in Spanish, adopting a female voice and batting his eyelashes. Ana wasn’t sure, but she thought he mentioned something about her hair, something about the curls, and the back of her neck. Instinctively, she checked to make sure it was covered, not realizing that at some point while she worked, she must have swept her hair up into her hat in the sun’s heat. She pulled her ponytail back down again; covering the area she was sure he had seen. He made an ooh sound, and without hesitation, she turned toward him.
“Cállate, Roly-Poly!”
There was a silence before Manny, Vic, and the rest of the workers who had since gathered along the fence all erupted into laughter as Emmett approached.
“What’s going on here?”
“Ana’s reminding Rolo to watch his mouth,” Manny chuckled. “And his gut.”
“Roly-Poly!” one of the men along the fence shouted, to another round of laughter.
“Good advice,” Emmett said. “How’d she do?”
“How’d you do?” Manny asked, deflecting Emmett’s attention in Ana’s direction.
Ana looked at the ground.
“She did just fine,” Manny assured him. “Kept a good pace.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt everyone to kick it up.”
• • •
The rest of the morning consisted of picking more berries, some sprouts, and a row of carrots. Ana was baffled that the carrots she yanked from the earth were sometimes yellow or purple and misshapen, unlike the perfect orange ones in grocery stores. She stood at the end of a long row and stretched her back, surprised at the exhaustion setting in. A bell rang out over the fields. She followed the rest of the workers to the sorting station, bunches of carrots in hand.
“Lunch break, boys,” Emmett said as they approached, “and, um, girl.”
Some of the workers headed over to Emmett’s pickup truck with Manny, bringing back peaches, water, and sandwiches made by Abbie. Ana knew they had come from her kitchen, judging by the white parchment wrapping tied together with red string. She joined Vic and a few others leaning against the fence and inhaled the roasted vegetable pesto sandwich. Emmett stayed in the driver’s seat of his truck to eat alone.
“Boss doesn’t eat with us?” she leaned over and whispered to Vic.
“Boss eats with boss.”
She watched as Emmett fiddled with the stereo, the faint sounds of Neil echoing across the farmland.
“He’s a perfect stranger, like a cross of himself and a fox.”
Ana wasn’t sure if it was the food, the lulling background music, or if she was hallucinating, but she did a double take as a giant purple caterpillar suddenly made its way up the road.
“¡Órale!” the workers hooped and hollered as Emmett honked the truck’s horn.
Ana wondered if this is what sunstroke felt like, because behind the caterpillar there was a spider, a metallic dragon, and a winking chicken lumbering along in stride. The creatures rounded the bend near the entrance of Garber Farm, coming closer into view, and Ana realized they were part of a parade of elaborate floats fashioned out of bicycles. There were single bikes and tandems powered by two or three people smiling and waving in hats that matched the theme of their vehicle. Everything from fire ants, snapping turtles, and even a man in a clown costume on a unicycle ambled along the road to cheers from the workers.
“What’s this?” Ana asked Vic, who was also staring in awe.
He shrugged i
n response.
“Kinetic Sculpture Race,” Manny said as he took off his hat and waved it toward the road. “Happens every year all along the coast. People spend months building these crazy things. Fun, no?”
The people powering the dragon pulled a lever and the makeshift beast roared to life, shooting a plume of fire out of its mouth that made everyone cheer. It was unlike anything Ana had ever seen before, and she couldn’t help but cheer along too. She’d been to the Pasadena Rose Bowl parade once, when she was living with the Fergusons, but had caught only a glimpse of the floats through the legs of the crowd. A lobster with working claws, followed by three guys peddling a shoe the size of a car, passed by. Manny seemed to know a few people and tipped his hat every now and then, earning him hoots and honks.
Ana finished her lunch, as did the others, and they all watched the end of the parade. Her back ached and her eyes were heavy, so she shook herself up as the last bikes approached. They were louder than the others and unadorned. It took a moment before she realized they were motorcycles of various colors and shapes; their only embellishments were the riders themselves, who wore costumes like silver disco suits, cowboy outfits, and more than a couple roughed-up versions of Elvis. They weren’t as lively as the homemade sculptures, but they’d dressed up for the event and revved as they passed the farm.
The last two riders rode alongside each other. The larger rider was outfitted in blue and green, and a few flags attached to the back of his bike flapped along in the wind. The smaller rider wore a yellow and black jumpsuit with a pair of wings, which fluttered like a bumblebee as both riders slowed their bikes as they passed. Ana didn’t know if the sunstroke was setting in for real, or if it was just her tired delirium, but she let her hand float up and sweep the air in a slow-motion wave.
• • •
Abbie couldn’t help herself. She waited until she saw everyone head back out into the fields and went up to the guest bedroom. Nothing was out of place, so she opened the backpack that remained tucked into the bottom of the armoire. Abbie was already aware of Ana’s limited wardrobe—which she was prepared to launder regularly with nary a word that might blemish her pride—but as she fished around in the old army sack, she pulled out a notebook. Page after page was covered in elaborate pen drawings. One was the backyard of a dilapidated house, its yard barren and swirling with ribbons of dust. Another depicted a schoolyard with dried grass that resembled thick hair entangled with insects and bits of torn paper, remnants of truncated poetry. She flipped the page and stopped at an unfinished portrait of a sad-looking dog with a torn ear. It was rendered in almost photographic detail and backed by a tattered quilt. Underneath, written in letters resembling spray-painted graffiti, was the word CHELO.
“Astonishing” was the word Abbie said aloud, scaring herself, and her reflection in the armoire, in the process. She couldn’t help but flip through the entire thing, heart racing, mouth agape, as she uncovered what felt like secret maps to a neglected city most startlingly alive.
She put the notebook back in the bag when she heard the screen door open downstairs. It was only Emmett coming in with a box of beets.
“What’s with the expression, Sis?” Emmett said, taking a cookie from the tray on the stove as Abbie entered the kitchen. “Up to no good?”
“I’d say the same of you. Those cookies are for later.”
Emmett gave her a wan smile.
“Listen, I’m taking Ana on deliveries this afternoon. I want to introduce her to Rye Moon.”
“What’s the point?” Emmett said, grabbing another cookie.
“I think it’s important she meet girls her age.”
“Mm-hm.”
“This town is minuscule, Emmett, and people are naturally curious. It’s best if we keep from hiding her right from the start.”
“Why do you care what other people think? She’s our summer intern, and she’s staying only a month.”
“Honestly.” Abbie sighed. “It’s her first day. Let’s give her a chance, shall we?”
Emmett looked out the window and across the fields. He watched as Ana seemed to struggle with a carrot that wasn’t yet ready to be picked.
“If this morning’s any indication, I’d keep her for less than a week.”
“I’m taking her to meet Rye, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Okay. But, I’ll warn ya. You’ve never experienced that girl in a moving vehicle.”
• • •
Ana didn’t have time to change. Her faded jeans were covered in dirt and sagging in the knees. She had one of Abbie’s stained work shirts unbuttoned over her favorite band tee. The thought of meeting someone her age, especially a girl, twisted her stomach into a nauseated loop.
Ana dropped the box of produce on the front porch as Abbie had asked and made her way past Abbie’s lopsided van. GARBER FARM ORGANIC PRODUCE was splashed across the side of it in fading letters. She continued down the pebble pathway to the potting shed on the other side of the house just beyond the garden. The tin-roofed shed was tiny, and covered in flowering vines. The Dutch door’s top half was open, framing Abbie as she worked. There was a stained glass window above the entrance, unusual and charming, adorned with a blackbird surrounded by olive leaves.
“So, now that we have a moment, how did the morning go?” Abbie asked.
“It’s debatable,” Ana said. “According to Manny, I did just fine. According to Emmett, I need a bachelor’s degree in farmer’s science, if that exists.”
“It’ll get easier,” she said.
“Should I change clothes?”
“You’re fine the way you are.”
“I’m filthy.”
“We’re farmers, it’s part of the look,” Abbie said, tying bundles of cornflowers with twine. “Let me see your hat.”
Ana took off the gardening hat, worried Abbie would notice the stained ring of sweat that had accumulated under the brim.
“Apologies. My hair is an aberration,” Ana said.
“Nonsense,” Abbie said. “But bonus points for word choice.” She snipped a few of the flowers and tucked them under the band around the brim, making them shoot out of the side of the hat like a miniature fireworks display. “My mother used to call this ‘pizzazz,’” she said, handing the hat back. “Draws attention to the eyes, and yours are lovely.”
Ana put the hat on and swept her hair behind her shoulders. It wasn’t really the look she’d normally go for, not that she’d ever been able to cultivate the look she liked, but she felt slightly better.
“Very ‘of the land,’” Abbie continued. “Which is to say, just like the rest of us country folk. Trust me, no one in this town is judging.”
They made their way to the van and added to the already ample load in the back, which included boxes of jars and bottles, wildflower arrangements, and a few loaves of fresh bread in paper bags stamped GARBER FARM. Ana climbed into the front seat, which was strewn with various odds and ends that included a potato sack, a magazine with the front cover torn off, a to-go coffee mug in one cup holder, a gardening tool sticking out of the other cup holder, and a half-eaten bar of baking chocolate melting on the dashboard next to Crystal Visions—The Very Best of Stevie Nicks. She smiled to herself. “The yin and yang of siblinghood,” she thought, remembering the scene in Emmett’s truck—so much similarity in the differences.
They made their way out of the farm and down the road, passing dainty Victorian houses with manicured yards. If Ana had to pick a favorite, Garber Farm would win, she thought, and not just for the wildness of its surroundings, but also for its restrained authenticity. “The farm is so different from the rest of the houses,” she said.
“Well, we’ve been here a little longer. But yes, we Garbers have always embraced subtlety over ostentation. Believe me, when I was your age, I would have killed to live in one of these houses. One of my child
hood friends did.”
“I bet the lawns are full of forgotten Easter eggs and polka-dot horses out in back.”
“You might find a few.” Abbie laughed. “Most of these folks are grandparents, or great-grandparents.”
“Did you ever want kids?” She didn’t know why she asked it, regretted it from the moment it tumbled from her lips.
“Well, hon, to be honest, it just never happened for me,” Abbie said, leaning forward to switch the stereo on. “Some of us are built for a different kind of life, I guess.”
Though Abbie had meant to replace the Crystal Visions CD still missing from its case—“borrowed” by Josie nearly a year ago—she was glad she’d refused to lend out Stevie’s Wild Heart, which she preferred.
“My mother was built for a different life,” Ana said, continuing to stare out the window as Stevie sang. “But she accidentally had me.”
“Sometimes that happens.”
“It’s funny, all the kids who have kids, the ones who can’t take care of themselves being forced to take care of someone else they don’t want. Then there are all those people desperate for kids, who are old enough and ready and waiting. I know girls my age—girls younger even—who are pregnant and don’t want to be, and I’ve lived with foster parents who would do anything to have kids of their own. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Abbie said. “But life isn’t fair, and you can’t choose who you’re born to. It’s all beyond our control, I’m afraid. There’s power in how we react to our situations, though.”
The van continued ambling toward the center of Hadley. They hadn’t passed any other cars or signs of life on the road, which Ana thought odd and wonderful. “What would L.A. look like if the same were true?” she wondered.
