by Meg Medina
“Lolo?” I call out.
But he’s not here either.
I walk the length of the building calling for him. I even go around to the front where you rent beach gear, because I know that sometimes he likes to stand around and talk to random people.
But he’s not anywhere.
A prickly feeling starts in my stomach, but I push it down as I walk to the back of the building again. Shielding my eyes from the glare, I scan the beach. It’s crowded even though it’s hot out here. Kids are plugged into their music on the sand, and boys in board shorts work their skimboards. There are a bunch of little ones playing in the surf, too. They’re screeching and running away from each wave that rolls in, just like the twins do when they’re here.
I climb back upstairs, my shirt soaked to my skin and my hair puffed out to new proportions. “Lolo’s not there,” I tell Papi.
“What do you mean he’s not there?” He frowns and puts down his roller. Then he walks out through the ballroom, careful not to get any paint from his shoes on the hardwood floor. “I’ll check the men’s room downstairs. Go see if he’s by the water.”
There’s something in Papi’s voice that seems to shift the ground underneath me. I take the stairs again and cuff my jeans up when I get to the sand to feel a little cooler at least.
I can’t help but think back to when Roli and I were little. Lolo and Abuela would bring us here in their car all the time. Lolo sang along to the radio as he drove. Abuela always packed our food in a million plastic containers. Back then, Lolo could swim out to where the water gets darker and the waves don’t break. He’d let me cling to his back.
I jog out to the water’s edge, hoping to see him. But he’s not wading at the shore or swimming either.
Just as I turn to go, I spot something washed up in the surf. It’s a shoe, half-buried in the sand.
Lolo’s yellow socks are still stuffed inside, covered in pebbles and seaweed from the waves. There’s no sign of his other shoe anywhere. From the looks of things, it must have been dragged off in the tide.
I take two shaky steps into the water and call out his name.
“Lolo!”
A few people dodging the waves turn to look at me. Beyond them, a catamaran and some parasailing boats bob in the distance, anchored and bright like candies. Swimmers wearing snorkel masks jump from the deck to swim below.
Keep an eye on him. I hear Abuela’s words in my head. It wasn’t long ago that she would stand at the shore as we headed in, calling those same words about me. “Keep an eye on la niña,” she’d tell Lolo, her voice fading in the crash of waves as we went into the deep.
My eye starts to pull uncomfortably, and I rub my fist against it hard. Where can he be?
The last time Abuela and Lolo brought us here by themselves was a long time ago. I was in second grade, and Lolo went to use the restroom. He didn’t come back, and Abuela got frantic and sent Roli to look. “All these umbrellas look the same,” Lolo complained when Roli finally found him far away near the parking lot and walked him back. After that, there were no more swimming piggyback rides, no more trips without Tía or Mami joining us, too, now that I think about it.
I turn around to look at the lifeguards to reassure myself. They’re talking among themselves. If anyone had gotten in trouble in a riptide they would have seen it. We would have heard the whistles and the sirens.
So I tuck Lolo’s shoe and socks under my arm and hurry across the hot sand toward the pier, where I’m not usually allowed to go by myself. I’m out of breath and soaked in sweat when I reach the top step. Gulls screech and hover overhead as I jog closer to see if he’s one of the people gathered at the far end.
Finally, I spot his yellow cap. He’s with a group of men who are fishing. A surge of relief washes over me, and I break into a run.
“Lolo!” I shout.
But he ignores me. Instead, he leans over the edge with the others, watching as an angler works his line. People yell instructions as the fisherman’s rod bends like a C.
“Loosen the drag,” a man says. “You don’t know how tired he is.”
Lolo’s face looks bright with excitement. He still doesn’t turn, even when I touch his back. I notice that his knotty toes are all red. The sand must have felt like lava; didn’t he notice? And he’s gotten too much sun on his ears, too. They’re the deep color of raw meat, and blisters are already bubbling. We’ll hear complaints from Abuela later for sure.
My heart finally starts to slow down as I reach out for his elbow again. “Hey.” My voice sounds hard in a way that surprises me. “Lolo!”
“It’s a barracuda,” he whispers. “Mírala.”
I look over the side to where he’s pointing. A long silver fish glistens like metal on the line. The men cheer as it’s pulled slowly over the wooden railing, writhing for breath. It looks so fierce with those big eyes and its underbite of spiny teeth, but I can’t help feeling bad as everyone circles to watch it flap and die. The sight of it struggling makes me want to cry.
I nudge Lolo hard, and finally blurt out my complaint. “Why didn’t you tell Papi where you were going?” I say. “We’ve been looking for you. And you left your stuff too close to the water.”
I’m talking to him the way I do to the twins sometimes — bossy, fed up — but Lolo doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he looks confused for a second, as if I’m no one he knows. It makes me even madder.
“This is all that’s left of your things,” I tell him, holding up his shoe. “The rest was sucked away. What are we going to tell Abuela?”
Another lie? I want to add.
Lolo looks down at his feet and wiggles his toes, chuckling. The sound of his familiar laugh finally lets me take a breath.
“Here.” I pull out his wet socks and slip them on his feet. “It’s better than nothing. At least your feet won’t burn any more on the sand. We can rinse the gull poop off and buy you rubber flip-flops when we go get lunch.”
“Gracias, Inés,” he says. “You’re a good daughter.”
I straighten up and look carefully into his face. “I’m Merci, Lolo,” I tell him. “Tía Inés is at home.”
“Merci,” he whispers.
We start back up the pier. Waves crash against the pilings and spray us as we walk along. He seems a little unsteady, so I link my arm in his elbow, thinking back to the fall on his bike.
Papi is still back at the casino. Out on the veranda, he shields his eyes as he looks for us. I guide Lolo to a bench to rest and send a text.
At the pier. See us?
I watch as he digs in his pocket for his phone and checks the message. Then he looks in our direction and spots me waving. A few seconds later, my phone vibrates.
Wait there.
I sit down next to Lolo. Suddenly I’m feeling drained and sweaty.
“You scared me, Lolo,” I say. Tears fill my eyes, so I don’t say anything else.
He pats my hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice I’m upset.
“You’ll never believe it,” he says. “Fico caught a barracuda in the river! You should have seen it.”
I blink, a heaviness filling my chest.
Fico? The river?
The only Fico I’ve ever heard of was Lolo’s older brother. None of us ever met him. He’s the one who drowned when they were boys back in Cuba.
I just watch the gulls dive for the surf, screeching. This time, I don’t bother to correct him at all.
THERE IS NOTHING WORSE THAN a tattler, so I keep my mouth shut.
But the strange thing is that Papi does, too.
He didn’t ask me for details when he got to the pier at all. He stood staring at us for a second in total silence, red in the face and sweaty, maybe feeling as wiped out as I was. I guess he could see for himself what happened to Lolo’s shoes and how he had wandered off.
He bought Lolo rubber shoes at the beach shop, and we ate our hot dogs without talking. Later, he sat Lolo in a chair right outside the bathroom and let m
e roll some walls to finish up quickly.
Now it’s almost ten o’clock at night, and Papi is in the kitchen with Mami and Tía Inés. They’re whispering, but it’s a fight. I can tell. The murmurs are fast, and when the volume rises, they’re followed by long silences. It’s about Lolo, I’m almost positive. Or maybe it’s more about how Papi and I didn’t watch Lolo — which was Abuela’s main thread when she saw his blistered ears this afternoon. Or maybe it’s just Tía and Papi arguing again about Lolo the way they always do, with Mami trying to keep peace in the middle: whose turn it is to take him to the store to get new shoes, who can’t take off work again for an appointment.
But I don’t know for sure because every time they hear me leave my room, they all get quiet. Their eyes follow me when I go to the kitchen to see if my soccer permission slip is signed yet. They don’t start talking again until I’m gone.
Children don’t need to hear life’s ugliness. There’s plenty of time for that. I’ve heard Abuela say that before. She hates when books and movies that Roli and I watch are sad or bloody. But that’s so dumb. Plenty of sad things happen to kids all the time. Your dog dies. Your parents split up. Your best friend dumps you for someone better. Someone sends you a mean snap message.
I could go on.
“What’s happening?” I ask Roli. He’s propped up in bed watching a video about brains on his laptop. “What are they arguing about? Do you know?”
He won’t look away from the screen. “Stop trying to eavesdrop and go to bed, Merci. You need 9.25 hours of sleep for proper brain function, you know.”
“Is something wrong with Lolo? Tell me, Roli.”
“I told you, I’m watching something.”
All my anger bubbles up.
“I can’t wait until next year when you’re gone at college,” I tell him, even though that’s a lie. “I’ll have this room to myself. And I will not leave a single, dumb science thing anywhere.”
Then I pull the curtain closed between our beds.
As Roli pulls into school on Monday, I know Mami sees the LED marquee. That’s where Dr. Newman posts his annoying inspirational quote every week and where we get reminders of the important things happening, like concerts and field trips.
MIDDLE-GRADE SOCCER TRYOUTS, MONDAY THROUGH WEDNESDAY,
IMMEDIATELY AFTER SCHOOL,
LOWER FIELDS. SIXTH GRADE TODAY.
I stare at the sign. My cleats and shin guards are in my bag. All I’m missing is my permission slip.
Roli gets out of the car, and Mami slides over. I climb out, too, but I stand near the window.
“What is it, Merci?” she asks. “Did you forget your lunch?”
I unzip my backpack and pull out the consent form. “You forgot to sign this again,” I say. “Tryouts are today.”
She looks at me for a long time in a way that makes my heart start to pound like it always does when I’m scared. She takes a deep breath and looks straight ahead for a minute. Then she turns back to me.
“The truth is, I didn’t forget, Merci,” she says.
I shift my backpack. “Then why didn’t you sign it?”
She looks around at the other moms and dads who are dropping off their kids and lowers her voice. “I know how much you enjoy soccer, Merci. I really do. But you’re going to have to stick to playing with your dad’s team for now. There’s just too much else going on. We need you home after school. Abuela can’t manage the twins by herself every day.”
My mouth drops open. “I can’t try out? But I practiced all summer, Mami. I’m good at this.”
“I know you are, mi vida,” she says. Her eyes look like they’re filling up. “You’re excellent at it.”
“Then let me play! Tía can find someone else to babysit,” I say. “Why can’t Roli do it?”
“How would you get home? Roli tutors after school, and then he’d have to drive back to get you every day,” she says. “He’s already so busy working on all of his college applications this fall.”
“But it’s not fair that it always has to be me!”
“It’s not. But a lot of things aren’t fair, Merci,” she begins.
Just then, the volunteer in the parking loop signals to us and starts to walk over. Mami beams her a smile as though she and I aren’t arguing.
“I’m so sorry,” the aide says, “but we have to keep the car line moving. Would you be kind enough to pull out?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mami says. “I’m so sorry.”
She shifts the car into drive and looks at me guiltily. “We’ll have to talk about this later, Merci.”
“But there is no later. Tryouts are today,” I say. Tears are brimming, and I can feel my chin quivering. I shove the paper at her again. “Please, Mami, sign it.”
She takes the paper from me, but drops it on the passenger seat, unsigned.
“The answer is no this time, Merci. I’m sorry; I know you’re disappointed. But I promise, you can try out next year.”
I stand there staring, long after the car pulls away.
Rage bubbles up from my stomach. I suddenly hate the twins for being born, and Tía Inés for not using babysitters. I hate Lolo for wandering off the way he did. I hate Abuela for being too tired all the time and Roli for applying to college. I hate Mami. And Seaward Pines. And soccer.
Everything. I hate everything, I think as I run inside the girls’ bathroom to hide.
THE WHOLE WEEK feels like misery.
Having PE last hour is usually a blessing, especially on Fridays, but this week it’s been hard. The soccer fields have been set up with orange cones and extra nets for the tryouts, so I’ve had a reminder every single day that I’m not going to be on the team.
To make matters worse, out of nowhere, the boys were royal pests at lunch every day. They kept trying to mess with our food and pretend it wasn’t them. They swiped Rachel’s apple and Edna’s dessert earlier in the week. I thought they weren’t going to bug me since I’ve been in a bad mood, but today when I finished my sandwich and got up to get milk, I came back to find that the rest of my food had vanished.
“Where’s my lunch?” I asked. Only the empty paper bag was left.
“Vultures took it,” Edna said, pointing at the boys’ table. She and Jamie burst into giggles.
When I looked over, sure enough, my fruit snacks were making the rounds at the boys’ table. So I marched over. I didn’t care who saw me talking to the boys today.
“Give them back.”
“Give what back?” Chase asked, grinning. He’d stuck two of my favorite grape-flavored gummies to his front teeth.
“Very funny.”
“Wait, OK,” David said. “Here you go.” He pretended to make himself puke.
Even Michael was laughing, which really confused me. Were these the same people who saw Iguanador with us?
“Very mature,” I said, borrowing from Roli.
I went back to my table empty-handed and fuming. Hannah split her chocolate-chip cookie with me to make me feel better. “Here,” she said. “They’re being dumb.”
“Not just dumb,” I said. “Mean.”
I’m the first one out on the field for PE. That’s the advantage to wearing your gym shorts under your skirt. Last year, we didn’t have to change into PE uniforms. We just had to wear sneakers to play. But this year we have to change, and if we don’t, we get a zero. I want no part of figuring out how to get undressed in front of girls who like to open the stall curtains on people for fun. That’s how everyone found out last week that Rachel wears a polka-dot bra. And that a girl named Susan doesn’t wear one at all, even though Edna told her —“no offense” — that she should because she’s kind of big. Susan looked like she was going to cry, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want anyone to talk about my chest. God. I keep mine pressed close to my body with a sports top for now. But who knows when that will change? There’s nothing you can do about it, anyway, and no way to stop people from noticing. Who can you complain to about peo
ple making fun of your boobs or underwear? Mr. Patchett?
Our equipment is set up at the baseball field for our class. To me, it’s practically an invitation to test it out before the others get here. Maybe I can blow off my bad mood from lunchtime before I go home and things get even worse. I root inside the mesh bag for a ball. Technically, we’re not supposed to touch anything until class starts and we’re “properly supervised.” But these aren’t power tools, for Pete’s sake; they’re baseballs. Brand-new, good-smelling baseballs. What could happen?
I grab a bat and look out over the field, aiming my sights. It’s a sea of green, a kind of baseball Emerald City, with not a bald patch in the grass far as you can see. Back in elementary school, our field was scorched, and you had to watch out for pieces of glass that were sometimes crushed in the dirt. But grass is a precious thing around here. Mr. Baptiste, the head groundskeeper, makes his crew set the sprinklers if it doesn’t rain, and he orders the soil tested regularly in the science lab to make sure it has the right Ph. I know because Roli is the one who tests it.
Lolo loves to come out here when he visits our school. Mami and Papi may be gaga over Roli’s academics, but Lolo thinks this field is the best. Last year, on Grands Day, he came to Seaward with me. He brought his old bat and a jersey from Cuba and told us how he used to be a batboy before he came here in 1980. He told us every detail. The way the stands looked in the stadium. The uniforms. Everything in exact detail so we could practically see it. He never forgets the long ago, which is so weird about him lately. How can he remember all that from almost forty years ago, but forget stuff that happened ten minutes earlier? Even forget my name?
“No offense, Mr. Suárez, but aren’t batboys supposed to be kids?” Edna had asked.
“Here yes, they are boys and girls. But back in Cuba, carga bates can be adults, even today. So you see, Señorita Santos, I’m really Bat Man!”
