I have to admit, it is really cool.
“It would be dangerous, too,” he says. “Out in the wild, since they don’t have their old shells on when they’re finding new ones, they’re super vulnerable.” Hector gestures to the cookies. “Mom said I should bring something.”
Hector’s mom seems like a good person already. I lift the plastic off and sniff them. “Ooh, snickerdoodles.”
“Ha, that’s funny,” Hector says. He chuckles to himself. I brush off my face just in case I’ve given myself a sugar and cinnamon nose.
“What?”
“Anita does that, too. Smells things. Sometimes she’ll come up to my food and say, ‘I just want to smell it.’ Why not just taste it?”
“Yeah.” We both stand there for a minute, because it’s kind of weird, I think. Us being here in my hallway instead of in Ms. Arnold’s classroom—talking about hermit crab homes and smelling things instead of regular old school topics.
“We can set up at the kitchen table,” I say. “My mom cleared everything off it so we could work.”
Hector walks the hallway slowly, taking in the old-fashioned striped wallpaper and the thin table shoved up against the wall with its old books and old vases and fake flowers that are supposed to look real. “This is a cool house,” he says.
“It’s an old house,” I say, rubbing the little bit of dust that’s collected off one of the petals. “Some of the stuff doesn’t work. Like this light switch.” I flip it on and off. Nothing happens. “Mom says it’s character, but sometimes that’s just code for broken.”
“Any secret passageways?” He bends down like he’s checking.
“No,” I say. I don’t tell him that I’ve already combed every inch of the house hoping for one.
“I mean, it just would have been awesome—like Nightshade and the Vanishing—”
“Violin.” We finish the sentence at the same time. My face reddens. “Well, anyway,” I say, “here’s the kitchen. And this is the table.” Like he can’t already see those things for himself.
I have my stuff set up: notebook, pens, and highlighters. I am ready to work.
Hector sits down—well, not really sits; more like he’s got one leg propped up under him like a spring. He pulls out the project sheet from his binder. “Okay, so, movement!”
He says it so enthusiastically, so like Ms. Arnold, that I have to laugh. His cheeks darken.
I open up to a fresh piece of notebook paper. “We could do something with dance,” I say. “Or transportation. What other things move?”
“Trains. Westward expansion. You know, like when they had the gold rush. Cars. Or maybe Henry Ford—he moved things forward, right? The assembly line and all that. Or something with sports. Like the science of throwing a ball.”
I draw a web with movement in the center circle and all our ideas spiraling off it. “Do you want me to get my laptop? We could choose a few from the list and research them more.”
“Great idea,” Hector says.
I run upstairs. I’m grabbing my computer from my room when I hear the garage door open, then Mina’s voice. “Hello?”
I hear Hector next. His voice is so cheerful. “Hi! I’m Hector. Emily’s friend.”
Friend? I turn the word over in my brain. I don’t know how I feel about it. But I don’t have too much time to think it over, because I’m racing down the stairs to save Hector from Mina. I don’t find them in the kitchen. “Hector?” I say quietly.
“In here,” comes a mumbled voice. I follow the sound.
Hector and Mina are in the dining room bent over the puzzle. Hector has one of the cookies in his hand, and he’s dropping crumbs all over South America. “What is this, Emily?” Mina asks.
I think maybe she’s talking about the cookie. That she’s angry we’ve brought cookies into the house because cookies are not okay.
But Hector just says, “The world.” He’s very matter-of-fact about it. “These are the continents. Asia, Africa, South America . . .”
It’s not the cookies she’s talking about at all.
Mina laughs, big and loud. My heart pangs. I realize I haven’t heard her laugh in a long time. “I know that,” she says. “But what are you doing? Did you guys start this?”
“It was me and Mom,” I say. “She was on one of her cleaning sprees in the basement and we found it. She thought it would be a good idea.”
“Oh.” Mina studies the puzzle and then me. I study her, too. This is the kind of nice, regular old conversation we used to have. “That’s cool. Well, I’ll let you guys get back to work. I have math to finish.”
“I love math,” Hector says. He reaches over and snaps a piece of Australia into place. “It was great to meet you.” He turns to me after she’s gone upstairs. “She was nice.”
“Yeah,” I say. Right now, I think. But I like how Hector doesn’t ask about how skinny she looks or that it was weird that she was wearing a bunch of layers when it’s still warm.
“So I was looking at this and suddenly I was struck with a topic.”
“What? Puzzles?” I ask. “I don’t think that will work.”
Hector shakes he head. “No, the earth. I saw it on this TV show. Underneath the earth’s surface, pretty far down, are these huge rock plates.” He holds his hands out. “Sometimes they slide past each other like this.” He moves his hands together; they make a swishing sound. “And sometimes they push together. It’s what makes volcanoes and earthquakes and stuff.”
“Like, look at this.” He points to the coast of Africa. “And now this.” He points to the coast of South America. “Now move them together in your mind. See, it’s like a perfect fit.”
“They used to be together,” I say. “But now they’ve moved apart.”
“Everything used to be together,” Hector says. “One big supercontinent. Everything’s still moving, too. But really, really slow. Like as fast as your fingernails grow.”
“And we can’t even feel it.” It’s amazing actually, I think. That all this huge change is happening underneath us but we don’t even think about it.
I hold my breath for a second, thinking that maybe if I just concentrate hard enough, I’ll be able to feel the movement underneath my feet. But there’s nothing, just the creaks of the floorboards. I think it has much more to do with the house’s “character” than the shifting of the plates.
“It’s a good topic. I think Ms. Arnold will like it.”
“Yeah?” Hector says. He looks pleased with himself. “There should be a lot of information, too. Plenty for our report. There’s an exhibit at the natural history museum, too. They have these big panels where you can move the continents themselves.”
“We should go,” I say out loud without thinking.
Hector’s eyes pop open wide. “That would be cool. My dad works there. He’s the curator. We could go anytime.”
“Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”
“Really?”
I nod, and I’m surprised that I actually mean it.
“Awesome,” he says, smiling.
We spend the rest of the morning researching and writing down notes and eating cookies. They’re not as good as Grandma Bebe’s, but sometimes pretty good is good enough.
I find I don’t even mind it when crumbs stick to Hector’s grin.
When Hector leaves, Bean and I go up to my room. I pull out my craft stuff and text Hazel.
Emily: Do you want to come over? We could make costumes for Bean.
I hold up different pieces of fabric. “This is pretty,” I say, rubbing a piece of lace between my fingertips. “We could make you a bonnet. Or one of those fancy collars queens wore. You know, the frilly ones.”
I think about how regal Bean would look with her long pointy nose and sharp-angled face. I take some yellow fun foam out. It would make a perfect crown.
I text Hazel again.
Emily: ????
Hazel finally texts me ten minutes later.
Hazel: Ugh, sorry. T
eam dinner at Lucy’s. We’re going to dress up for it. What do you think?
She attaches a picture of her wearing this tight skirt and top that emphasizes that she actually has boobs. Not huge ones. But something, and I think that’s what matters. Hazel looks like she could be one of Mina’s friends. I still look like I’m Mina’s little sister.
I close my eyes. My mind goes to the pool that summer and every summer before. Me and Hazel, each sitting in our inner tubes, holding on to each other as long as possible until we finally drift apart. I watch as she floats farther and farther away.
Emily: Cute
I can’t bring myself to put an exclamation point.
She doesn’t respond back. I let out this big breath that lifts the wild, little baby hairs around my forehead. I stare hard at the screen. I’m thinking of all the things Hazel might be doing instead of texting me back. All the things that are more important. I try again.
Emily: Hey, guess who came over?
Emily: Hector!
Her response is immediate.
Hazel: Why?
At first, a little thrill of satisfaction zips through me, but it goes away immediately and leaves me empty. Hector and I had a good morning and here I was talking about him, knowing that Hazel wouldn’t be kind.
Hazel: Don’t tell anyone. Are you guys friends? What’s going on?
Emily: School project.
What I don’t type: it was fun. What I don’t type: he was nice.
Hazel: Oh good. LOL.
She includes this little emoji that looks like a relieved face. I wonder who she’s relieved for: me or her. She doesn’t text anything more.
It’s quiet in my room without Hazel’s loudness or the chime my phone makes when someone texts me to keep me company. And Mina’s in her room, probably, catching up on math. I guess my next go-to person is an infomercial doctor. So I put in my earbuds and the next Be the Best You CD while I finish up Bean’s crown and collar.
The music begins. “Hello, friend,” Dr. Franklinton-Morehouse says. “Whatever time you’re listening to this—morning, noon, or night—know that we’re happy you’re here. What a journey we’ve had so far. I hope that you are still considering things to put on your before-and-after list. As we continue forward, you may discover new and different things about yourself. That’s good. You’re digging even deeper into that hole we referenced at the very beginning. Now that you’ve made plans to redefine who you are and stretch yourself, we need to talk about the next step. That step is forgiveness.
“When we hold on to past hurts, it puts a barrier between us and other people. It does not allow our balloon much room to expand. Does this mean that we must constantly allow people to hurt us? No, of course not. What we must do, though, is understand that feeling hurt is part of life. People hurt us. We hurt them.”
I think of the dinner with Dad, of Mina’s harsh words for me, of the cafeteria table.
“We need to learn to be forgiven, and also, to forgive. We must understand that people are growing, just as we are.”
The track ends there.
It’s quiet when I go downstairs to make myself a turkey sandwich for lunch. Mom’s still at work. Bean’s sleeping in a sunny spot.
When I walk past the dining room to go back upstairs, though, I’m surprised to see Mina hunched over the puzzle. Deep in concentration. She doesn’t even notice me. I watch her as she puts a piece into place.
PUNCTUATION DAY
Hector and I spend a lot of time working on our report over the next couple of days. First, we compile the notes we have. Then we make an outline. We also write down questions that we want to find answers to at the museum.
I think we’re going to have some class time to work together today, but Ms. Arnold has a surprise. She’s wearing a bright blue exclamation point on her chest.
“Good morning!” she cheers. “Today is my favorite day of the year!”
“Taco Tuesday?” Martin Morris asks.
“No.” She laughs. “But that is a close second now that you bring it up. It’s Punctuation Day!”
“Is that something you made up?”
“Would I do that?” She pauses. “Yes, that is absolutely something I would do. But I didn’t. Punctuation Day is a real live actual thing.” She presses the Smart Board clicker and different types of dancing punctuation fill the screen. “Punctuation is like the road signs of language. They tell us when to stop and when to pause, when to emote things with enthusiasm, and when to question.” The way she’s saying this makes it all seem very exciting.
She grabs a stack of paper circles off her desk and hands a pile out to each person at the front of the rows. “Today, you are going to figure out what kind of punctuation you are.”
Hector hands me one over his shoulder.
“Take out your colored pencils,” Ms. Arnold says. “I want you to decorate your circle with your particular piece of punctuation. Maybe you’re an exclamation point like me. Or a comma. Or a colon.”
“That’s an organ,” someone shouts out.
“And you, sir, are a scholar,” Ms. Arnold replies. “A colon is an organ and a piece of punctuation. It’s a homonym.” She writes the word in marker on our Word Nerd Wall. “After you’ve chosen and decorated, we’ll share.” She shakes a tiny box. “I have some safety pins to pin our badges to our shirts.”
I nibble on the end of my eraser and scan the list of punctuation marks in my Language Arts book. Maybe I’m a comma—I’m pausing while Hazel’s moving fast-forward ahead with new friends and field hockey and everything.
I settle on the question mark just as Ms. Arnold asks for volunteers to share. In between Bobby Rias, who’s a dash, and Cara Simons, who has chosen quotation marks (she really likes to talk, I think), Hector turns around to see what I’ve chosen.
“You’re wrong,” he whispers.
“What?”
“You’re not a question mark.”
I frown. “What am I then?”
“One of those dot-dot-dot things.”
“You mean an ellipsis?” I stop coloring.
“Yeah. That thing.”
“Doesn’t that mean something’s missing? Like the author has left something out?” I’m kind of harsh whispering now because maybe the ellipsis is the insult of the punctuation world.
“Well, yeah.” His words come out quick. “But that’s not what I mean. You know, when they’re at the end of a sentence. When there’s more to it.” He’s blushing now. His ears are turning red. “More to find out. In a good way. That’s you.”
The bell rings and I pin my badge on like the other kids because there isn’t time to change it. But I think about Hector’s words all day.
When I get home, I dig through the art supplies at the bottom of my closet and pull out a spare piece of poster board. I sit on the floor and trace around the badge I’ve pulled from my backpack. I’m making a new one. With my gel pens, I draw three big dots in a row.
I cut it out and tack it up to my bulletin board next to my calendar and the postcard Hazel sent me last summer from New Mexico. I stare at it for a second and then I unzip the front pocket of my book bag and take out the flyer Sara and Anita gave me. I unfold it carefully and study it. I try to picture my face in the middle of the group of smiling girls. Glitter bow in my hair. Sequined leotard.
Em Murphy, Junior Roosevelt. Could I be? I say it out loud, just to myself. I say it again. To be honest, it kind of has a nice ring to it.
I open my notebook and on the left side of the T chart I write:
More to discover.
THE GARCIAS
We have to come up with a visual aid for our report, Hector says.
Maybe a clay model of the inside of the earth, I suggest. Or a poster board. Anything that’s crafty. I tell him I have lots of art supplies. Hector kind of hmms over it and suggests that I come over one afternoon after school. Anita overhears and seconds it. “We can practice for the Roosevelts dance tryouts,” she says. “They
just posted the video on YouTube!” She says it like I’m definitely trying out, even though I really haven’t decided yet. But she can see me as Em Murphy, Junior Roosevelt, and I think that means something.
Hector crosses his arms over his chest and says, “I invited her first.”
Anita laughs. “We can share.”
“Hey, I’m a person,” I protest, but secretly my heart swells.
That’s how I end up in Hector’s room. Anita stands in the door; her voice is stern. “You have till four thirty. I’m watching the clock.” She turns to me. “We can dance in my room. Mom helped me push my bed aside. There’s plenty of space.”
Hector has all our books and notes from the project spread out on the floor, and I can tell he’s getting impatient to start. But I can’t stop looking at all the figures lining his bookshelves and windowsill and dresser. There have to be hundreds of them. Superheroes and dinosaurs of all different kinds. Disney characters. The entire Unicorn Chronicles collection, including Nightshade, Starlight, and their team of gnome forensic scientists. “Do you have all six of them?”
Hector nods.
I shake my head in amazement. I don’t have any, but people on the Underworld boards say they are very rare. “Why don’t you have these in boxes?”
“That wouldn’t be fun,” he says. “You can’t play with them in boxes.”
Very true, I think. I make a mental note to ask if I can hold the Nightshade figure later. Her rainbow hair shines in the late afternoon sun. She looks the most magical right now.
I sit on the floor next to him. “So what are you thinking for our visual?”
“Food,” he says.
“Food? What are we going to feed people? Pieces of the earth? Fossils?”
Hector laughs. “No, but we want to show the class how our plates move, right?”
“Right.”
Things That Surprise You Page 10
