by Lisa Yee
I settled onto a beach chair and opened Ama’s journal. Now she was writing about her trip to Norway.
The fjords are so beautiful, but the water is arctic! This morning, they served us pickled herring for breakfast, which seemed a bit odd but was actually quite delicious.
I’m feeling rather nervous, though. Today our tour bus will take us up into the mountains, which are cold and snowy, even though it’s June. They’ve offered us a chance to go skiing, which I haven’t done since I was a child—and the Missouri Ozarks aren’t nearly as big as the mountains of Norway! Still, when I’m traveling, I’ve decided to live by the words of an old and dear friend who once told me, “Test yourself—you’ll never regret it.”
I closed the journal and looked out at the sparkling water.
I stood up. If I was going to do this, I knew I’d better hurry before I lost my nerve. I ran down the beach as fast as I could, into the water, past Dad and toward Mom and Zac…and then BOOM! I got hit by a wall of water.
It wasn’t really that big, but it was strong enough to knock me over. I went down and rolled under the wave, bumping against the ocean’s sandy floor. I swallowed salt water and scraped my knee. It felt like I was under for minutes, when it was probably only seconds—but when I finally came up for air, I had water in my nose and it hurt, like it was going into my brain.
At last I managed to stand, but my legs felt like jelly. I was gasping and shaking. There was sand in my eyes, and it stung. I could make out someone racing toward me.
“Are you all right, Lea?” Dad asked. He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight so that the waves couldn’t knock us down.
“I’m okay,” I sputtered as I leaned into him. “I think I’ll just go sit for a while.”
I headed back through the soft sand to the safety of our beach chairs. I wrapped my beach towel tightly around myself and turned my back to the water. I was never going near the ocean again.
inner was a welcome distraction to get my mind off being tossed in the ocean like socks in a washing machine. But the menu was written entirely in Portuguese, and I couldn’t figure out what was in any of the dishes.
“How do you say ‘hamburger’ in Portuguese?” I asked my brother.
Mom shook her head. “We didn’t come all this way so you could order something you can get at home,” she reminded me.
“Brazilian food is great,” Zac insisted. “You should try the moqueca.”
I wrinkled my nose. “The mo—what?”
“Moqueca,” Zac repeated. “It’s a seafood stew.”
Dad made a big show of putting down his menu. “Why don’t you order for all of us?” he said, slapping Zac on the back with pride.
“You got it!” Zac said, smiling. He turned to our waitress and placed our order in rapid Portuguese.
“Obrigado,” Zac exclaimed. The waitress smiled broadly in response.
“What does ‘obrigado’ mean?” I asked Zac.
“Thank you,” he said as he unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap.
“For what?” I said. Didn’t he listen to anything I said anymore?
Zac laughed. “Cricket, obrigado means ‘thank you’ in Portuguese—but you would say obrigada, because you’re a girl.”
Oh. “I knew that’s what you meant,” I fibbed. “I was just kidding.”
When a huge iron skillet was set in the middle of our table, I was dubious. What were those suspicious-looking lumps—and what exactly had caused the creamy stew to turn orange? Was it supposed to be that color? Well, at least the rice looked familiar.
“It looks delicious!” Mom reached for a serving spoon. “I’m starving. Swimming always makes me hungry. What about you, Lea?”
I made a face. The dish looked weird, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to try it. But Zac was watching me, so I piled rice on my plate and then dug into the skillet. I could make out plump shrimp and chunks of tomato in the thick broth. Maybe this would be good after all. I mean, Ama had eaten pickled fish for breakfast in Norway and liked it, and when she was in Korea, she ate beef tripe stew, and loved it! I doubted that I would have felt the same way, but since I like shrimp, I decided this was worth a try.
“Mmm!” Mom said, savoring a bite. “There’s crab in there, too.”
Over his plate, Zac sprinkled pinches of spices from the trio of small ceramic bowls on the table, ending with a spoonful of clear green sauce swimming with chopped onions.
I reached for the green sauce.
“You might want to go easy there,” Zac warned.
I poured the onions and spices over my meal. “I’m just doing what you’re doing,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but I’ve been here for months so I’m used to spicy food. It might be too much for you, Cricket.”
Urgg. What was his problem? Did he really think I couldn’t handle a few spices? Looking straight at him, I slowly put a huge forkful of moqueca into my mouth.
As I began to chew, it was slightly spicy, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I smiled at Zac, who was watching me. But before I knew it, there was a fire in my mouth that made my eyes water. Soon I was sweating, my nose was running, and I thought my head was going to explode.
“Water! Water,” I cried out as I fanned my mouth.
Mom handed me my glass of water, then hers, then Dad’s and Zac’s.
“água de coco, por favor!” Zac shouted to the waitress. Moments later she appeared with coconut water. “Drink this,” he ordered. “It will work better than regular water.”
There was no time to argue as I gulped down the cold drink. As my mouth began to cool, I was able to breathe.
“Maybe now you’ll listen to your big brother,” Zac said as he signaled to the waitress to bring me a clean plate.
In that moment, I hated him.
I took another sip of coconut water to cool my palate—and my temper. As Dad discreetly scraped some of the spices off his food, I saw a girl about my age with glossy, dark hair sitting with her mother. She was watching our table, probably because of the scene I had just made. But instead of turning her nose up at me, she smiled warmly and waved. I gave her a shy wave back.
My attention returned to our table mid-conversation when I heard Mom say my name. “Is that all right with you, Zac?” she continued.
“Are you serious?” Zac looked shocked, like he had been asked to grow a horn on his head or something. “I thought my babysitting days were over.”
I must have missed something. “What are you talking about?” I asked, looking back and forth from Mom to Zac.
“They want me to spend the morning looking after you tomorrow while they go sea kayaking,” Zac said. “Can you believe it?”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. “You really know how to make me feel good.” I turned to Mom. “Why can’t we come kayaking with you?”
“You have to be over twelve to go sea kayaking,” Mom said gently. “And I thought the two of you would like to spend time together, too. It’s just for a few hours.”
“What are your rates these days?” Dad asked Zac. “I’m sure they’ve gone up from when you were in high school.”
Wait! What? “Your rates?” I asked Zac. “You were paid to hang out with me?”
“Not always,” my brother said nonchalantly. “But sometimes.”
“And all this time I thought you had wanted to spend time with me,” I said. I could feel my cheeks turn red, and it wasn’t from the spicy food. “Now I find out that Mom and Dad had to pay you to be around me?”
“Chill, Lea,” Zac said. “Mom and Dad paid for things like my cell phone, and in exchange I’d babysit you, run errands for them, stuff like that. It’s no big deal.”
But it was a big deal to me. I felt as if my whole relationship with my brother had been turned upside down.
“Don’t take it personally,” he whispered, messing up my hair. “Cricket, I always had a great time with you. You were such a silly little kid, always making me laugh.”
How could I not take it perso
nally? Was I still just a “silly little kid” to him? And now my brother was being forced to be my babysitter once again. I wasn’t sure who was more annoyed, him or me.
I was still fuming when Dad changed the subject. He pulled out his guidebook and spread a stack of brochures on the table.
“What’s on the agenda for tomorrow afternoon?” he asked as he sorted through them.
“Part of me wants to try surfing,” Mom said, sounding unsure. “And the other part says I’m too old for things like that.”
“Ama was jumping out of airplanes when she was seventy-five,” Zac reminded her. “She wasn’t too old for anything. Isn’t that right, Cricket?”
I shrugged. He was right about Ama, but I didn’t feel like agreeing with him about anything right then.
“I want to learn how to sleep on the beach,” Dad joked.
Zac nudged me. “What about the turtle sanctuary? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I could tell he was trying to get on my good side.
When Zac lived at home, one of our favorite things to do together was to go to the St. Louis Zoo. As we looked at all the animals, we’d try to act like them. I loved it when we’d clasp our hands together and let our arms swing, like an elephant’s trunk. Zac especially liked pretending to be chimpanzees picking the bugs out of each other’s hair. I always wanted to bring an animal home with me, but Zac would remind me that we couldn’t have pets because Dad is allergic to fur.
“But what about an alligator?” I once asked. “They don’t have fur. And it could live in the bathtub.”
“They are pretty cool,” he’d agreed. “But if we had an alligator in the bathtub, how would we ever take a bath? And what if it climbed out of the tub and went for you when you were brushing your teeth?”
“Or using the toilet!” I put in, giggling hysterically.
For my birthday that year, I was thrilled when Zac gave me a turtle. Ginger lived in my room in a terrarium that I placed near the window. That way, she had a nice view of Lafayette Square, the old maple trees lining the block, and all the colorful houses.
Thinking about that day warmed up my chilly mood. It occurred to me that Zac had given Ginger to me because he knew I could handle taking care of her. And I realized that even if my parents had paid Zac to hang out with me, they didn’t have to pay him to love me. I finally gave my brother a half smile, and in return he gave me a wink.
“Turtles, turtles, turtles,” Dad said. He began riffling through his thick pile of brochures. “Helicopter tours…parasailing…turtle sanctuary!” He triumphantly held up a pamphlet with a giant sea turtle on the front.
That night, back at the hotel, I logged on to my e-mail and was surprised by how many messages were waiting for me. Ben, who sat behind me at school, asked if I had wrestled any alligators. Abby gave me a full report on how Ginger was doing and added, “She doesn’t seem at all homesick.” Ms. Swain wanted to know how I was enjoying Brazil and if I had decided what my extra-credit assignment would be.
How could I possibly pick one topic? There was the historic old section of Salvador, the beautiful beaches, the turtle sanctuary tomorrow, and, of course, we’d be heading to the rainforest next week!
I touched my compass necklace to make sure it was still around my neck, and thought of Ama’s travel journal. I was up to a part where she was describing a trip to India. She had pasted in a photo of herself sitting on the back of an elephant. She looked so small compared to the elephant, but her smile was huge. Reading about my grandmother’s adventures made me feel almost as if I were there with her.
That’s when it hit me. For my Brazil assignment I’d create a travel journal, like Ama’s. Only, instead of old-fashioned writing in a notebook, I’d do a classroom blog and include photos of my trip!
I hit reply and began to type:
Dear Ms. Swain,
I’m having a great time in Brazil and would like to share my experiences with the class. What if I created a blog for my extra-credit project and called it “Olá, Brasil!” I’ll write about what I’ve seen and done, and I’ll include lots of photos…
he next morning after breakfast, we left the hotel and headed into town, walking past rows of shops that leaned tightly against one another as if they were all one big happy family.
I was still slightly irked about the fact that Mom and Dad thought I still needed a babysitter. Couldn’t they have called Zac something else, like my personal assistant? Or my bodyguard?
When my parents headed off to rent sea kayaks, I asked Zac if we could go shopping.
“Shopping? We’re at the beach in Brazil—not at the mall. We should go parasailing. Or snorkeling! Or—”
“But look at all these cute little shops! I want to get something with my birthday money.”
“Seriously? You come all this way to see the wonders of Brazil, and now you just want to shop?”
Zac was wrong about my coming all this way to see the wonders of Brazil. Sure, I had been looking forward to it—but the real reason I had wanted to visit Brazil so badly was to spend time with him. I had thought he’d feel the same way, but apparently I was wrong about that.
“Don’t forget you’re getting paid to hang out with me,” I teased. “That makes me the boss.”
Zac rolled his eyes and sighed, but I decided not to let his bad attitude ruin my day.
All around us, the shops bustled with tourists. They were speaking all sorts of languages I couldn’t understand, but the laughter sounded just like it did in St. Louis. Laughter—a universal language. Hey, my first travel discovery! Maybe I could put that in my blog.
In the center of town was a statue of a beautiful mermaid wearing piles of necklaces, her dark hair flowing. I stopped to gaze at her. She seemed so serene, and yet confident.
“You coming?” Zac called out impatiently.
I took a photo of the mermaid, and for a moment I imagined what she’d look like if she came to life and was swimming in the sea.
“Cricket!” Zac snapped me out of my daydream, and I ran to catch up to him.
Some of the cramped and cozy shops had so much merchandise that it spilled out onto tables outside. One of the friendly shopkeepers beckoned me to a display of handmade jewelry and spoke to me in Portuguese. I turned to Zac to interpret, but he was still standing at the previous shop, looking at T-shirts on display outside.
“Zac?” I called out.
“Just a minute!” he called back as he held up a green shirt with a soccer ball on it.
Great! He kept telling me to hurry, and now here he was lagging behind when I needed him.
The shopkeeper repeated what she had said more slowly, but I just shrugged and smiled awkwardly, and then took out my camera and started taking pictures. After the first couple of photos, including one of the shopkeeper smiling at me, I began to loosen up and enjoy myself. No matter where I am, I always feel at home when I’m taking photos.
I took lots of pictures of the colorful stores, crammed from floor to ceiling with trinkets and treasures. Some sold glossy postcards of the ocean and palm trees, seashells with “Brasil” painted on them, and wooden turtle key chains. Others had paintings and sculptures by local artists. In one shop a woman was weaving purses to sell, and in another, beautiful handmade necklaces and bracelets fashioned from local plants and nuts sat next to exquisite pearl earrings. Yet another store was stocked with citrus- and melon-scented soaps that smelled so good I was tempted to take a bite out of them.
We paused at a clothing store with “Moda Praia” painted in fancy lettering on the sign. Colorful wish ribbons adorned the doorway, and vibrant patterns on the simple clothes made them look like pieces of artwork. I just had to go in.
Zac groaned. “How long is this going to take?” he asked, wearing his I-am-totally-bored face.
I ignored him and pushed open the shop’s door.
The lady at the counter smiled. “Olá!” she said brightly. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.
“Olá,” I replied with a smile.
Across the store I spotted a dress so beautiful that it made my heart skip a beat. Layers of magenta, yellow, purple, and green looked like a festival of color. I had always admired the clothes Ama brought home from her many journeys. Whenever she showed up at a school event, I could bet that my grandmother would be the only person wearing a caftan from West Africa or a kimono from Japan. Abby would be so excited if she saw me wearing this dress! She always says I should wear more color.
“What do you think of this one?” I asked Zac, holding the dress up in front of me.
“It’s perfect,” he said, not even bothering to look.
I rolled my eyes and hung the dress back up. I could always come back later, maybe with Mom.
“Thank you—obrigada,” I said to the shopkeeper, trying out the word that Zac had taught me at the restaurant last night.
“Finally!” my brother exclaimed as we walked into the blinding sunshine. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. “Are you done shopping yet?” he asked, not even hiding the boredom in his voice.
I nodded and saw Zac’s mood shift from dour to ecstatic.
“Awesome!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go back to the hotel so you can change. I’m already wearing my swim trunks.”
I had to think fast—the last thing I wanted was to make a fool of myself again in the ocean in front of Zac. “Um, that’s okay,” I said. “Let’s just go straight to the beach.”
Zac scratched the back of his head. “Are you sure? I don’t mind going back to the hotel.”
Now that he was being nice to me, I felt a wave of guilt wash over me for dragging him to all the stores. “You’ve been waiting for me all morning. I don’t want to stand between you and the ocean any longer.”
He broke into a wide smile. “Thanks, Cricket.”
I smiled back at him, even though his enthusiasm left no doubt that he was more excited to get to the beach than to hang out with me.
hen we got to the beach, the sand was soft and Zac was instantly barefoot. About a half second later, so was I. As we walked, the sand beneath me grew firmer and harder. I glanced down. Flat expanses of pocked brown rock jutted toward the sea for what seemed like blocks and blocks. It looked like the surface of the moon.
