by Diana Lopez
“Well, I came up with an idea, too,” Iliana said. “I’m going to volunteer at the hospital by playing with the little kids. Some of them have to stay for a very long time, and they get bored. Besides, I want to marry a doctor someday, so this will be good experience.”
“But these kids are in the hospital,” Patty said, “which means they’re sick. They have diseases, and diseases are contagious. Do you really want to get some awful disease? You might get sores on your body, or your arms and legs might swell up. You might have to eat through a tube for the rest of your life. The only doctor you’ll have a relationship with is the one who’s treating you.”
“Quit being so negative,” Shawntae scolded. “You’re really getting on our nerves.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You have a criticism about everything. So tell us about your great idea. It’s obviously better than what we’re doing.”
“I don’t have any ideas,” Patty confessed.
We spent a moment thinking in silence.
“What about picking up garbage?” I suggested.
She shook her head. “I’m supposed to do a narrative. How can I write a narrative about throwing away trash?”
“Don’t throw it away,” I said.
“You want me to keep it? I thought I was the one with the dark sense of humor.”
“I’m serious,” I went on. “Use the trash for something else.”
“That’s a great idea,” Iliana jumped in. “You take art every semester. Maybe you can do something artistic.”
“Hmmm…” Patty tapped the table a few times. “I’ll think about it,” she said.
We eventually moved on to other topics, mostly glancing around to see who had changed the most. Some guys, for example, were cuter this year, or they walked around with more confidence. A few boyfriend-girlfriend couples had broken up over the summer, while others had gotten together. With so many changes, we definitely had to revise our Boyfriend Wish List.
A large group from a nearby table stood to return their trays. That’s when Shawntae spotted my sister. Every table in the cafeteria was rectangular except for the circular one Carmen picked. She would sit at the only oddball table in the room. After all, she was wearing that silly school uniform again and had already earned the nickname Miss Prep, as in “prep school.”
“Your sister’s so cute,” Shawntae told me, “with that fancy uniform and her suitcase.”
“But it’s got to be hot under that jacket,” Patty said. “She probably has big underarm stains from sweating a lot. And that suitcase must weigh a ton.”
“It is hot in that blazer,” I said. “I keep telling Carmen to wear normal clothes, but she won’t listen. And that suitcase is full of books, too many books for a normal backpack. She likes to pretend she’s in private school instead of with the rest of us dummies.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t think we’re dumb,” Iliana said.
I shook my head. “She doesn’t think we’re smart, that’s for sure.”
“She looks so focused,” Shawntae noticed. “It’s like she’s working out problems while she eats.”
“She’s counting,” I explained.
“Counting?”
“Yes. She counts how many times she chews. She won’t swallow till she reaches a certain number.”
“What a chore,” Patty said.
“She can’t help it. Ever since my mom’s operation, she’s been counting. It drives me insane.” I knew I shouldn’t tell everyone about Carmen’s quirks, but I couldn’t stop myself. “We can’t take her to the grocery store anymore. Too much stuff to count. Once, she wouldn’t leave till she counted all the bananas, the ones in the fruit section and the ones by the cereal.”
“Maybe counting makes her feel better,” Iliana said. “Instead of stressing out about your mom, she counts. It takes her mind off things.”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“It must be tough,” Iliana continued, “to be so smart.”
“What’s tough is being the sister of someone smart,” I said.
Iliana ignored me. She started to wave Carmen over, but I grabbed her arm before Carmen noticed.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trying to get her attention. She looks so lonely all by herself.”
“Well, that’s her fault,” I said. “She can get her own friends. If she’s smart enough to do advanced math, then she’s smart enough to meet people on her own.”
I must have sounded angry because all the Robins, even Patty, looked at their plates and stayed silent. They were not about to disagree with me.
5 CUL-DE-SACS
The next Saturday, Carmen had a practice meet for the University Interscholastic League A+ academic competition. She was competing in calculator applications, science, and number sense. “I could enter all the contests if I wanted,” she bragged, “but there isn’t enough time in one day.”
I could only roll my eyes and be grateful she was limited to twenty-four hours. Our room already looked like a pirate’s chest with all the fake gold of her trophies.
Dad planned to drop her off and take Jimmy to the zoo while she competed. Meanwhile, Mom’s sisters were coming for a visit. That meant I finally had a free day. No Carmen, no Jimmy, no chores. So I went to Iliana’s house to work on my social studies project. My mom had experienced the worst week, throwing up several more times. I needed to fulfill my promesa as fast as possible. I had to show La Virgen how much Mom needed her help.
“Do you think Chad knows I exist?” Iliana asked, and “Have you noticed that Alejandro talked to me every day this week?”
Instead of answering, I grabbed my spiral notebook. “Mrs. Gardner wants us to write out the steps for our projects.”
“I can’t believe it!” she cried. “You really want to do homework. No wonder my parents like you so much.”
“Don’t get mad because I’m being responsible,” I said as I wrote a title on the first blank page.
“Fine,” Iliana said. “But if you get bored, my brothers are around.”
I looked up. “Really?”
“And they’ve been exercising a lot because of football season, so they’re all muscular right now.”
“I can’t imagine your brothers being more muscular.”
“You should say hi to them. They’re always asking about you.”
“They are?”
She nodded, and I glanced at her bedroom door, imagining her brothers somewhere on the other side, the garage probably, since that’s where they kept all their weights. Normally, I’d pretend to get thirsty and, on my way to the kitchen, peek into the garage and catch them working out. I’d stay there for a while offering to get them water and answering their questions because they always asked me about school and family. It sure was tempting.
“Well?” Iliana said. “You want to spy on my brothers?”
My mood ring was yellow, the color for feeling creative but also for feeling distracted.
“I can’t,” I decided. “This isn’t just for school, remember? It’s for my mom.”
She sighed. “Suit yourself.”
I returned to my notebook. “Steps for completing my service learning project,” I wrote. “Visit ‘Race for the Cure’ website and learn how to become an official participant. Print a sponsor form. Go to people’s houses and ask for donations.” I thought a moment. What happens after I get donations? “Continue training to get in shape for the event.” I looked at the ceiling and scratched my head. Hmmm… this sounded like a complete plan to me. “All done,” I said.
Iliana glanced up. “No way! You finished in two minutes?”
I shrugged. “It’s not that complicated.”
“Lucky for you,” she said. “It’s going to take me all day to work out a plan. I don’t know the first thing about playing with little kids or working at a hospital.”
“Doesn’t Santa Rosa have a volunteer department?” I asked. “All you have to do is make an appointment, right? And then
you show up and play with the kids. What’s so hard about that?”
“I wish it were that easy, but in my house, I’m the little kid, so I never have to babysit.”
I nodded, thinking about Jimmy Gimme. “Yeah, it’s tough. I babysit a lot, and my little brother can be a giant headache sometimes.”
“But he’s so cute.”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “He’s a really cute, giant headache.”
She laughed and threw a pillow at me, and I remembered how Jimmy liked to throw things too, especially after he begged to hold them, and of all the things in the world, his favorite objects to hold were…
“Chia Pets!” I blurted.
“What about them?” Iliana asked.
“Jimmy loves to hold our Chia Pets, just like you would a real puppy or kitten. He likes other stuff too—crawling inside the closet, jumping on the bed, and climbing on the table—but the hospital kids are probably too sick for activities like that. Still, they’re kids. And all kids are the same in certain ways. So I thought, what does Jimmy like to do? We call him Jimmy Gimme for a reason. Every minute of every day, he’s grabbing something, and one of his favorite things to grab is a Chia Pet. Something about them calms him down, but they make him laugh, too. He thinks green hair is hilarious. I’m sure the hospital kids would think so, too. You should find a way to get people to donate Chia Pets. Then the kids could keep them in their rooms, make sure they’re watered, watch them grow. They could name them. They could have Chia Pet parties. They could—”
“Slow down!” Iliana said. “I can’t write fast enough.”
“They could set up a pretend farm or zoo in the play area and even sponsor Chia Pet adoption days if they want to trade or if someone new gets admitted.”
Iliana scribbled frantically. “Pet parties,” she mumbled, “farm or zoo.” She wrote a few more lines, put down the pen, and shook the stiffness from her hand. “Wow,” she said. “You really know how to brainstorm.”
“If only brainstorming were useful for math.” I sighed. “I’m so nervous about the test next week. I just know I’m going to fail. I already failed a practice quiz.”
“But you do great in your other classes, so you can’t be that bad in math.”
“Yes, I can.”
Iliana smiled at me, but instead of being happy, her smile seemed to say, “I’m sorry,” even though it wasn’t her fault I couldn’t solve word problems.
Maybe I couldn’t pass Mr. Leyva’s class, but I could pass social studies. I took Iliana’s laptop and began the first step for my project, “Visit the Race for the Cure website.” On the home page was a slideshow from past races. Most of them featured groups behind company banners or runners crossing the finish line. Beneath the slideshow, a box offered fund-raising tips like “most people donate simply because they were asked” and “make the first donation and watch your family and friends follow.” Another box listed the top fund-raisers. One lady raised more than $67,000. That was probably more than I could ever get, but lots of people had raised $5,000 or $6,000. Maybe I could, too. After all, how hard could it be? All that money must mean people really wanted to help.
Eager to get started, I clicked on “Register as an individual.” The form asked for information, like my name, address, phone number, and T-shirt size. I cheered because I love cool T-shirts. After my contact information, the registration form had a questionnaire. “Please tell us the primary reason you are participating,” it said, followed by a drop-down menu. My choices included “I care about finding a cure for breast cancer,” “I enjoy walking or running,” and “My workplace organized a team.” Nowhere did it say, “School project” or “Promesa” or “My mom’s sick,” so I selected the first option. After all, I did care about finding a cure even though it wasn’t my primary reason for doing this. The next question asked, “How did you hear about this event?” and luckily “Newspaper article” appeared in the drop-down menu. Finally, I had to pay a fee. I didn’t have $35, so I called Dad’s cell and asked to use his PayPal account. He said, “Sure thing, mija. You have a great idea, so just let me know about whatever you need for your promesa.” Now as an official participant, I printed a donation form that had the Race for the Cure logo on the top, a “please sponsor me” paragraph, and a grid where people wrote their names, addresses, and donation amounts.
The entire time I worked, Iliana talked to people at the hospital and set up an appointment. She hit her “End” button at the same moment I shut the laptop.
“Ready for the next step,” I announced.
“Me too,” Iliana said. “But I can’t do anything until next weekend. I have to go to volunteer training before I can work with the kids.”
“What a bummer.”
“Actually, I’m glad. I need that training. I’ll probably feel more confident after I go. And maybe I’ll meet a cute guy there, too.”
I laughed. Iliana could turn any event into a setting for romance.
“I guess I’m ready to bug people for donations,” I told her. “I’m going to do it the old-fashioned way, by going door to door.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Want to start right now?”
“Sure, but you don’t have to go with me.” I didn’t mean to leave her out, but part of me wondered if a promesa counted when you didn’t do it by yourself.
“I want to,” she insisted. “It’ll be fun.”
“Well, okay,” I said, not wanting to be rude.
I pinned the fund-raising forms to a clipboard, grabbed a pen and a manila envelope for the money, and we headed out the door.
Our neighborhood has several winding streets with cul-de-sacs. When I was in elementary school, I called the cul-de-sacs “mushrooms” because that’s what they reminded me of, and now my family and friends called them mushrooms, too. We live in a suburb, so the houses are still new. My dad said this area had nothing but rocks, shrubs, and creek beds when he was growing up, but I can’t imagine it without houses, especially because we moved here when I was two. He must be telling the truth, though, because the trees don’t tower over the houses on my street like they do in the neighborhoods closer to downtown.
“Let’s do your mushroom first,” I told Iliana.
“Sure thing. We can start with my neighbor.”
We knocked on the door, and an old woman answered. Her face was as wrinkled as a wadded burger wrapper, and she moved as if every muscle ached.
“Hello, Señora Alderete,” Iliana said. “Is Carolina here?”
“No, no está aquí.”
Iliana turned to me. “Señora Alderete is my neighbor’s mom. She doesn’t speak English, but she can understand everything we say.”
I glanced at Mrs. Alderete, and she nodded.
“Is it okay if my friend asks you something?” Iliana said.
“Por supuesto,” Mrs. Alderete answered.
“That means ‘of course,’ ” Iliana explained.
“I know,” I said. “I speak Spanish, remember?”
“Since when?”
“Since right now.” I was totally lying. I wasn’t bilingual. Not really. My last name is Montenegro, but that didn’t matter when everyone spoke English at home. I could count to one hundred in Spanish and order at a restaurant, but beyond that, I got confused. Still, I hated to admit that I wasn’t bilingual because it made me feel dumb. I was already weak in math, and I didn’t want to be weak in Spanish, too. So I turned to Mrs. Alderete and said, “Buenos días.”
“Buenos días,” she answered.
“Mi mamá está… está…” What was the word for “sick”? I looked up, trying to remember.
“Enferma,” Iliana whispered. “And remember, she understands English.”
I nodded. “Mi mamá está enferma.”
Mrs. Alderete sighed. “La pobrecita,” she said. “ ¿De qué está enferma?”
I stared at her, trying to find the words, but I didn’t know how to say “because she has cancer” in Spanish. So how coul
d I explain my mom’s situation to Mrs. Alderete? How could I say, “My mom had an operation to remove her breast and two weeks ago she started radiation treatments so the doctors could ‘nuke’ the extra cancer cells and it is making her feel worse on top of how frustrated she feels about not being able to wear bikinis anymore.” How could I say something so complicated in Spanish? Sure, Mrs. Alderete understood English, but even so, how could I answer in English? In any language? It was too personal.
“Her mom has cancer,” I heard Iliana say. “And my friend’s raising money to help find a cure. There’s a race coming up, so she’s asking people to sponsor her by making a donation.”
Mrs. Alderete nodded the whole time Iliana spoke. After a moment, she said, “Lo siento, pero no tengo mucho dinero.” She held out empty hands. Then she reached in the pocket of her housedress. “Solamente tengo diez dólares.” She handed us a ten. “¿Está bien?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Alderete,” I said. “Es muy bien.” I took the bill and put it in the envelope. “Muchas gracias.” I bowed as if Mrs. Alderete were the queen of the cul-de-sac.
“Vaya con Dios,” she said, about to close the door.
“Just another minute,” I pleaded. “Can you fill this out?” I handed her the sponsor form. She wrote her name, address, and donation amount, and we thanked her about twenty more times before we left.
“She’s so nice,” I said to Iliana as we walked along the sidewalk. “With people like her, I’ll reach my goal in a couple of weeks.”
“If not sooner,” Iliana predicted.
We went to the next house and rang the doorbell. No one. Same for the second and third houses.
“That’s strange,” Iliana said. “Their cars are in the driveways.”
When we rang the fourth doorbell, a lady peeked through a curtain, but she didn’t answer. I knocked and heard movement inside. I knocked again. Nothing. “We know you’re in there,” I called. “We just want to ask a question.” But the lady didn’t respond. I turned to Iliana. “She’s ignoring us.”
“That’s so rude,” Iliana said.
A few people answered their doors, but they weren’t very nice. “Can’t help you,” they kept saying.
