by Diana Lopez
“Failing English? Is that all? At least she’s not sneaking around with boys.”
“I’m in Mrs. Huerta’s class too,” Vanessa says. “She’s boring. No wonder Lina’s failing. I bet if you were our teacher, Mr. Flores, you’d make English interesting.”
“You’d have to ask my students about that.”
“Come on, Homero,” Ms. Cantu says. “Let Lina go to the movies.”
“Shouldn’t we all stick together?” I say. “You don’t want to hang out with a man, Ms. Cantu. They’re nothing but trouble, remember?”
“Some men are trouble, but some are okay. Besides, you’ll get bored at the karaoke bar.”
“What karaoke bar?” Dad asks. “You don’t expect me to sing in front of strangers, do you?”
“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon. No one will be there. It’ll be like singing in the shower.”
“That sounds like fun,” I say. “Why don’t we all go to the karaoke bar?”
“Mr. Flores,” Vanessa says. “Will you please let Lina go to the movies?”
“I’m already driving to the theater, aren’t I?”
I can’t believe how gullible my father is. Doesn’t he know he’s being tricked? But what can I do? The only way I can protect him from Ms. Cantu is by tattling on Vanessa, which is the number-one way to ruin a friendship.
Soon we’re at Tinseltown, a giant theater with arcade games, fourteen screens, stadium seating, THX surround sound, and really cute boys at the ticket windows. There are a dozen movies listed on the marquee and posters lining the outside walls. We have to eliminate four movies because they’re rated R and one because it’s a silly cartoon. The last thing we want is to sit in a theater with a bunch of preschool kids.
“I vote for the comedy,” I tell Vanessa.
“I vote for the romance.”
“Want to flip a coin to decide?”
“No, let’s ask Carlos when he gets here.”
“You invited Carlos?”
Before answering, she spots him. “Hey, Carlos!” she calls, waving him over. When he reaches us, she says, “So Lina and I were trying to decide which movie to watch. Lina wants to see a comedy and I want to see a romance. Which do you want to see?”
“Uh, the action flick,” he says.
“Sorry. It’s not on the menu. Comedy or romance?”
Of course, he picks her choice. The poor guy’s in love. First Vanessa manipulated my dad, and now she’s manipulating me—and Carlos!
“I really don’t want to see that movie,” I say, deciding that getting tricked into being a tagalong gives me the right to insist on my choice.
“Okay,” Vanessa says. “You can go to your movie, Carlos and I can go to mine, and we’ll meet in the lobby afterward.”
“You want me to go to the movie by myself?”
“You won’t technically be by yourself. Lots of other people will be there.”
Is this the same girl who lives across the street? My “best” friend? I can’t believe she’d send me away so she can be alone with Carlos. Where’s the fun if you can’t make sarcastic comments about the characters or share a popcorn or laugh and repeat the funny parts? The best thing about watching a movie is talking about it afterward. How can I talk to Vanessa about a movie she hasn’t seen?
I grudgingly buy a ticket to the romance, and now I really feel like a tagalong. If you ask me, Carlos should be the Hollywood extra, not me. He doesn’t know Vanessa as well as I do.
When Vanessa, Carlos, and I get to the auditorium, Vanessa sits in the middle and raises the armrest so she can scoot close to Carlos. I might as well be in another aisle—or another planet. That’s how far away I feel. We’re early, so we get stuck with the elevator music and the advertisements. Between the ads are movie trivia questions. Vanessa and Carlos guess at the answers. Not once do they ask for my opinion. I couldn’t get their attention if I stood and sang the national anthem.
“I’m going to get some popcorn,” I say.
But instead of the concessions bar, I go to the rest-room. Maybe shredding paper towels will help me work out my anger. Too bad this restroom has electric air dryers instead. What I need is a stress buster, a squishy ball to squeeze. I reach into my purse where I find an extra thick sock that lost its partner last week. I make a sock rock, then I squeeze it with all my might. It works wonders.
After I’ve calmed down, I buy my popcorn and return to the theater determined to enjoy myself, but every time Vanessa whispers to Carlos or giggles like a lovebird, my blood pressure rises. I squeeze and squeeze my stress buster sock, but I’m still mad. When I get to the bottom of my soda, I purposely make slurping sounds with the straw.
“Stop making those noises,” Vanessa complains.
“What’s that?” I turn toward her and “accidentally” spill popcorn onto her lap.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing!” she says, picking the kernels and throwing them at me. Normally, we’d call this a friendly food fight, but not today.
When the movie ends, we go outside to wait for our rides. Carlos’s older sister is already there. He jumps into the car and as it drives away, he turns to Vanessa and mouths the words “Call me.”
When his car disappears, I say, “I can’t believe you dragged me on your date.”
“How else could I get to the movies? You know my mom can’t drive, and even if she could, she’d never let me go to the movies by myself.”
“So instead of telling me your plan, you use me?” I say. “And you use my dad too? It’s not my fault your mom won’t let you have boyfriends till after menopause.”
“Calm down,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You tricked me. And then you practically ignored me for three hours. Maybe I should tell your mom.”
“No, don’t,” she says. “You’re supposed to keep my secrets. You’re my best friend, remember?”
“I remember, but obviously you don’t. My life is all messed up, but you haven’t even noticed. You’re too busy with Carlos.” Before I can say more, my dad drives up. The last thing I want is to discuss my issues in front of him, so I’ll have to finish this conversation later.
When I get home, I remember my promise to Miss Kathryn. I still think it’s a silly idea, but maybe she’s onto something with this rabbit story. So I take out a sheet of paper and title it “The Next Hazel/Fiver Chapter.”
“Fiver doesn’t hear anything Hazel says,” I write. “He’s still waiting for his ears to grow back after getting them whacked off by the beanie cap propellers, but even if he did have ears, he wouldn’t listen. He doesn’t write notes to Hazel or send telepathic messages anymore. Hazel’s not sure if he wants to keep traveling with Fiver. What’s the point? Maybe the journey would be easier if he traveled alone.”
Donde hay gana, hay maña –
Where there is desire, there is ability
20
Love Eggs
The holiday concert is scheduled for the Friday before winter break. Luís has been practicing double-time. He’s asked me a zillion times if I’m going. My dad gives me permission since it’s a school thing. I’m supposed to call when the show’s over so he can pick me up.
I put on velvet green slacks and a black V-neck sweater. For the occasion, I wear Christmas socks with glittery poinsettias. They look cute with my black ballet-style shoes. When my dad sees me, he smiles. Then he runs to his bedroom. After a lot of scrambling, he comes back with something in his fist.
“I want you to have this,” he says. He unfolds his hand and shows me Mom’s favorite necklace, a gold chain with an emerald pendant. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry. He kisses my forehead, and then puts the necklace around my neck. It’s beautiful.
I feel a sudden gush of appreciation for my dad. Sometimes he can be strict, silly or embarrassing, but every now and then, he does the perfect thing like giving me this necklace.
At Baker, all our events are held in the school cafeteria, which a
lways smells like food. For the holiday concert, the art class made hundreds of snowflakes, which hang down from the ceiling. All the teachers wear Santa caps, and Dr. Rodriguez, the whole outfit, even the belly and beard. The shop students show off their wooden toys, brightly painted. I love the train cars and doll furniture.
“Hey, Lina!”
Goldie waves to me. She’s saved a seat, so I grab a program and join her.
“Where’s Vanessa?” she asks.
“She’s with her dad this weekend.”
Goldie nods. Then she opens the program. “Look,” she says, pointing to the choir section and the “Holy Night” song. I can’t believe it. I have to read it twice.
“Luís is singing a solo?” I ask.
Goldie sees the worry on my face and says, “I’m sure he’ll be great.”
Something tells me a disaster’s about to happen. My dad’s always saying “Donde hay gana, hay maña,” which means “Where there is desire, there is ability,” but I’m still doubtful. Letting Luís into the choir is one thing. He can always stand in the back and lip-synch the words. But giving him a solo? Hasn’t his choir director noticed? Luís stutters! What can be meaner than forcing a shy, stuttering student to sing by himself in front of an audience? If people laugh at him, he’ll be crushed, just crushed. But maybe he’ll surprise us. Maybe he won’t stutter. After all, this is the season for miracles.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m so stressed I crumple the program.
Soon the lights dim, and the curtain opens. The orchestra’s on the stage. The musicians are supposed to be playing “What Child Is This?” and “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” but their music doesn’t sound any different from the noise they make when they’re tuning their violins. A wind chime could do a better job. I feel sorry for them.
The curtain closes and out walks the mariachi group. What a difference! They’re great! They’ve got trumpets, guitars, violins, a guitarrón, and tight pants with silver buttons up the legs. They’re not nervous at all. They’re pros. They sing “Las Mañanitas” and “Cielito Lindo” and, since it’s Christmas, “Noche de Paz.”
When the mariachis finish, the curtain opens again. The band has set up its stands and instruments. Even though the trumpets and bassoons sound like they’re burping, the band plays better than the orchestra. At least I can recognize “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” and “Little Drummer Boy” without having to look at the program.
When the curtain closes this time, the elf squad comes out. It’s made of teachers dressed as Santa’s helpers. A CD of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” plays and the elf squad does a line dance that cracks us up.
Then the curtain opens again. A cool, silvery glow lights the stage. The choir stands on bleachers. The first thing I do is look for Luís. He’s on the end in the boys’ section. He looks so handsome in his tuxedo.
The piano plays a few notes, and the choir follows with something that sounds like ghosts and waves and birds all at once. There are layers and surprise melodies that come and go and come again. I get goose bumps. I almost forget to worry about Luís’s solo.
Sure enough, the choir director nods to Luís. He steps down from the bleachers and stands alone in the center of the stage. Then he takes a deep breath and begins. Believe it or not, Luís has a beautiful voice. Some people sing from their throats and others from their guts. Luís is a gut singer, which means his voice comes from a deep place—deeper than sadness or love. And I’m not saying this because I’m his girlfriend. I’m saying this because it’s true. Not once does he get stuck on a word. Every syllable is perfectly placed and as rich as the best fudge. He makes us forget we’re in the school cafeteria.
When he finishes, the audience needs a moment to return to Earth. Then someone in the back claps, then a second person claps, then a third, and soon the whole audience is clapping and letting out gritos, whistles, and shouts of praise.
Everyone joins the choir onstage—the orchestra and the band members, the mariachis and the elf squad. They sing a hearty “Feliz Navidad.” The end.
When the concert ends, I don’t call my father right away. If I do, he’ll show up before I can talk to Luís. So I wait in the parking lot.
When Luís sees me, he comes over and says, “Just a sec.”
He runs off, talks to a lady, and points in my direction. She nods, says a few words, then walks away, her hand on the elbow of a viejita, a little old lady, with a cane.
“My mom,” he explains when he returns, “and A-Abuela.”
I make sure his mom and grandma are looking away, then I kiss Luís’s cheek.
“You were terrific,” I say. “I wish I had a recording so I could listen to you sing over and over again.”
He smiles. Then he takes my hand and starts walking me home. There are lots of cars on the streets around the school, but Casa de Oro is empty. Once we get to where it’s quiet, Luís pulls me to the side of a garage, but a dog starts barking. We hear a man say, “Who’s there?” Then we hear the banging of two metal trash lids. The man must think his dog is barking at possums. We run to the side of the next garage, but this time a security light turns on. I feel like a fugitive caught by a cop’s flashlight. We run again. By the time we reach the third garage, we’re laughing.
But we settle down. Here it’s quiet, dark, and private. Luís leans against the wall, pulls me to him, and kisses me. Luís and I don’t exactly meet the Hollywood standard. First, the boys in movies never have to look up to reach the girls. Second, movie couples always close their eyes. And third, they never say “ouch!” when their lips clash.
Still, Luís’s kiss is nice, and it’ll get nicer with practice, something I’m really looking forward to.
“I have to hurry back,” he says. “My mom’s picking me up after she drops off Abuelita.”
“Okay,” I say. Then I realize something. “You didn’t stutter.”
He smiles. “I’m doing better,” he admits before hurrying off.
When I get to my house, it’s dark. I ring the doorbell. No answer. Strange, I think, because the car’s in the driveway. My dad must be at Ms. Cantu’s.
I know it’s nosy, but I decide to spy on them. Truth is, I’m worried. My dad’s been spending too much time with Ms. Cantu, no thanks to Vanessa.
I sneak to the side of the house where the kitchen is. I tiptoe through the bushes, and when I get to the window, I very carefully peer inside. My dad and Ms. Cantu are sitting at the table making cascarones. There’s a mess between them. Ms. Cantu is pouring confetti into eggshells and my dad’s gluing tissue over the holes.
He looks… how do I say this?… he looks like he’s having fun.
As Ms. Cantu hands my father an egg, I remember something I learned about cascarones. They came from China, but instead of confetti, the Chinese filled them with perfume and gave them to their lovers. So instead of a dozen roses, people gave their sweethearts a dozen eggs.
I sneak past the window, go to the kitchen door, and knock.
When my dad answers, I tell a bold-faced lie. “I called,” I say. “But no one answered. So I had to walk home by myself. In the dark.”
He winces, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Girls get kidnapped,” I explain. “All the time!”
“It’s true,” Ms. Cantu adds. “There was a movie about that on Lifetime last week. A true-life story. But don’t believe the TV, Lina. For every bad guy, there are a hundred good ones.”
“Why didn’t you call over here?” Dad asks.
“Because I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Ms. Cantu says, “Well, you were at school and Vanessa with her father, so Homero and I decided to grab a bite from Water Street Oyster Bar.”
“She made me eat calamari.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Squid. Can you believe I ate squid?”
My stomach gets a knot. Fast-food joints are for people eating because they have to, but restaurants—especially wit
h wine lists and squid—are for people eating because they need an excuse to talk. The knot in my stomach grows when I notice that Ms. Cantu isn’t wearing an oversized T-shirt tonight. Instead, she’s got a fitted sweater and a skirt. My dad’s a little dressed up too. They planned this, I realize. They went on a real date. Now I know why my dad let me go to the concert. He wanted me out of the house so he could be alone with Ms. Cantu.
“Look at your shirt,” I tell him. “You got glue all over it.”
“Do I?” He looks down at the glue stain.
“You’re so messy,” Ms. Cantu teases.
My dad laughs at himself. “I’m like a little kid.”
Then they both giggle. Everything is suddenly cute.
“You are a little kid,” I yell. “What kind of adult would let his daughter walk home in the dark when all these kidnappers are about? Don’t you ever watch the news?”
Maybe I’m overreacting, but I can’t help it. First, I’m losing Vanessa to Carlos. Now I feel as if I’m losing Dad to Ms. Cantu. So I stomp out. I sit on the hood of the car like I did after the volleyball slap. I know my dad will follow. I know he’ll admit his mistake and apologize. And I know that I’ll hold my grudge with a grip worthy of a pit bull.
La mejor palabra es la que no se dice –
The best word is the one that is not spoken
21
Dancing on Eggshells
The next day, my dad insists I help with the wedding that Ms. Cantu’s been hired to decorate. I don’t want to go. This is the night I should be at the quinceañera with Luís. Working for Ms. Cantu is Vanessa’s job, but she’s been with her dad all weekend. Now I’m stuck with her chores.
The wedding reception is at Moravian Hall, a place that smells like cigarettes and beer. It’s got a low ceiling with a disco ball. A disc jockey sets up speakers on a stage that’s only one foot high. Ladies in hairnets walk in with pots of menudo, a Tex-Mex soup made from the stomach lining of a cow. When I see the single girl on top of the cake, I realize that these people are too poor or too cheap to pay a little extra for a topper that includes the groom.
