Lucky Luna

by Diana Lopez

  “Good idea,” I say as I head to Abuela’s kitchen for a drink. I gulp down a whole glass of water. When I return to the living room, Abuela is still on the couch with Gato.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I feel a lot better now.”

  She smiles. “Qué bueno.”

  Luna means moon, and it’s also my name. You might think it’s weird to be named after something that hangs in the sky. But lots of people in my family are named after things that hang in the sky.

  My prima Estrella’s name means “star.” Mirasol’s name means “look at the sun,” and Celeste’s name means “sky,” plain and simple. Then there’s Paloma, whose name is Spanish for “dove.” Maybe doves don’t hang in the sky like the stars and the moon, but they fly in it. So “Paloma” is a sky name, too. I don’t know what Claudia’s name means in Spanish, but it sounds a lot like “cloud” when you say it. So that’s what I think of when I say her name. Clouds. Clouds that look like faces with giant noses.

  My parents didn’t name me Luna on purpose. They did it by accident. This is because my mother is very superstitious.

  When you’re superstitious, all kinds of things are bad luck. Some things are bad luck because Mom says so—like leaving dirty clothes on the floor or chewing your nails or scaring your brother in the middle of the night. Other things are bad luck because everybody says so—like walking under a ladder or spilling salt or opening an umbrella inside the house.

  The bad-luck thing that gave me my name goes something like this: If a pregnant lady looks at the moon during a lunar eclipse, her child will be born with a giant birthmark that covers half the face.

  My mother knew about this bad-luck thing. As soon as she got pregnant, all her sisters warned her. “Don’t look at the moon!”

  Guess what! She looked at the moon. “I couldn’t help it,” she tells me. “The moon was just so beautiful.”

  Of course, she felt horrible when she looked at it. She didn’t want her child to have a giant birthmark, so she begged the moon to forgive her. But she didn’t really beg the moon. She really begged the rabbit in the moon.

  Yes! There’s a rabbit in the moon. In the United States, people see a man in the moon, but in Mexico, they see a rabbit. I live in the US, but I live in the “Sparkling City by the Sea,” Corpus Christi, which is near the bottom of Texas. A long time ago, Corpus Christi used to be part of Mexico, so we see some things the Mexican way.

  Here’s how to see the rabbit. Look at the dark spots on a full moon. The rabbit’s body is curled over the edge. There’s a giant spot where his head belongs and two long ears pointing to the center.

  So Mom asked the rabbit in the moon to erase the birthmark from my face. And the rabbit listened! I was born with ten fingers, ten toes, and a beautiful, birthmark-free face. Mom was so grateful that she named me Luna to thank the moon. And because the bad-luck thing didn’t happen, she decided to call me Lucky Luna even though it’s not my official name.

  I’m grateful to the moon, too, but I’m more grateful to the rabbit. John-John McAllister, a boy in school, carries a purple rabbit’s foot for good luck. I guess he’s superstitious just like my mom, but instead of bad-luck things, he believes in good-luck things. I want to believe in good-luck things, too. That’s why I want a pet rabbit. If a rabbit’s foot is good luck, then a whole rabbit must be terrific luck.

  If I had a living good-luck rabbit, Claudia would not be transferring to my school. And if I had a living good-luck rabbit, I wouldn’t be grounded from wearing hats. Truth is, I’d rather be sent to my room without supper for a whole month. I’d rather use a toothbrush to scrub the toilet or dust away spiderwebs beneath the kitchen sink. I’d rather write “I will not lock my primas in the restroom” 5,649 times till my hand is cramping and the skin on my fingers is rubbed raw. In other words, I’d rather have any other punishment because not wearing hats is the worst thing I can imagine.

  Here’s why: I’ve been wearing hats for as long as I can remember. My little brother is almost two years old and still doesn’t have much hair. Lots of babies are born bald, and I was born bald, too. Mom put cute bonnets on my head to let people know I was a girl. In all my baby pictures, I’m wearing a bonnet. So I’ve been wearing hats my whole life, and when I’m not wearing one, I feel like I’m not wearing anything at all. I feel naked, and it’s very embarrassing to be naked in front of everybody.

  Plus, I don’t have normal hair. My hair is wild and curly, which doesn’t bother me at all. What bothers me is something else that makes my hair stand out.

  When she was pregnant, Mom looked at the moon, remember? And she asked the rabbit in the moon to protect me from birthmarks, but there are so many kinds—port wine stains, strawberry marks, and Mongolian spots, the bluish mark that Mabel had when she was born that for her went away as she grew older. But I’ve got another type of birthmark—a streak of white hair!

  That’s why I’m all stressed out. First, today’s the day Claudia goes to my school, and second, I can’t wear hats because I’m grounded. If I were truly lucky, I’d have a stomachache or a broken leg or a dentist appointment so I wouldn’t have to go to school. But I feel a hundred percent okay. How unlucky is that?

  I have no choice. I go to the bathroom to wash up, and when I turn on the sink, I remember to calm down by drinking water. It works! Plus, it helps me realize a very important detail about Mom. She doesn’t have a good memory!

  For example, when she tells me she’s going to the grocery store, I always ask for a Snickers bar but she brings me apples instead, or when she asks what I want for my birthday, I always say a rabbit but she buys me books. Once, when I was still reading picture books, she almost got it right because she gave me The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and even though I was grateful, it wasn’t what I asked for. “I don’t want stories about rabbits! I want a real live rabbit!” I told her, and she replied, “Well, rabbits are a lot of responsibility.”

  Usually, Mom’s memory problems are bad news for me, but this has to be the day that luck wins out. After all, my name isn’t Lucky Luna for nothing. So I stand before my bookcase, which is really a “hatcase” because instead of books, it’s full of hats. I have all kinds—knit caps (the plain kind and the kind with bunny or puppy ears), cowboy hats, big floppy hats, a fedora that used to belong to my grandpa, a Santa Claus hat, and lots of baseball caps. I have every color, too. I study the hats and fall into what Dad calls “a state of analysis paralysis,” which basically means I can’t make up my mind. I finally pick something. Since I’m wearing a blue shirt, I decide to wear a blue baseball cap. It has a picture of a shark because it’s from the Texas State Aquarium.

  Then I hear Mom’s voice from the kitchen. “Lucky Luna, make it quick!”

  She sounds impatient. What if she’s still mad at me for locking Claudia in the restroom? Will I get in more trouble if I wear my hat?

  I stand before the mirror. The hat looks great, but I take it off to see what I look like. Then I put it back on. Then I take it off and put it on, back and forth about five times. Which is worse—wearing the hat or not wearing it?

  If I wear my hat, I’ll get in trouble, but if I don’t wear it, everyone will know about my poliosis, which is what you call my streak of white hair. It’s not contagious, but it sure does sound like a terrible disease.

  I go to the kitchen once I’m dressed. I’ve got my cap on, hoping Mom won’t notice, and I’m looking forward to my favorite breakfast, orange juice and Pop-Tarts. I can already smell a strawberry Pop-Tart in the toaster, so I’m very happy when I walk in. But then right next to Alex is Claudia. She’s sitting in my seat, drinking my orange juice, and eating my Pop-Tart. Looking at her makes me think of Goldilocks and how she made herself at home when the bears weren’t around.

  I’m not a bear, but I sure feel like growling. I know it’s rude, but I point at Claudia anyway. “What is she doing here?”

  Mom smiles at me. “Tía Nena and I had a wonderful idea,” she says. “It’s hard to be the
new kid at school, so Claudia’s going to ride the bus with you.”

  “But Mabel’s my bus friend.”

  “And I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to welcome your prima,” Mom says.

  Claudia’s mouth is full of Pop-Tart, so she doesn’t say anything. And I’m glad because if she could talk, she’d probably brag again.

  When I sit down, Mom places two Pop-Tarts in front of me, but they aren’t strawberry! They’re blueberry, the kind with no frosting.

  “Where are the strawberry Pop-Tarts?” I say.

  Mom frowns a little. “I’m sorry, mija, but Claudia had the last ones.” At this, Claudia smiles at me. She just loves to see me suffer.

  I am so mad! But then I remember my abuela’s wise advice. I go to the sink and pour a glass of water. I drink the whole thing, and when I’m finished, I don’t feel as mad anymore.

  “You sure are thirsty,” Mom says.

  And I say, “Can I take a water bottle to school? I have a feeling I’m going to be thirsty all day.”

  “Of course,” Mom says, grabbing a bottle from the pantry and handing it to me.

  Soon it’s time to go to the bus stop, but before we head out the door, Mom tells me to take off my cap. Of course she’d remember! Her memory loss never works in my favor.

  “No hats for a whole month,” she reminds me.

  “I promise to take it off when I get to school,” I try.

  Mom holds out her hand because she wants me to give her the cap.

  “But my hair,” I say.

  She takes the cap off my head and gently combs my hair with her fingers. “Your hair is beautiful.”

  This is why they say that love is blind, because it ignores the ugly parts—and the ugly part of me is that streak of white hair.

  I don’t show that I’m embarrassed, because Claudia’s here. So instead of focusing on my hair, I talk about something else as we wait for the bus. “Is it true your dad bought a boat?” I ask.

  “Yes. Who told you?”

  “Celeste told Mirasol and Mirasol told me.”

  “You were talking to Mirasol?” She seems jealous.

  “And Paloma.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Claudia bites her lower lip. Now I know she’s jealous.

  “And I talked to Estrella and Kimberly, too.” I didn’t technically talk to them, but I’m not really lying since I heard what they said because Paloma and Mirasol told me.

  “How about Marina?” Claudia asks.

  I shake my head. I already told a white lie about Estrella and Kimberly, and I don’t want to stretch the truth too much.

  She scoffs. “I would have talked to them, too, but I was busy having fun on my dad’s new boat. You can’t use phones when you’re in the middle of the ocean. No reception.” She glances at me, narrows her eyes. “I guess you wouldn’t know since you don’t have a boat.”

  “Yes, I do,” I say. “My family has a kayak.”

  “Kayaks don’t count,” she replies. “Our new boat has a motor. You have to use oars.”

  Before I snap back, the bus arrives. As we climb in, I think about our kayak and how it flips over when we take it to the beach. It’s not a bad-luck thing because flipping over is fun. With my life jacket, I float right up. Sometimes I make myself fall off, but if I tell Claudia that I do it on purpose, she’ll think I’m lying when I’d be telling the truth.

  The bus driver doesn’t say anything when we step in, not even “Buenos días.” Saying “good morning” would be nice, but our bus driver isn’t nice. He’s really grouchy. He says, “Stay in your seats!” or “Don’t throw things out the windows!” or “¡Cállate!” If it ends in an exclamation point, he says it. And he has this deep vertical line between his eyebrows when he’s mad. Lots of people have this line. My dad calls it “the line of consternation,” and the older you get, the deeper it gets, so the bus driver must be very old.

  As soon as Claudia and I pass by the driver, I say, “Mabel is my bus partner, so I’m going to sit with her. You need to find your own place to sit.”

  And she says, “Good. Because I didn’t want to sit with you in the first place.”

  So I find Mabel and sit beside her. Claudia is right behind me like a tagalong. As she walks through the aisle, some kids hold their noses, and one of them says, “Skunk.” I glance at Claudia. She doesn’t seem happy, but she doesn’t say anything because she’s the new kid. All the new kids are singled out until they aren’t new anymore. It takes about two weeks to stop being new. If Claudia gets mad at the kids holding their noses, she’ll be singled out even more.

  Under my breath, I tell Mabel, “They’re making fun of my prima’s giant nose.”

  “Why do you think she has a giant nose?”

  “Because she does. Just look at it.”

  Mabel peeks over the seat. Claudia has found a place three rows behind. She’s all by herself, which is fine with me. Mabel waves, and Claudia waves back. Then my prima opens a book, but I’m not fooled. She isn’t reading. She’s trying to hide.

  “I guess her nose is a little big,” Mabel says, which doesn’t make sense. Things are either little or big. If you say something is a “little big,” that’s like saying it’s normal.

  “You are too nice,” I tell Mabel, because she’s always looking at the bright side of things even when the bright side is darker than a tunnel with no flashlights or lanterns to light the way.

  I’m not the only one who thinks my prima’s nose is big because the kids on the bus keep making jokes about it. They are so immature.

  I should be mad for my prima’s sake, but I’m not. Serves her right for being so mean all the time. For example … after I snipped the strings on her ukulele, Mom made me write an apology. It took a long time because I was zero percent sorry for what I did. Saying “I’m sorry” when you’re not is hard. When I gave Claudia the letter, she didn’t even say thank you. Instead, she marked it up with red ink because I misspelled words and put commas in the wrong places. She even wrote an “F” at the top, just like a mean teacher. So don’t blame me for being happy when the kids on the bus make fun of a nose that looks like a giant hot dog bun in the middle of my prima’s face!

  We get to school and walk into the building. Then my bad-luck day gets even worse. Some kids see me and say, “Hi, Grandma,” and some other kids point and laugh at me. I don’t have a comeback because my white streak of hair does make me look like an old person even without the wrinkled skin and the deep line of consternation.

  “I can’t believe it,” I whisper to Mabel. “Without a hat, I look old.”

  “Just ignore them,” Mabel says, but it’s hard because everyone’s staring at me, and then a little kid says, “How come your hair’s white?”

  Instead of sounding mean, he sounds curious, so I say, “It’s a birthmark. It’s called poliosis, and I’m not the only person in the world to have white hair like this.”

  He just blinks a few times and runs away. I guess he’s never talked to a fifth grader before.

  I hate being singled out. Do I really have to deal with this for a whole month?

  Thankfully, I don’t have to walk the halls alone because Mabel and I are going to the same class, but before we go to our room, she pulls me over to the Club Board, a bulletin board with sign-up sheets for different activities.

  “Finally!” she says, because it took a few weeks for the clubs to get started.

  Right away, she signs up for Newsletter and then hands me the pen. I shake my head. I helped with the newsletter last year, but instead of being fun, it felt like work. We had to research, attend extra events, interview people, write paragraphs, and proofread. No way. Not for me. But it’s absolutely perfect for Mabel because she wants to be a journalist someday. She actually likes doing the extra work. I don’t know what I want to be, but I do know that it won’t require writing. Maybe I can raise rabbits.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to sign up for
the newsletter?” she asks. “Are you really going to make me join by myself?”

  “You won’t be by yourself.” I point at the sheet. We recognize all the names.

  Just then, Claudia squeezes between us. “Is this where you sign up for the Little Miss Kickball League and other clubs?”

  I roll my eyes. The answer is so obvious. Luckily, I don’t have to answer because Mabel takes over. She points out different clubs and the schedule for their meetings. She also shows Claudia lists of supplies for each club and the parent permission forms. Then the five-minute bell rings, so we head to class.

  We’re in room 112, which isn’t far, but today, I can’t get there fast enough. We pass the teachers’ lounge and the nurse’s office. We pass room 108, with the tank that has goldfish, and then we pass room 110, with the hamster. Finally, we get to room 112, our room. We have a lizard. I wish we had a rabbit because I really need some good luck, especially when I realize that Claudia’s being a tagalong again. She’s probably taking notes about kids calling me Grandma so she can tell my mom, her mom, and all my primas.

  “Quit following me,” I tell her.

  “I’m not. I’m going to my class.”

  “Well, so am I,” I say as I step through the door. When Claudia steps through, too, I get so mad! What else can I do but grab my water bottle for a huge gulp?

  Claudia shows me a paper and points at it. “Looks like we’re in the same room.” Sure enough, she’s in 112, too.

  “Why would they put you in my class?” I say.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to be with the smart people.”

  See how mean she is? If I were a dog, I would growl. But I’m not. I’m a girl with a wise abuela, so I take her advice and drink more water. The bottle is almost empty now. That’s how much I needed in order to calm down.

  I take one last swallow before speaking again. “Well, you can’t sit next to me. Mabel is my classroom friend and John-John McAllister is my other classroom friend, and I don’t have room for any more friends in the classroom.”