by Laura Resau
But Mamá wasn’t home, just Dalia and Reina, watching TV. Mamá was probably still wiring the money.
I left Crystal and Star outside our door and stood in front of the TV so my sisters had to pay attention to me. “Hermanas, there’s something you need to see.”
They followed me outside, and I introduced them to Star. He was sitting in the wheelbarrow, and he offered them a handshake with the paw of his good leg. You could practically see their hearts melting, even though his shoulder was stinky. I explained to them how I found Star and how we fed him and trained him and then how he got hurt and was stuck in Mr. Ed’s dark shed with no windows for days.
“So you had a secret dog all this time?” Dalia said. “That’s where you always disappear to?”
I nodded.
Crystal said, “Star’s in trouble. We need to get him to a vet.”
“You got money for a vet?” Dalia asked Crystal.
She shook her head.
“Well, neither do we,” Dalia said. “Like not even five dollars for groceries.”
I was a little embarrassed she said this to Crystal. But it was true. Yesterday we had to go to the food bank, and even though the food wasn’t bad—the little plastic cups of frozen peaches were actually pretty tasty—still, it was the food bank. It was worse than getting your clothes at garage sales.
“Money doesn’t matter,” Crystal said. “We’ll bring Star to the vet and figure out how to pay later.”
I gave Star water and fried him bacon while Dalia looked in the phone book and found the closest vet. It was about a mile away. We wheel barrowed Star through Forest View, out to the highway, and followed the highway past the run-down hotels and Mexican grocery stores. We fed him bits of bacon along the way to keep up his spirits.
Even though Dalia didn’t like to walk, and didn’t like to be seen with kids, she only complained once, after a big blue truck blasting rancheras drove by. She muttered, “None of my friends better see me pushing this dog around with you two.”
Reina was a trouper, too. She had to walk twice as fast as us on her chubby little legs to keep up, but she only made us carry her for a couple of minutes.
After a half hour or so, we reached a pink cement building that said HAPPY PET VETERINARY CLINIC with a picture of a cartoon dog on one side and a cartoon cat on the other and a small sign underneath that said SE HABLA ESPAÑOL.
Crystal whispered, “Zitlally, we have to convince them to help Star. Remember, whatever happens to Star happens to your dad.”
When Crystal said that, all the quiet, scared tears inside me turned into words, a whole giant ocean of words, wave after wave after wave of words. And I knew just what I had to do with them.
I marched straight to the counter and locked eyes with a lady with black-and-orange-striped hair. In Spanish, I said, “Señora, we found Star and took care of him, but then he fell out of a truck and hurt his leg. We don’t have papers or tags or anything, and we don’t even know if he got his shots. But we love him and we give him bacon and we trained him to sit in a truck and beep a horn and we pushed him all the way here in a wheelbarrow. We don’t have money to pay you. But it’s very, very important that you save him. And Crystal and me will do anything. We’ll sell lemonade all summer and bring you all the money we make. We’ll work for you and clean up dog fur and cat poop or anything you want. Por favor, señora, por favor.”
Crystal’s mouth was practically hanging open at my speech, even though she didn’t understand a word except Star.
The lady said in Spanish, “Señorita, this dog is lucky to have you. We’ll do everything we can for him.”
The vet was another nice lady who wore a light blue doctor’s coat and spoke Spanish, too. While she examined Star, she let us stay in the room and put our hands on his fur to calm him. She cleaned his wound and put an antiseptic on it and complimented us on how well-behaved he was when he shook her hand. She gave him the shots he needed, and he barely winced because we fed him bits of bacon and petted him the whole time. Then she handed us a rabies tag and a collar and told us to come back after he was better to get him neutered, and they’d figure out a way to pay for it if we couldn’t.
She even gave us a little bottle of antibiotic pills to give him for ten days straight. And I knew that if he didn’t want to take them, we could just dissolve them with a little Coke and have him lap it up.
On the way home, Star seemed better already, although maybe it was just all that bacon sitting happy in his belly.
“Your speech worked miracles!” Crystal kept saying. “Zit, you’re something else!”
Back at home, Crystal went into her trailer, and Star came into mine. Mamá was home by then, and once Dalia and Reina and I explained everything about Star, she said he could stay inside the house just until he got better, but after that he’d have to stay outside. I hugged Mamá and she hugged me back and whispered, “Let’s hope they let your father go, Zitlally. I don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t let him go.”
I looked at Star, all cozy on an old blanket beside the sofa. “I have a feeling he’ll be okay, Mamá.”
Sunday morning before church, Star was chomping on bacon from a bowl at my feet, and I was eating hotcakes with lots of syrup, when the phone rang. The phone didn’t usually ring so early, so I thought it must be either really good news or really bad news. I picked it up.
And heard Papá’s voice.
“Zitlally!” And then he spoke in star language, all husssshhhhhes and whispers, telling me how much he loved me.
“Are you free, Papá?”
“Yes, m’hija. I’m free.”
I wanted to shout as loud as I could “WOOOHOOO!!!” and tell Mamá, who was in the shower, and Reina, who was still asleep, and Dalia, who was putting on makeup in the bedroom. But more than that, I wanted him all to myself for a minute. “What happened, Papá?”
“Well, m’hija, after they got the money, they put me in the back of a pickup truck and said they’d take me to the bus stop. But I had a feeling they were lying. I had a feeling they were dropping me off for la migra to get me. So I jumped out of the truck and rolled down a ditch. I hurt my shoulder on a rock when I hit the ground, but I got up and ran down the canyon. I ran faster than ever before.”
“As fast as a dog?” I asked.
“Yes, m’hija, as fast as a dog. And I found my way to the bus stop, and here I am in Arizona, and I’m catching the next bus to Colorado.”
“Do you have money, Papá?”
“I taped a hundred dollars to my leg before I left. I’ll be there by tomorrow night, m’hija.”
And then Mamá came out of the bathroom, asking who I was talking to, and I said, “Papá,” with the biggest smile in the galaxy on my face. And she was screaming and then Dalia came out waving her mascara wand and screaming, and then Reina woke up and started screaming and we were all screaming and dancing and hugging each other.
At school on Monday, I could not stop smiling. When Mr. Martin asked what two-sevenths times three was, I raised my hand high and proud like a flag and said, “Six-sevenths!” I felt bright, like that sunshine I ate was shooting out all over the place.
Emma and Olivia and Morgan must have noticed this and decided I wasn’t boring anymore, because Morgan asked if I wanted to go bike riding with them in the park after school. It was lunchtime, and we were in the bathroom, and they were putting on lip gloss and brushing their hair, and I was washing my hands, and Crystal was in the bathroom stall. I could feel her listening.
“Thanks, Morgan, but Crystal and me have plans. Maybe another time.”
Later, after school, Crystal said, “Zit, do we really have plans?”
“Of course! My dad will be home by tonight. We have to practice Star’s dog show!”
We wheelbarrowed Star down the path. It was warm enough for shorts and tank tops, and my legs and arms felt happy and free and soaking up sunshine. The air smelled sweet, like nectar and grass and trees. Tiny flowers had popped up
next to the fallen tulips and daffodils. The petals were in a perfect, cheerful circle, blue around a yellow center.
“Forget-me-nots!” Crystal said.
“What?”
“Those flowers. That’s what they’re called. It’s like nature put them there ’cause it knew your dad was coming home!”
I picked some blossoms and stuck them in Star’s collar so he’d look extra guapo for Papá.
“Crystal,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about something.” And I had, all night. I’d hardly slept, thinking about Papá and Star and how happy I was, but then, when I thought of Crystal, I felt a little sad. I’d get my dad back, but hers was still in jail.
“What?” she said.
“I think you should keep Star.”
Her face lit up. “Really?”
I nodded. “But we can bring him here every day and hang out. And if the dictator’s in a bad mood, you and Star can come over to my house. And if you have to go to Madagascar to visit your dad, we can watch Star.”
“I’ll treat him like gold, Zit, I promise!”
In the forest, we helped Star out of the wheelbarrow. His leg was looking good, getting better fast. He walked with just a small limp back to his old spot under the rusty rainbow truck hood.
“Sit, Star,” Crystal said.
Star sat.
“Shake, Star,” I said.
Star shook my hand.
“Roll over, Star,” Crystal said.
Star rolled over.
Then, together, we helped him into the driver’s seat of the truck. He sat there with his tongue hanging out, pink and happy. I said, “Beep!”
He put his good paw on the horn and beeped and beeped and beeped.
Then he stopped and his ears moved up, alert and listening. He was looking at something past our heads, behind us.
I turned around, and there he was. Papá. Laughing and laughing. Laughing so hard he was nearly peeing in his pants.
I ran to him and he held me tight, and it was just how I’d imagined, me burying my face in his T-shirt. He whispered in star language in my ear, “Ni-mitz nequi.” I love you. Over and over and over again.
Then he looked at Star and said, “¡Que perro!” What a dog!
“His name is Star,” I said.
I hugged Papá again, as tight as I could.
“Careful, m’hija. My shoulder’s pretty sore.” He pulled aside his T-shirt neck and showed me a big white bandage taped to his shoulder.
“I have a feeling it’ll get better fast,” I said.
Crystal had helped Star out of the truck and was sitting next to him, petting him, looking sad and happy at once. I felt like hugging her, too.
Crystal said, “Mucho gusto, Mr. Mora. I’m Crystal.”
“Mucho gusto, Crystal.”
“I was practicing my mucho gustos for a while,” she said. “Zit told me you’d be coming home, so I figured out how to say ‘Nice to meet you,’ and now I finally get to say it to you. Did I say it right?”
“Perfectly,” Papá said.
Crystal nudged Star toward Papá. “Star, meet Mr. Mora.” She whispered to Papá, “Hold out your hand.”
Papá held out his hand.
Star shook it.
Papá laughed some more, and then he looked closely at Crystal. “You’re the girl who lives next door, right?”
She nodded. “With my mother, and sometimes her boyfriend. He’s not my dad, though.” She kept petting Star. “My dad’s in jail. He’ll be out in seven years if he’s on good behavior. And he will be on good behavior because he’s good. And he loves me more than anything and wants to come home to me. He’s a good dad.”
I stared at Crystal. Her eyes looked real, like when Dalia takes off all her makeup at night and you can see her skin all tender underneath.
Papá said to Crystal, “I’m sure he has a good heart. His daughter does.” He smiled, and his front tooth lined with gold flashed in the sunshine.
“Vámonos,” he said. “Your mother and sisters are waiting for us. They have a surprise.” He reached his hand out to Crystal. “Of course, you’re invited, too, Crystal.”
We walked back together, taking turns wheel-barrowing Star, through the forget-me-nots and summery air, back to our trailer, where a dazzling white cake was waiting for us. Bienvenido Papá y Feliz Cumpleaños Zitlally! Welcome Papá and Happy Birthday Zitlally! This time all the l’s were there, like brilliant blue pieces of sky over white Antarctic snow.
ZITLALLY’S PAPÁ’S FOLKTALE
The Deepest, Most Magical Forest
This happened a long, long time ago, Zitlally. It happened to the grandfather of my grandfather. Or maybe even his grandfather.
One night, when he was a tiny baby, his mother wrapped him in three blankets and laid him in a clearing in the deepest, most magical forest.
The forest where one must never cut firewood because of the tree spirits.
Where one must never pick berries because of the plant spirits.
Where one must never hunt because of the animal spirits.
But this baby’s mother was special. She was a healer. She asked the spirits permission to enter the forest, so they let her gather healing herbs. Always, she thanked them. Tonight, she had come to discover her child’s spirit animal. She stayed hidden in the trees, watching, waiting for her son’s creature to come.
At dawn, a dove landed near the baby’s head. His mother thought, Maybe his animal is a bird. Then he can fly over his troubles! But the dove moved on.
Then a small lizard crept near the baby’s feet. Maybe his animal is a lizard, thought his mother. Then he will be stealthy and agile! But the lizard moved on.
And then, just as the sun peeked over the mountaintops, a young deer wobbled into the clearing. Slowly, step by step, the fawn walked to the baby. For a long time, the fawn looked into the baby’s eyes.
The baby looked back.
The fawn’s long tongue reached out and licked the baby’s face.
The baby smiled.
The fawn smiled.
Finally, the fawn walked away. That was when the baby’s mother noticed the pattern of white spots on the fawn’s back, how it echoed the odd birthmark on her son’s back. She picked him up and kissed him and whispered thanks and headed home. She smiled the whole way, happy that her son’s spirit animal was the swiftest, most graceful, most noble creature of the forest.
Sure enough, the baby grew into a boy who could outrun anyone, even the fastest man. When he ran up-hill, it was as though he was running downhill. When he ran downhill, it was as though he was flying. But since he was the best at running, the boy wanted to be the best at everything. The best tree climber, the best whistler, the best hunter.
There was a problem with being the best hunter. His older brothers wouldn’t even let him touch their rifles. “You’re too little,” they said when they left to go hunting.
They made him stay home to help his mother. Patients came all day long, and she cured them with herbs. The boy felt bored helping her. He whined, “I want to hunt and show the world that I’m the best at everything.”
“It’s true, you’re a good runner,” she said. “But that’s thanks to your deer spirit. You must always be grateful for this gift.”
But the boy did not feel grateful. He felt only proud of himself. “I run fast because I’m fast,” he said. “And if my brothers let me hunt, I’d be the best hunter and then you’d see.”
“Hmph,” his mother said, and went back to hanging up her herbs to dry.
Very early one morning, while the stars were still out, even before his mother had woken up to start the tortillas and tea, the boy tiptoed outside with his oldest brother’s rifle. He shivered in the darkness and put the heavy gun over his shoulder and walked over the hills and through the fields, headed straight for the deepest, most magical forest.
The forest where one must never cut firewood because of the tree spirits.
Where one must never pick berries b
ecause of the plant spirits.
Where, most of all, one must never hunt because of the animal spirits.
The boy went there anyway. It was the only place where no one would see him. No one would see him because no one was brave enough to venture there.
He thought, I am the best and the bravest, and just as the sky was turning from the black of night to the blue of morning, he stepped into the deepest, most magical forest.
Here the trees whispered, the plants murmured, the insects sang. If he’d listened carefully, he would have heard the warnings in their words. You foolish boy! Leave, leave, leave! Or else!
But he didn’t listen. He crept through the under-brush, thinking, I’m about to become the best hunter this pueblo has ever seen.
The boy sat down and waited by a big tree at the edge of a clearing. After a while, he heard a movement. Into the meadow stepped a magnificent buck. It held its head high, and its antlers came to four points on each side, like a majestic crown. If the boy had looked closely, he might have noticed the animal’s pattern of white spots, how it matched the strange birthmark on his own back.
But he didn’t notice.
The boy stood up slowly, thinking about how big and impressed his brothers’ eyes would be when they saw him carrying this giant animal’s head. He raised the gun to his shoulder, moved his eye to the sight, and pulled the trigger.
So many things happened in that one terrible moment.
The entire forest shook like thunder.
The deer flew back in the air and landed with its legs collapsed beneath it.
And the force from the gunshot launched the boy backward. He landed on something sharp, something that stabbed through his thigh. A spiked branch poking from a log like a knife.
The buck limped away, blood streaming from its leg. The boy tried to stand up, but his leg didn’t sup-port him. It ached and burned. Blood gushed from the wound. He left the gun there and dragged himself toward home, crawling most of the way.
