by Bibi Belford
“We thought you were at your little friend’s house,” says Andrea.
“I guess we’re even then.” I don’t say goodbye. I hate being the little sister.
The walk next door to River’s takes me a long time. I almost go back in a panic and put everything away. I think about telling River I couldn’t find anything to help us. But then I put my teeth together and bust back into River’s house.
“Wow! Good work,” he says when I show him the picture with the card on the back, the Homeland Security envelope, and the medical bill. The twenty dollars stays in my pocket. “Your dad’s handsome. You kind of look like him.”
I don’t say thank you, but I think it’s a compliment.
River studies the medical bill. “Claims can be denied for lots of reasons. Something your insurance doesn’t cover. Or it’s possible your dad’s insurance ended because he doesn’t work there any more.”
“You mean he got fired and that’s why he left?”
“Or he couldn’t get time off to visit your …” River stops.
“Bisabuelita,” I say.
“Bisabuelita. And they fired him because he left.”
When he takes the US Department of Homeland Security envelope from me, my hand shakes. I’m scared to see what’s inside.
“Hmm,” says River. “It’s a legal notice from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. It says that your dad is in violation for not appearing before a judge in December.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know for sure. Does your dad have a green card? Or is he undocumented?”
“No,” I say loudly. “He’s not undocumented. He’s been here forever. He works at TAICO.” Papi’s had the same job for as long as I can remember. He talks about which president he wants to vote for. He’s got a driver’s license. There’s no way he’s undocumented.
“I’m just asking but that’s another good idea. We can call his work and see if he’s left a forwarding address.”
All the time we’ve been talking, River’s been typing stuff into the computer. I’m fascinated that he can talk and type at the same time. “Okay, I think I found something.” He points to a map on his computer screen.
“His name and birth date on the card show his birthplace as here.” He points to Tixtla de Guerrero, Mexico.
“But there’s addresses from a few years ago near here.” He points to Guadalajara, Jalisco. “And here and here.” He points to Ciudad Juárez and Piedras Negras.
“Sound familiar?”
I squint at the map and sound out the names the best I can. “Maybe. But I’ve never been to Mexico. And I don’t remember Papi or Mami ever going there, either,” I say, scanning the map. “But these two towns are close to the border, so maybe he went there, at least first, since Guadalajara is really far away.”
“Okay. Don’t freak out, but … since he didn’t contact you, he might be in a hospital. So let’s search for all the hospitals between those last two places and the border, and add their addresses to the spreadsheet. It’s saved there, in the corner. And if he doesn’t have a place to stay, he might be at a shelter or a church. I’ll do those.”
“Addresses? Are we going to send letters to them? How are we going to afford to buy all those stamps? They don’t even know us. They’re not just going to tell us where my dad is.”
“Email addresses. Mostly. A maybe a few snail-mail letters. And no, they might not tell us, but we can ask them to have him contact us, can’t we? Oh, also, put anything you can about your dad in the missing person form I downloaded from the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System. If you don’t know something leave it blank.” He points to the saved document on the desktop of the laptop I’m using.
This guy is smart. Way smart. I get started. First I fill out the form. At least, I try. But I don’t know all the information and I have to subtract for how old he is and I’m not sure about how to spell his relative’s names.
Then I start on the hospitals. River’s church and shelter list is three times as long as mine in just a few minutes. An hour goes by. River talks about stuff. His favorite colors and animals. How he won first place in an art show one time. How he wants to be in the army like his dad, but he can’t because of his ears.
“I thought you said your electro-thing was inherited. But your mom doesn’t have it,” I blurt out and point at his hands. I can’t keep the question inside any longer.
“Ectrodactyly? It is. From my dad. But he didn’t really know because his little fingers were just shaped weird.” He puts the cursor over a spot on the desktop and clicks. A picture of a good-looking army man fills the screen. A very good-looking black army man. Which I guess explains why River’s skin is a different color from his mom’s. I’m a different color from Mami, too. She’s sandy brown and I’m deck brown. The color of the deck in front of our old trailer. Morena, Mami would say. “Stay out of the sun, mi morenita,” Mami always tells me.
“Oh. Were your parents shocked—I mean surprised—when you came out like that? I mean, when they saw your ectrodactyly?” Fudge buckets. Why can’t I remember my manners until it’s too late?
River stares at me. “Were your parents shocked—I mean surprised—about your diabetes?” His voice is sharp and mocking.
“I’m sorry. I just wondered. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s okay. Lots of people are rude. But I want you to understand how it sounds when you ask things like that, because you’re not in the rude category.”
I feel better. River sees me as better than I am. I don’t want to be in the rude category, like Nancy and Sherie, but sometimes I am.
River goes on, “I’m sure my parents were shocked. I mean, what’s the first thing a parent checks for? Ten fingers and ten toes. People still get shocked, and it’s frustrating. But nobody’s perfect, are they?” He keeps rubbing his hands, over and around each other, like he did at the hospital. It must be a nervous habit.
“People say such stupid things to me. Usually, I don’t say anything, even if I want to.” He gives an evil chuckle. “But one time I said, ‘You’re so perfect on the outside, you must be really messed up on the inside,’ and I just walked away.”
“Whoa, that’s good.” I think for a second. That’s also true. Everybody is messed up. Outside and inside. I have diabetes. Danny’s hair sticks up in the back and he dropped out of high school. Danita has one foot that’s a half-size bigger than the other and is a huge brat. Andrea is supposed to wear glasses but is too vain.
I say, “It doesn’t seem fair. Some people’s defects are tiny.”
“Yah. It’s not fair. But what can people do about it? My mom tells me I have to rise to the challenge. And remember, they’re distinctions, not defects.”
I lean back on the couch and sigh. “Diabetes still feels like a defect to me.”
“Want to take a break? Go get your board,” he says.
“I’m not allowed to practice in the parking lot anymore.”
“The slush melted on the sidewalk.”
“But the sign says no skateboarding.”
“We know the manager. It’s okay when nobody’s out there.”
I run to grab my board and, yes, my helmet and pads, and we skitter down the stairs. River coaches me on my foot placement, which gives me better balance, and I skate way better than I ever did at the trailer park. River shows me how to ollie. That’s when you have both feet on the board and slam down the tail of the board, sliding the side of your front foot along the board in a quick motion. I practice but my board just flips out from under me.
“Don’t worry,” says River. “You’ll get it. It took me weeks and I only get an inch of air.”
After we’ve been riding for about half an hour, River’s pulls his vibrating phone from his pocket. “Make it so,” he says into the phone. “Now? Can’t I stay here? Oh, all right.”
“I have to go,” he says, and we go back inside.
“Want me to write the
email letter to find your dad?” he asks after we clean up the computer area.
“Sure.”
“You can translate it tomorrow, and then we’ll send it. And I’ll print it, too.”
“Translate it?”
“Did you forget they speak Spanish in Mexico?” He laughs.
“Did you forget I don’t speak Spanish?” Where does he get off assuming I’m bilingual?
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.” I don’t want to be Mexican. I don’t want to be a Latina. I don’t want to follow in my family’s footsteps. Papi the traitor. Mami the deserted wife. Daniel the dropout. Danita the quinceañera queen.
“Why don’t you work on it?” he tells me. “Preserve your culture. I’m learning Tagalog just so I might be able to talk to my Filipino relatives someday.”
“Are you a genius or something?”
“No, it’s my superpower. Everyone has a superpower.”
“Superpower? Really? I think your first-grade friends are starting to rub off on you.”
“It’s true. People have unique abilities that can be almost like superhero powers.”
“Not me.” I’m embarrassed for River. It might be okay to believe you have a super power, if you keep it a secret. But people will really think you’re weird if you talk about it.
“You might not know yours, yet. I didn’t know mine at first. I thought I got ripped off. You know because of my …” He holds out his hands and then points to his ears. “But superheroes never know their power right away, right? Not Superman. Not Batman. Not Harry Potter.”
I walk to the closet to get my coat. He’s got me thinking about superpowers, even though it’s super babyish. I’m pretty sure I’m the one who got ripped off. I’m fat and ugly with diabetes and I’m dumb, I mean stupid—no, I mean I need new strategies, like Yari said. Lots of them.
“If we don’t get any information from our phone call to TAICO, we could take a trip to your dad’s work next week and ask around,” says River. “Find out if anybody knows what happened.”
“Yah. We could find his friend José Villapando and ask him. They drove together everyday. He would know if they fired him for leaving to take care of my bisabuelita. And the lady who works in the office knows me. She might help.”
River puts out his hand. And I don’t even care. I shake it. I shake the two-finger hand of this weirdo-smart skateboarding detective who carves better than Danny’s friend Freddie. River’s two fingers squeeze the top of my hand and the shivers don’t matter. Not at all. I separate my four fingers into a V. “Live long and prosper,” I tell him. And he smiles the hugest smile, which makes my pepita of hope get a little flower bud.
“Hey,” he says as I walk into the hall. “I forgot to tell you something.”
“What?” I ask, noticing him rolling his hands together, his nervous thing, and I know what he’s going to tell me.
“My tests came back and I’m starting at Robert Frost on Monday. Can you believe it? I’m finally done being a bus student.”
“Awesome saucesome,” I say, pretending to be excited. But a sign starts to flash inside my brain. NO. NO. OH NO. And some uh-ohs start to drip into the uh-oh bucket in my stomach.
“Fourth grade with a sign language interpreter and a speech therapist,” he says, still nervously rolling.
“Maybe you’ll be in my class,” I say, still pretending, which is sort of close to lying.
“I hope so,” he says.
“Me, too.” I cross my fingers behind my back. I have so many feelings I can’t even sort them all out. Happy for River. Worried for me. Ashamed for worrying. Embarrassed for being ashamed. And all these feelings after being so happy about my pepita of hope. Find an emoticon for all those feelings and I’ll give you a million dollars.
CHAPTER NINE
D IS FOR DIFFERENT
Remember that spot-disappearing spray I’m inventing? I need it on Monday morning. Before I go to school. To spray all over me. So I can disappear. I hide out in the nurse’s office, taking forever to put the alcohol on the cotton ball and find just the perfect place to poke myself. I don’t want to see Noodlenose and I don’t want to see River. I mean, I told him all kinds of personal stuff. About Papi and my diabetes. What if he blabs to everybody?
Okay, I’m just going to say it, even though it’s “highly illogical,” as River would say. I want to be friends with River at home, but not at school.
I’m just not the kind of person who sticks up for other people. Yet. Which is what you’re supposed to say if you have Yari’s growth mindset. I don’t have any real friends at Robert Frost. Yet. And if I have to be River’s helper friend I won’t be able to make other friends. And the worst thing, if River acts weird with his Star Trek salute and his superpower stuff, I’ll be super embarrassed for him and embarrassed we’re friends. Yes, I do sound uncaring, unkind, and selfish. But I’m just not ready to be River’s friend in public. Not yet.
When I see Mrs. Marsh I ask if she needs me to run any errands, but she says no thanks.
I act super interested in Mrs. Marsh’s story so she’ll keep talking. Her dog, Sniffer, loves to chase rabbits, but it turns out the black rabbit with a stripe down its back had a little surprise for poor Sniffer. And it’s not the first time Sniffer’s been sprayed by a skunk. He doesn’t seem to remember the consequences when he spies something tempting.
“Maybe you should call him Smeller,” I suggest.
“Good idea,” says Mrs. Marsh. “And maybe we should all learn a lesson from Sniffer when we’re tempted to do something we already know will hurt us.”
I roll my eyes, because I know she’s making a point. My black rabbit with a stripe down its back happened to be a jelly-filled doughnut I found in a box on the counter this morning. What? You know you would have wolfed it down just like me.
Mrs. Marsh points to my chart on her desk. “You know, DeeDee, you’ve been quite a regular lately. If you’re struggling to stabilize, it might be a good idea to go back to the hospital. That happens sometimes in the beginning.”
That’s not going to happen to me, I think. No way. I don’t know how Mami will pay for the medical bills without Papi’s insurance. And how can River and I do our detective work if I’m in the hospital? “I’ll be more careful,” I say.
When I get back to the classroom, I hang up my coat and scan the labels above the coat hooks. Oh My Gatos. There it is. RIVER RAMOS-HENRY.
I slide into my seat as the bell rings, keeping my eyes on my homework folder. I sneak a quick look and see that River is sitting on the opposite side of the room, very near the front. Mrs. Cruella is talking to a bowling-pin-shaped lady with big hoop earrings over in the corner. The lady puts what looks like a flip phone on a black cord around Mrs. Cruella’s neck.
Then they both talk to River while they push some buttons on the cell phone. River nods and the lady props herself up on the counter in the front of the room.
“Good morning everybody,” says Mrs. Cruella. “We have a new student, River, in our class. Let’s make him feel welcome.” And while Mrs. Cruella talks, the lady waggles her hands all around. I’m not being mean, but she looks like a wobbling lunatic, and River isn’t even looking at her.
“And because River is hard of hearing, we also have some resources that will help him be comfortable in our class. This is Miss Monaldo, a sign language interpreter, and this”—Mrs. Cruella points at the flip phone—“is an FM transmitter to bring my voice closer to River.”
Nancy asks, “Why doesn’t it sound any louder?”
Miss Monaldo moves her hands, signing Nancy’s question for River. I don’t get it. He understands just fine when I’m around him. Why does he need all these things?
Mrs. Cruella explains how the FM thing works and then she makes us all stand up and move our desks into a giant U shape. “This will be easier for River to be able to see who’s talking so he can participate in the class.”
When Mrs. Cruella isn’t looking, I
catch Samantha’s eye and shake my hands like a maniac, making fun of Miss Monaldo. Samantha covers up a giggle with her hand. I feel River’s eyes on me but I don’t look at him. Except for our new seating arrangement and Miss Monaldo up in the front, our very own no-sound mime, things go about the same as usual.
During our class discussion of Ragweed, the new book we started, Noodlenose says she thinks the author should write about people and not mice. She talks extremely loud when she answers questions, until Mrs. Cruella tells her it’s not necessary.
“Well, I want to make sure he can hear me,” she says, pointing at River.
“I can hear you,” River says. “And so can the kids in China.”
Everybody laughs. Except Noodlenose. Good one, I think.
Then River says he read Ragweed last year, in third grade, and when authors give human traits to animals it’s called anthropomorphism. “It makes us notice when Ragweed is a leader even though he’s only a little mouse. Underdogs don’t have to be bullied. If they stick together.”
Good grief, I think.
At recess River kicks the soccer ball around with some kids. I climb up to the top of the jungle gym where nobody can bother me. It’s hard not to notice River with his corkscrew spaghetti hair and his Bluetooth thingies, and when the ball flies past him onto the playground he runs right underneath me to get it. I see Nancy stick out her foot and trip him, but he doesn’t fall.
“I had a good trip, thanks,” he yells at her over his shoulder.
Colin runs up behind River and scrambles onto the first rung of the jungle gym. “Come on,” he says. River tosses him the ball but doesn’t follow, just weaves around under the bars. Then it starts to drizzle and the lunch supervisors send us inside early.
At lunchtime, I quickly scoot between Hannah and Nicole, just in case River tries to sit near me. But he doesn’t. He eats at the table with the other students who have teachers to help them. The kids with disabilities, who are different. And that’s best, isn’t it? I mean what if we have soup? The teachers at the special table can help him with his blue hand aid ball that holds any kind of tool, like a spoon or a pen. I can only see his back, and for just a second I wonder if anybody even asked him where he wanted to sit. Frosty school. Putting everybody in icy containers.
