Don’t tell Mom, but we went into the woods behind Abuela’s house and got rid of some hunting traps that this jerk kid at school put there. It was the right thing to do, Dad, and you always taught me to do the right thing.
But still, please don’t tell Mom.
Love you. Stay safe.
Nestor
I shut my sketchbook and slide it into my bag. This is one of the first letters I’ve written to Dad where I didn’t have to lie to follow Mom’s Always Be Positive, Always Be Happy rule.
Imagine that.
I head into the auditorium to get ready for our trivia competition. Miss Humala assures us she’ll be proud no matter what. I know she’s secretly hoping we get at least three answers right.
We’re not off to the best start. Brandon trips Maria Carmen, sending her study cards flying across the auditorium stage, and when Talib bends down to help her pick them up, he smacks his head directly into her nose. Brandon snorts and pulls out my chair right as I sit down. My butt smacks hard onto the wood floor of the stage.
I don’t think Brandon knows what we did to his traps yet. He’s just being his usual, pleasant-as-an-exploding-skunk self.
Miss Humala sits in the front row of the audience, her head in her hands, muttering, “Three questions. Just three questions.”
Abuela and Mom also sit in the front row, waving and smiling. Mom holds up her phone and snaps several pictures, giving me a salute.
A woman three rows behind them whispers to the man next to her and points to Abuela, a scowl pressed on her lips. I try not to think about what Maria Carmen told me.
Our opponents, four students from Burleson Middle School, march in and take their seats, frowns plastered to their faces. Either their teacher has threatened them with eternal detention scraping gum off desks, or the water in Burleson is tainted by a chemical that makes it impossible to smile.
Miss Humala gives us a half-hearted thumbs-up from her chair.
The moderator takes his place on the podium in front of us. He looks as though he has entered a contest for how far above his belly button he could wear his pants. And won.
Clearing his throat multiple times, Mr. Highpants eyes the microphone warily, probably checking to see if we were inspired by New Haven’s previous trivia team and put glue on it. He taps the body of the microphone and, finding it glue-free, presses his mouth against it and breathes deeply. “All right, contestants. Let’s begin. This competition will consist of ten toss-up questions worth 100 points each, which the team that buzzes in first will answer. If the answer is correct, the team will be asked a bonus question worth thirty points. Because this is our sixth-grade competition of the regional quiz bowl series, we will concentrate on the selected focus subject: zoology.”
Maria Carmen smiles at Talib and me and twists a braid in her hand. She ignores Brandon. “We’ve got this, guys. I know we do.”
“Contestants, please pick up your buzzers.”
I try to focus on the incoming question, but all I can think about as I stare out at the audience is how much I want Dad here next to Mom and Abuela. He would love this.
Mr. Highpants breathes into the microphone, his voice sounding like a fast-food drive-through speaker. “What is a group of rhinoceros called?”
Just as I’m about to press my buzzer, Brandon smashes his next to me.
“What is a blob?” he says, looking at me and sneering. He knows that’s not the right answer. He’s trying to sabotage us.
Mr. Highpants shakes his head, and a blond ponytailed girl from the Burleson team presses her buzzer. “A crash.”
Maria Carmen stomps her foot under the table as Brandon snickers.
The Burleson team answers the bonus question correctly, and just like that, we’re down 0–130.
I turn to Talib and whisper, “Whatever you do, buzz in before Brandon can. Even if you don’t know the answer.”
Mr. Highpants leans in closer to his mic. “With club-like appendages, what animal can strike so rapidly it creates vapor-filled bubbles underwater that shock prey and kill them?”
Talib smashes his buzzer over and over. “The mantis shrimp!”
We miss the bonus question because Brandon kicks Talib under the table when he tries to answer. 100–130.
Breathing heavily into the microphone, Mr. Highpants continues with the next question. “Which animal was incorrectly rumored to bury its head in the sand when frightened?”
A skeletal-looking boy from Burleson buzzes in. “Giraffe?”
The ponytailed girl elbows him so hard in the arm I’m afraid she’s snapped it like a pretzel stick.
“I’m sorry, young man. That’s incorrect.” Mr. Highpants looks at our team.
I press my buzzer before Brandon can. “Ostrich.”
“Well done, young man.” Mr. Highpants smiles as he hikes the waistband of his pants even farther up his chest.
We answer the bonus question right because Brandon is too distracted by the death stare Miss Humala is giving him. Three correct answers for our team. Miss Humala visibly relaxes in her seat. Mom and Abuela clap so much after each of our correct answers Mr. Highpants has to wait for them to stop before moving on to the next question.
The moderator fires more questions at us, and we trade correct answers with the Burleson team. Each time the Burleson team answers incorrectly, the ponytailed girl assaults the skeleton boy next to her with her elbow. He probably wishes he’d gone out for the football team instead. That way he could have been obliterated in one tackle, instead of little by little by an overenthusiastic teammate.
By the last question, I look at the score tally and see we’re down by only one round, 430–530. If we get the last answer correct, we tie. And if we get the bonus question, we win. Miss Humala perches on the edge of her chair, her long red nails digging into the armrest. Mom holds her phone up, videoing the whole thing. Maria Carmen bounces up and down in her seat and takes a deep breath. “We’ve got this. We’ve got this. I know we’ve got this.”
Brandon leans toward me and whispers, “Get ready to lose.”
Mr. Highpants clears his throat loudly into the microphone. “With the ability to revert back to its juvenile polyp stage, this animal can repeatedly delay death.”
Brandon smashes his buzzer, but the ponytailed girl rings in first. Mr. Highpants points at her, and she leans forward, announcing in her microphone, “Man-of-war.”
Mr. Highpants wipes sweat off his sun-starved forehead as we eagerly await his judgment. He gives a long sigh. “I’m sorry, that’s incorrect.”
I slam my elbow into Brandon’s side as Talib presses his buzzer furiously. “Immortal jellyfish!” he cries out before Mr. Highpants even acknowledges him. The ponytailed girl slams her fist on the table and glares daggers at us.
Mr. Highpants gives us a wry smile. “That is correct. We are tied.” He takes his time pulling out the card with our bonus question.
“All right, contestants. Final question.” He yanks on the waistband of his pants. “This animal’s name also means ‘glutton,’ due to its ferocious appetite and habit of eating quickly, leaving nothing behind after slashing its prey with its sharp claws and teeth.”
A boulder drops in my stomach. I swallow hard. Maria Carmen flips a braid in Brandon’s face and distracts him. I press my buzzer, and Mr. Highpants looks at me, licking his lips. “A … a wolverine,” I stammer.
“Correct! New Haven wins!” Mr. Highpants claps. Maria Carmen lets out a yelp next to me, and Talib jumps in his chair. Brandon smacks his forehead on the table. I ignore them, my heart still beating in my ears. Miss Humala jumps up onto the stage and wraps her arms around me. She pulls me into a hug, thankfully quick, since there’s nothing worse than being hugged by a teacher. She moves on to the rest of our team, but instead of hugging Brandon, she places a firm hand on his shoulder and presses her lips together.
“Not a good start, Brandon. Not a good start,” she says, shaking her head.
Brandon shrug
s off her hand and stomps out of the auditorium.
Abuela and Mom run up to me onstage, smiling and clapping.
“Victory selfie!” Mom cries, holding her phone out. Talib, Maria Carmen, and I crowd around her as she snaps a picture. She manages to cut out half of Talib’s face and both of Maria Carmen’s eyes. Still, I’m glad Dad will get to see my new friends.
Even if it’s just parts of them.
Abuela wraps me in a lavender-scented hug. “Felicidades, mi niño!”
“Thanks, Buela,” I tell her.
Looking out into the seats in the auditorium, I notice the woman who had been whispering behind Abuela is now talking to three more people. They’re all looking at us with narrow eyes and tight lips.
I want to know what they’re saying, but I’m afraid to find out.
Returning to Talib, I give him a high five. He’s still grinning and bouncing on his toes. Talib breathes a sigh of relief. “Didn’t think we’d have to play against our own teammate.” I look past him and see Miss Humala hurry to the side of the stage, behind a curtain.
“This is ridiculous,” Maria Carmen says, hands on hips. “Can’t Brandon clean up trash in the cafeteria or something? Why does he have to be on our team?”
I think that’s an excellent question for Miss Humala, but she seems busy talking to someone offstage. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but she’s waving her hands around wildly, and her cheeks are flushed. She looks angry.
I step away from Maria Carmen and Talib to see if I can tell who Miss Humala is arguing with. As I draw closer, an enormous brown snake slithers away from her … and out the back doors behind the stage.
CHAPTER 11
WHEN YOU GO TO AS MANY SCHOOLS as I have, you meet a lot of teachers. Some bother to learn your name; some don’t. Some don’t realize they’re sticking their butt in your face every time they lean down to help the clueless kid sitting next to you. Some let out a maniacal cackle every time you get a multiplication fact wrong. At Fort Lewis in Washington, I had a PE teacher who would give you extra credit if you could stuff more marshmallows into your mouth than he could (ten bonus points for me!). But I’ve never had a teacher who argued with a ten-foot scaly snake.
Between this and the wolverine-witch roaming the woods, New Haven has more weird than I want to handle.
I shake my head, trying to fling the image of the huge brown snake from my brain, and focus on our win. Maria Carmen, Talib, and I burst out of the side doors of the auditorium.
Trouncing the Burleson team feels good—especially considering how sour their faces were and how hard Brandon worked against us.
“I knew we could do it, guys.” Maria Carmen claps, grinning.
“Yeah, it was pretty cool.” I put my hand up, and Maria Carmen and I high-five. We did better than I thought we would, and what’s more, I didn’t have to move again before our first competition. That must be some kind of record. If I’m in New Haven long enough, we might even have a shot at the championship.
If only I could be here in May.
Talib slaps me on the back. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go down to the pharmacy to celebrate.”
“The pharmacy? How are we planning to celebrate?” I ask. “Covering ourselves in superhero Band-Aids? Checking who has the highest blood pressure?”
Talib laughs and shakes his head. “They sell ice cream there.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Maria Carmen chimes in. “Let’s go to my house. My mom promised to make churros if we won. I just texted her the good news.”
I’d pick fried dough drenched in cinnamon and sugar over questionable pharmacy ice cream any day. We head to Maria Carmen’s house, which takes about two seconds since New Haven is small enough to be undetectable on any map. I think it’s covered by the x in Texas.
And we decide not to go through the woods.
Maria Carmen lives just beyond where Talib and I do, a little outside of town. Her house sits on a large piece of land covered with live oak and cedar trees. I notice a broken wooden fence at the corner of her yard, splintered and scattered on the ground. That must’ve been how her goats got out.
Or how something got in.
As we skip up the gravel driveway to Maria Carmen’s house, still riding high from our victory, a tall, slender woman bursts from the front door. “Felicidades!” she cries, raising her arms in the air.
“Thank you, Mami,” Maria Carmen says, kissing her mom on the cheek.
Maria Carmen’s mom ushers us into their house. “Talib, mijo, how are you?”
“Good, Ms. Cordova. Thanks.” Talib shuffles behind Maria Carmen into the kitchen.
Ms. Cordova looks at me with a smile. “And you are?”
“Nestor Lopez. Nice to meet you,” I tell her.
The smile disappears from Ms. Cordova’s lips. Her eyes narrow and look me up and down. “Guadalupe Lopez’s grandson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Without a word, Ms. Cordova turns on her heel and heads into the kitchen, leaving me alone. I bite my lip, remembering the phone call Maria Carmen told me about. Her mom still seems angry.
I head into the kitchen and sit next to Maria Carmen at the table. Ms. Cordova sets plates in front of us, and I pretend to ignore that she slams my plate down a little harder than the others, even though it makes me jump.
Maria Carmen takes churros from the basket in front of us and piles them on each of our plates.
“These look amazing, Ms. Cordova,” Talib says, licking his lips.
I have to admit, the fresh churros smell delicious.
“Gracias, mijo,” Ms. Cordova replies, using a slotted spoon to lift more churros out of a large pot of boiling oil on the stove. She places them on a paper towel, which soaks up the excess oil, then drops them into a bowl filled with cinnamon and sugar. The sugar glistens in the low light of the kitchen.
“Anything for my conquering heroes,” she adds, patting Talib on the back. She takes another churro from the basket and tosses it on the mountain Talib already has on his plate.
Talib swallows the last bite of his churro and adds two more to his plate. “Do you still need me to help fix your fence this weekend?”
Ms. Cordova turns toward us from the stove. “That would be wonderful.” She lowers her eyes at me. “Nestor should come, too. It’s the least he can do.”
“Mami, deja,” Maria Carmen says, shushing her mom.
Ms. Cordova slams her spoon down on the kitchen counter, oil splattering on her hand, and storms into the living room.
“Geez, Nestor. You make a really good first impression,” Talib says.
“It’s not his fault. Mami still thinks his abuela had something to do with our goats,” Maria Carmen replies.
Talib stares at me. “Really? Do you think she did, Nestor?”
I wipe cinnamon and sugar from my hands on my jeans. “Of course not.”
The image of Abuela stomping off between the trees flashes in my mind. The long scratches on her arm. The coyote’s telling me about her spending the day in the woods. “Of course not,” I say again, trying to convince myself just as much as Maria Carmen and Talib.
Talib grabs another churro and shoves it into his mouth. “I know she didn’t. It was probably that wolverine-snake thing that took my dog.”
Maria Carmen nods. “I know you saw it, too.”
I shake my head. “Wait. What are you guys talking about?”
Maria Carmen brushes the cinnamon and sugar from her hands. “I know it wasn’t your abuela. The night our goats went missing, I saw a huge brown snake slithering through our backyard. Mami didn’t believe me. She said shock was making me see things.”
She slides the basket of churros over to Talib, who takes two more. “I thought she was right. Maybe I was just seeing things. It wasn’t until I told Talib what I saw that he told me about his dog.”
Swallowing a mouthful of churro, Talib says, “Poor George. It’s one thing to get attacked by a wolverine. Another
thing to get dragged off by a snake. But both?” Talib shakes his head. “I saw that wolverine in the woods when I was trying to find George. Then its fur started flying off it, and it changed into a snake. A huge brown one. I thought maybe I had eaten a bad breakfast taco.”
“I still can’t believe you named your dog George,” I say.
“Focus, Nestor,” Maria Carmen says. “We all know there’s something in the woods. Something weird that shouldn’t be there. A wolverine or a snake. Or both.”
I push my plate away, the sweet churros rolling around in my stomach. “We have to do something about it. I can’t let anyone think my abuela has anything to do with this. I know people were talking about her at our competition.”
Maria Carmen looks down, pressing her fingers to the sugar on her plate. “I’m sorry, Nestor. We’ll figure this out.”
We make a plan to meet at Talib’s house tomorrow and search the woods for the witch. I’m not sure what we’ll do if we find her.
Probably run and scream. That seems like a totally normal reaction to facing a wolverine-snake witch.
My stomach full of fried dough and sugar, I look out the kitchen window at the setting sun. I need to get back home soon, so I make my way through Maria Carmen’s living room and stop in my tracks when I look above her fireplace. Perched on the mantel is a US flag, wrapped in the shape of a triangle, only the blue field with white stars showing. The flag is set in a glass-front triangular box.
It’s the flag given to soldiers’ families when they’re buried.
The flag they draped over the coffin of Maria Carmen’s brother.
A hard lump rises in my throat, and my stomach churns.
Maria Carmen stands next to me, and her eyes follow mine to the mantel. She goes over and pulls down a framed picture next to the flag. She runs her fingers along the glass, over the face of a man in his dress uniform, a shiny silver iron cross with two circles hanging off his jacket. I recognize it as a sharpshooter medal. Dad has the same one.
The Total Eclipse of Nestor Lopez Page 7
