by Cari Noga
“Lucy, for starters. Taking on guardianship is quite a stressor. Add in that she’s moved long-distance and a phobia on top of that . . .” Sarah’s voice trails off.
Which did come first, the fear or the farm? The chicken or the egg? Does it matter? I’m due to meet the loan officer at the bank in twenty minutes, though.
“I can’t today. But I’ll think about it.”
As unproductive as the bank meeting is, I should have stayed at Sarah’s office. Or even gone with Lucy and the Livingstons to the beach. Fifteen years as a customer didn’t mean squat when it came to a business loan. He didn’t shut the door completely—“Let us know when you hear back from the school district”—but his skepticism was plain.
The pet superstore is my last stop before collecting Lucy. I stack two of the megasize kitty-litter bags in the bed of the truck. The meeting stank, but at least the mudroom won’t.
Chapter 43
LUCY
Aunt Jane appears in the bathroom doorway as I’m brushing my teeth. “Midweek farmers’ market tomorrow morning.”
Ugh. I spit out the toothpaste. “Do I have to get up at five?”
She shakes her head. “Esperanza’s coming to take you school shopping.”
“She is?” I love school shopping day. Daddy takes me in the morning for supplies—folders and notebooks and pencils and pens, a new backpack, a lunchbox. Then we meet Mom for lunch, after she’s off the air. Usually in one of the Midtown office towers whose floor-to-ceiling windows give a view of the whole city. “A new school year, Lucy. The world is at your feet!” Daddy would say. Then he goes back to the station, and Mom takes me for clothes and shoes. At home Deirdre helps put all the clothes away and has me write my name in all the folders and notebooks and pack the backpack for the first day.
Daddy and Mom are dead. Deirdre is somebody else’s au pair. None of that is going to happen this year. I gulp hard.
“I’ll leave you some money and the list. Rinse the sink,” Aunt Jane says, turning on the faucet. “After the market, I’ll meet you at the store and take you over to school for your orientation.”
“I don’t need an orientation.” I look up, into the bathroom mirror.
“It’s required,” Aunt Jane says to my reflection.
“Wait. Is it really orientation?” She could be trying to get me back to that therapist. With her sodding sod.
“Yes. It’s really orientation.”
“How do I know?” I turn to face her.
“You’ll just have to trust me.” She clears her throat. “Good night, then.”
I wait until she’s gone and look up into the mirror again to see myself, alone there in the glass.
I don’t hear Aunt Jane leave the next morning. When I go downstairs there’s a sheet of paper and two bills under the salt and pepper shakers. Forty dollars? I can’t get school supplies for forty dollars! Probably not even a backpack. I look at the paper.
Traverse City Area Public Schools Middle School Supplies
Ruled composition books—5 (college ruled, perfect bound or perforated, not spiral)
Three-ring binder with pocket—1
Ballpoint pens—blue or black ink—4
Pencils—No. 2—6
Combination lock
?—Backpack—no wheels
?—Insulated lunch container (for students not purchasing hot lunch) + cold pack
Recommended:
Calculator
Dictionary
The question marks are handwritten, not typed. Then I notice something else on the table. Aunt Jane has left this little sack thing there. She brought drinks in it to the farmers’ market that time I went with her. Is she asking if I can use that for a lunch box? And my old backpack?
I always got a new lunch box and a backpack, every year. That’s part of going back to school. How come she only gave me forty dollars? I have plenty of money, Mr. Langley said. Maybe it hasn’t started coming yet? He did say it could take a while. Still. I guess it’s too late to ask about it for today. Absently I pet Lexie, who’s rubbing up against my leg. I have a calculator and a dictionary on my phone, so I won’t need those, but what about clothes and shoes?
Don’t you have clothes and shoes? What about those boxes in the barn? I can hear Aunt Jane’s voice now.
Sarge comes in the kitchen, too, meowing. Their dishes must be empty. I fill up both food and water and take a blueberry muffin for myself. A loud car interrupts my eating and stewing. Juan’s driving the same beat-up blue car he was so proud of before. Esperanza’s next to him. It’s not spewing the black smoke, though. He pulls up where Aunt Jane usually parks, right next to the row of stepping stumps.
“¡Hola!” Esperanza smiles when I open the door. She’s dressed up in a white outfit with ruffles on the skirt and sleeves and colored stitches around the ruffles. “¿Estás lista?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” Juan’s still in the car with the motor running. “We’re not taking the bus?”
“No iremos en bus. Nunca más.” She shakes her head and smiles even bigger. “¡Tenemos un coche!”
“I know. I just thought . . . Juan would have to work. And we’d take the bus, like before.”
“Work this afternoon,” she says. “This morning, we all shop.”
I hesitate. Aunt Jane didn’t say anything about driving with them. Juan waves. He’s wearing a seat belt. Through the open window I can hear Spanish music. The car only has two doors, but where he’s parked I could get in the back seat using the stepping stumps.
“OK. Hang on.” I go back into the kitchen and get the list and money.
Esperanza’s crossed her arms and is tapping her foot on the concrete square, but her smile returns when she sees me. “¡Vamos!”
How come she’s so happy? Outside she has to move her seat forward so I can fit into the back. I never rode in a car like this. Back here I can see how Esperanza sits close to the middle, resting her hand on Juan’s leg. When he stops at the road, they kiss before he turns right, toward Traverse City.
Esperanza looks over her shoulder. “¡Hoy es un día muy importante!” she tells me, with another huge smile.
“English, querida, English,” Juan says.
Why does Juan care if Esperanza speaks English? She blushes and nods. “Today is . . . an important day. Very important!”
“How come?”
“I—get—my anillo—¿cómo se dice?” she says to Juan.
“Wedding ring,” he says.
“I—get—my wedding ring today!” Esperanza says triumphantly.
“You’re getting married? Is that why you’re all dressed up?” I look at my shorts and T-shirt.
She laughs and shakes her head. “Estamos casados—we are married,” she corrects herself before Juan does, “already. But we had no money for a ring.” She beams at Juan. “Now I am truly an—esposa?”
“Wife,” Juan says. He turns down the music and reaches over to pat her leg. “Didn’t I tell you? First a car. Now a ring. Next, our own house.”
“Y un niño,” Esperanza adds.
“You’re going to have a baby? And a house? Here?”
“This is a great country,” Juan says. The same thing he told me when he came to fix my window. I get that they can make money here. But it’s not home. How can they be so happy?
“No baby now,” Esperanza says, as Juan turns into a parking lot. “But soon. Tendrás que esperar un poco.” She giggles.
“A-1 Buyers,” the store sign says. “Pawn, buy, sell. Best terms in TC!” There’re lights on inside, but when Juan pulls the door, it doesn’t open. He looks at his phone. “Ten more minutes.”
Esperanza sighs, then shrugs, putting her arm around me. “Ten minutes? No importa. After this, we get your things, Lucy.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug. School shopping in Traverse City is going to be a letdown, so I’m in no hurry.
A woman with dyed red hair comes to the door, smiling as she unlocks it. “Today’s the big day, right
? I can open early for that. Hi, honey.” She smiles at me as we all troop in. “Your daughter?”
My hair stands on end. Nobody’s done that. Mr. Livingston acts like Daddy, and the fudgie lady customer at the farm stand dressed like Mom, and Raquel looks like Mom. But nobody has mistaken me as belonging to any of them. It makes me feel good, for a second.
“No.” Esperanza smiles, following Juan to a glass case in back. “Una amiga.”
Just like Lexie darting out the door, the good feeling escapes, and I feel lonely again.
“Well, nice to meet you, honey.” She unlocks the counter and reaches inside. She’s older than I thought. I can see gray under the red when she bends her head. “Fifty more and it’s all yours.”
Juan nods and digs into his pocket, pulling out some folded bills. He hands them to the lady, who counts it quickly and smiles. “Put it on her finger, then!”
My stomach feels kind of funny as I watch Esperanza, smiling and crying now, as Juan picks up her left hand and slides the ring on her finger. He puts his hands on her face and kisses her. I can see her hands on his back. It’s two rings, actually, a gold wedding band and a diamond ring. The diamond is a lot smaller than Mom’s. Smaller than any of the diamond jewelry in the gray velvet bag. Fifty more, the lady said. So Juan already paid some. How much?
“Amor,” sighs the red-haired lady, patting her hand on her chest. “One for him next? I’ve got a nice man’s ring for only one hundred!”
Juan shakes his head.
“Now, a house,” Esperanza declares.
“The American dream.” The woman smiles. “Good luck, kids!”
I follow them out, feeling like my face must be green. The American dream! Esperanza and Juan are getting everything they want. And my Mexican dream is a crushed birthday wish.
Chapter 44
JANE
Meijer’s parking lot is packed, as usual. As planned, I head to the café and spot Juan first. He’s not working? He, Esperanza, and Lucy all have soda cups and are sharing a giant bag of orange popcorn. A bag rests at Lucy’s feet.
“Hi,” I say. There are only three chairs at the table, which leaves me standing awkwardly. Juan and Esperanza seem extra cuddly, his arm around her shoulder, her hand on his thigh. “Ready to go?” I reach into my purse for my wallet, but Esperanza shakes her head. “Today was a celebration!”
Of what? I start to ask, but Juan stands up, and I see the BATA bus pulling up next to the rows of shopping carts.
“Good timing,” I say as we step outside. But Juan and Esperanza walk past the shopping carts, heading to the parking lot, too.
“They have their own car now,” Lucy says.
“They do?” They drove Lucy themselves?
Juan nods, pride obvious on his face as we reach my truck.
“Adiós, Lucy!” Esperanza waves her hand, the one not threaded through Juan’s arm. Her bracelets and rings flash in the sunlight.
“Bye,” Lucy says. “Thanks for the snack.”
“De nada.” She smiles and then snuggles her head onto Juan’s shoulder as they walk down the row.
“They bought the popcorn? I definitely should have paid her.” I turn around, scanning the lot for them.
“It’s no big deal. Like she said, we were celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“Juan bought Esperanza’s wedding ring.” She says this without looking at me. “We picked it up before we came here.”
“Picked it up where?” Please, say a jewelry store over at the mall. I start the engine.
“Some store. A-1 Buyers, I think it was called.” She shrugs and puts in her earbuds.
They took Lucy to a pawnshop? In their own car? When the trip was supposed to be school shopping via BATA? I never said they couldn’t, but still, it rankles. A twelve-year-old at a pawnshop? And what kind of car could Juan possibly afford? Does he have a driver’s license? Insurance? As I head out of the parking lot, I see. A navy-blue two-door Toyota Camry. Probably flipped its odometer twice, but the exterior doesn’t look that bad, newer than my truck, in fact. Juan’s been here barely two months, and according to Miguel, it’s been an average season, at best. How could he have enough disposable income to buy a car?
Esperanza’s opening her door as we pass. She waves again, her jewelry sparkling. Again, something rankles about the whole morning. Rankles as in rank. Off, not right. Something’s just not right about it all. But that could just as well be my guilt over not taking her to begin with. I glance over at Lucy, lost in her music, then once more in the rearview mirror.
And as Esperanza closes the door, it dawns on me with the abruptness of awakening postnightmare, with the crushing deadweight of a fallen tree, with a truth that pierces like shards of glass, how Juan could afford a car and a wedding ring for his wife.
Chapter 45
LUCY
I wait for the school bus on the stepping stump next to the empty farm stand. It’s shady, and goose bumps pop up on my arms. At home it was always so hot for the first few weeks of school. I shift my old backpack stuffed with the new school supplies and look down. The grass has grown up around the stumps, and some long pieces bend over toward my feet. Inside my Hello Kitty high-tops, I curl my toes. The shoes are almost too small. But Aunt Jane was right about the rest of my clothes. The jeans and shirts and underwear from the boxes in the barn all still fit just fine. I think about Graciela’s bathing suit picture and the pink strap under Phoebe’s shirt. I’ll probably be the only seventh grader who doesn’t need a bra.
“So, big day,” Aunt Jane says. She’s wearing her usual jeans and green fleece, her hands cupping her coffee mug.
Huge day. Major day. Terrifying day. “I guess.” And I guess she doesn’t take first-day pictures. We always took one at home and one at school. Like the birthday breakfast and school shopping, another tradition taken away. The goose bumps are really bad now, and I rub my arms, but at the same time my armpits are sweating. Did I put on deodorant?
“Cold?” Aunt Jane asks. “I’ll get you a sweatshirt.” She turns to go back to the house. Lexie’s and Sarge’s heads are together in the front window.
“It’s fine.”
“Lucy, you’re shivering. Don’t be silly.” She jogs off toward the house. Lexie’s and Sarge’s heads disappear. Going to stake out the door. Sure enough, when Aunt Jane opens it, they both dart out, toward the barn. It’s happened so many times that I know she’ll come back, but it still makes me both scared and jealous to see Lexie running out the door, over the grass, following Sarge wherever.
“Sorry.” Aunt Jane hands me a sweatshirt, the green Lake Michigan one Mrs. Livingston gave me for my birthday.
I let the backpack slide down and pull it over my head, wondering what happened to Mom’s Venice Beach one. I haven’t seen it in, like, forever. Wondering and with everything dark for a second, I lose my balance and sway on the stepping stump, feeling the edge instead of the flat part. When I poke my head through, my right foot is balanced on the stump’s edge, the long grass brushing the white tip and the glittery side.
“Here it comes,” Aunt Jane says as I yank my feet side by side again. Even though I’m warmer with the sweatshirt, I’m shaking, my body vibrating like the noisy bus engine. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on the grass—make the bus crash? The door opens, and in the driver’s seat is—Miguel?
“¡Buenos días!”
“You’re a bus driver, too?” I’m confused and glad to see him. My legs steady as I grab the backpack and step toward him, onto the last stepping stump.
“Sí.” He grins and holds up his ID.
“Bye, Lucy. Have a good day,” Aunt Jane says behind me.
I turn around. She’s smiling, too. “Did you know?”
She nods. “Well, I was hoping. We didn’t want to tell you in case it turned out Miguel couldn’t get this route.”
I stand there on the last stepping stump. I can’t get from it to the bus step. There’s too m
uch in between, grass and weeds and gravel, not the yard but not the road, either. My legs start wobbling again. Miguel is watching me and Aunt Jane, and all the kids on the bus, probably, too.
In a second he’s out of the driver’s seat. “Mira, Lucy.” With the toe of his boot, he lifts up the stepping stump behind me, the one I was just standing on, and drops it in front of me, bridging the gap to the bus. It’s a long step, but I can do it.
“Bien.” Miguel pats my hand as he slides back into his seat and pulls the lever to close the door. And then it’s just us. I’m the first kid on, so no one saw. I sit on the same side as Miguel, right behind him.
The bus only stops a few times on the peninsula, but after we get into Traverse City, it stops a lot. Miguel says hi to everyone in his loud, cheery voice. Most of the kids say hi back, but not very loud or happy. At one of the last stops, after three girls and two boys get on, just as he’s about to shut the door, a mom leans in, her foot on the step.
“You’re the new driver?”
“Sí,” Miguel says, smiling. “Miguel Esquivale, at your service.”
“What happened to Mrs. Hale?”
“Señora Hale has another route this year,” Miguel says.
The mom’s wearing one of those “Lake Michigan: Unsalted” sweatshirts like mine, only red. She crosses her arms over it. “She drove this route for the last three years.”
Miguel nods.
“She knew all the kids. She was always on time. Even in winter.”
Miguel nods again. “Very important. In fact, it’s time for me to go. If you don’t mind?” He tugs on the lever that closes the door. It doesn’t touch the mom, but she jumps back as if she got squashed. I see her turn to another mother at the bus stop who has her arms crossed, too.
“What’s she so mad about?” I ask as Miguel pulls away.
He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes and then shrugs. “No importa. I’m used to it.”
“Used to what?” But the bus is stopping again, and a whole bunch more kids climb on. A girl sits next to me, so we can’t talk anymore.
