For my family
1
There’s nothing worse than being “it.” We’ve been playing tag at recess for days, and no matter what I do, I can’t catch any of the other kids. Finally today, Krysta announced that the girls are going to choreograph a dance number instead. I don’t know if she did it out of pity for me, but either way, I’m relieved.
I hang back as the other girls cluster around Krysta, their faces silently begging her to pick them. Nearly all of them wear their hair in a thick braid like hers. They might not actually like her, but they want to be included in whatever she’s doing. That’s how it’s always been, even before her dad was elected mayor of Westbrook.
“I only need three people,” Krysta says from her perch on top of the monkey bars.
A sigh of disappointment echoes around the jungle gym. There are twelve girls in Miss Patel’s fifth-grade class.
I know that Krysta won’t pick me, not when I’m the least-athletic girl in our grade. And really, I don’t even like to dance. I’d rather find a quiet spot and write poems in my notebook instead. But even if I’m not in the group, I’ll have to watch every minute of their dance practice. I can’t risk being off on my own without Krysta to protect me.
I glance across the playground at Daniel Porter. He’s sitting on a bench pretending to read a book while a couple of the other kids pelt him with acorns when the teacher isn’t looking. Daniel was born here but only moved back into the country two years ago. That means the magic hasn’t had time to build up in his system yet. He’s smaller and weaker like I am, but he’s the only kid in the entire school who wears glasses. That makes him even more of a target.
“Mira,” Krysta calls out.
I yank my eyes away from Daniel. “What?”
“Come on. You’re in.”
Eileen is already at Krysta’s side, of course. The three of us always sit together at lunch. Yuli is there too, which makes sense. She might be shy, but she won a big dance competition last year. That leaves one spot. I guess it’s mine.
As I walk over, the girls who weren’t chosen glare at me so hard, it burns. Everyone knows I don’t belong in the dance group. But Krysta is my best friend, and I guess this time she’s decided that’s enough.
Krysta convinces one of the teachers to let us play music, an old tune that Krysta says was popular when her parents were kids. She shoos a couple of boys off the grass because they’re in her way, and then she lines the three of us up to teach us the dance. When I’m standing next to the other girls, it’s even more obvious how scrawny I am. A chicken surrounded by swans.
We run through the moves over and over. They look effortless when Eileen and Yuli and Krysta do them but feel awkward and stiff on my body. Krysta yells at the other girls, but she doesn’t say a word to me as I stumble and flail. Somehow, that’s even worse.
By the end of recess, my bangs are plastered to my forehead, and I’m gulping for air like a fish.
“Did you, like, wet your hair or something?” Eileen asks when we’re filing back into our classroom. Her golden forehead is glowing, of course, and her pale pink shirt looks as though she just ironed it.
“No,” I mumble, embarrassed. “It’s sweat.”
“Oh right!” she says. “Sometimes I forget that you’re, like, not from here.” Coming from her, it’s actually sort of a compliment.
Yuli gives me a small smile as she walks by. “Good job, Mira,” she says softly. We both know it’s not true, but it’s still nice of her to say it.
I slide into my seat and quickly dab at my damp forehead with the edge of my sleeve. What would it take for the other girls to sweat this much? A marathon?
“We can work on the steps after school,” Krysta says as she sits down at the desk beside mine, tossing her dark braid over her shoulder.
“Don’t you have fencing?” I ask. Or archery or karate or piano lessons. Since Krysta and I live on the same street, we ride our bikes to school together in the mornings, but her afternoons are always booked up.
Her dark eyes twinkle. “Mom fired my coach for being too easy on me, so I get the day off. Want to come over?”
“I’ll have to ask my dad,” I say, hoping he’ll say yes. Tata hasn’t had any odd jobs lined up in weeks, so he’s been tearing up our garden instead. Getting out of helping him for one afternoon would be a nice change.
“Everyone, please settle down!” Miss Patel calls out. “We’ll get to our history lesson in a minute, but first I have an announcement about our spring wildflower project.”
I let out a quiet sigh. The other day, Miss Patel explained how each of us would be collecting and labeling wildflowers and then presenting our “top picks” to the class. I’d much rather be writing about flowers than hunting through bushes to find them. Then again, Tata was so excited when I told him about the project that he even smiled a little. He thinks I might be able to help him save the dying flower beds in front of our house.
“Remember that for the project you’ll be working in pairs,” Miss Patel goes on.
Krysta and Eileen instantly lock eyes across the room. I know it’s nothing personal. Krysta can’t risk pairing up with me when her mom expects her to be perfect. Usually my teachers are fine with me working by myself.
Then Miss Patel adds, “I’ve gone ahead and chosen your partners.”
Everyone groans, and Anton, who’s always asking questions, instantly raises his hand. “Why don’t we get to pick?”
“Because I want you to stretch yourselves,” Miss Patel says before she starts going through the list. Krysta rolls her eyes when she and Anton are partnered up. At last, Miss Patel reads two final names. Mira and Daniel.
No. No!
I’ve been so careful about never talking to Daniel or even standing near him, in case people think we’re the same. Now we’ll have to get up in front of the whole class and do a presentation together?
I shoot a glance in Daniel’s direction. His messy hair hangs in his face, and his skinny legs stick out from under his desk as if they’re too long for the rest of his body. He’s staring out the window, not even pretending to pay attention.
“Please make sure to meet with your partners this week to plan,” Miss Patel says. She passes out instructions along with stacks of wildflower guides that list all the common plants growing in our area.
Krysta flashes me a sympathetic look as my pulse pounds harder and harder.
Miss Patel is already moving on to our history lesson. I’ll have to go see her during lunch. I can’t be paired up with Daniel, not when I’ve tried so hard to fit in. Not when it could ruin everything.
2
It stinks that you have to work with Daniel Porter,” Krysta says as we walk our bikes home that afternoon. “Anton is annoying, but at least he’s not a freak.”
“I tried to get Miss Patel to let me work by myself,” I say, “but she told me I need to give Daniel a chance.”
“A chance to what? Infect you with his weirdness?” Krysta laughs as my insides twist. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “I’ll protect you.” She does a few over-the-top karate moves, and I have to laugh too.
We get to the center of town and walk along Chestnut Street, past shops with nearly identical green awnings and lollipop-colored doors. Krysta stops suddenly at a store that features a display of polka-dot umbrellas in the window.
“What is it?” I ask.
She smiles. “There once was a man with an umbrella….”
I smile back, understanding. “He was a very nice fella,” I say. Our limerick game is my favorite. It’s the only time I can actually keep up with Krysta. I may not have any amazing talents like the other kids at school, but I do love poetry.
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nbsp; She thinks for a second. “But one day it dropped….”
“It jumped, skipped, and hopped.”
Krysta frowns. “So he… ate some mozzarella?”
We both start giggling. “Mozzarella? Really?” I tease.
“Hey, it rhymed! I call that a tie.”
With Krysta a tie is as close to victory as anyone will ever get. Most people here have one or two things they’re really good at. Yuli is a great dancer, Eileen is top in math, and Anton is good at asking questions and at drawing. But Krysta is the best at winning.
We round the corner onto Main Street, and suddenly a chorus of angry voices echoes off the brick buildings around us.
“Come on. Let’s see what’s going on,” Krysta says.
We stop across from the town hall, where half a dozen protestors are sprinkled on the lawn, waving signs that say things like SAVE OUR AMBER and AMBER IS OURS. They seem to be trying to start up a chant, but they’re all shouting over one another. It’s obvious that no one’s in charge.
“Amber” is the word that people in this country use for magic. Back home, people whispered it as if the very word were enchanted. Here in Amberland, people say the word at full volume, as if it’s no different from “ice cream” or “car.”
“What are they protesting?” I ask Krysta, trying to make sense of the signs.
“People who aren’t supposed to be in the country but are using Amber anyway,” Krysta tells me. “My dad said a small protest happened the other day too.”
“How do people who aren’t supposed to be here get their ration cards?” I ask. No ration card means no Amber. My parents applied for our cards years ago, and even though they’ve been fast-tracked thanks to Mama’s job at the university, we’re still on the waiting list.
Krysta shrugs. “They have fake papers and forged ration cards and stuff.”
“But how do they even get into Amberland?”
Whenever Tata watches the news, the anchors on TV talk about giant border walls and magically strong guards. We were only allowed in because Mama is one of a team of chemists working to figure out ways to make more Amber. And we still had to pass a ton of interviews and exams and screenings to get into the country.
I can tell by the curved smile on Krysta’s lips that there’s something she can’t wait to share. “Want to hear a secret?” she asks.
I nod.
“I found out something about my grandparents,” she says, leaning over her handlebars. “My mom’s family has been here forever, but my dad’s parents crossed the border before he was born, even though they weren’t supposed to. They were hidden under a fake floor in a car. Can you imagine?”
“Wow,” I say.
“And that’s nothing. My dad said that sometimes people jump onto trains and hold on to the top all the way here. Sometimes they fall off and die.”
What she’s saying is so horrible that I don’t let myself imagine it. Instead I ask, “Why would your parents tell you all this?”
“They didn’t,” she says with a laugh. “I overheard them arguing last night. Now that Dad’s running for reelection, Mom’s scared someone will find out the truth about his family and ruin his chances.” Her voice grows serious. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“I won’t.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe your grandparents would break the rules like that.”
“Everyone bends the rules, Mira,” Krysta says, rolling her eyes. “By the way, my dad’s having some boring campaign fund-raiser at our house this weekend. Can you come so I don’t go crazy?”
“Sure.” As much as the idea of being around Mayor Perez and all of those other “important people” terrifies me, I can tell that Krysta really needs me. She once told me that I’m the only one who likes her for her, not for how perfect she is. I guess that’s why we’re friends, because she’s the only person who doesn’t seem to mind that I’ll never be perfect.
“Make sure to dress fancy,” she says. Suddenly she lets out a sound of disgust. “Ew. What’s that on her face?”
I follow her gaze and spot a woman dressed in a planet Earth costume. She’s off on her own, away from the other protestors, and is encased in a giant papier-mâché globe. In her hands is a sign that says AMBER BELONGS TO ALL OF MY CHILDREN! There’s a long scar on her cheek, which makes her stand out even more among the perfect, healthy faces.
In school we learned about the tiny percentage of the population who choose not to use Amber. This woman must be one of those people. I don’t understand why someone would refuse magic when it’s simply handed to them, especially when the woman’s scar would probably disappear if she took the right dose every day.
The woman catches my eye across the street and gives me a bright smile. I snap my gaze away. I can almost hear Tata scolding me for gawking at what he’d call “troublemakers.” Blend in. Don’t get noticed.
“Come on. Let’s go,” I say. Then I hop onto my bike and pedal away.
3
After we stop to ask Tata if I can go over to Krysta’s, we head up the street to the Perezes’ house.
Even though it’s on the same road as mine, Krysta’s house might as well be in a different universe. The rest of the homes are small ranches with two bedrooms, built more than fifty years ago. Krysta’s was built right before she was born, a giant white dragon plopped on top of the hill. Sometimes I imagine it’s going to open its mouth and gobble up all of the little huts below.
I’m out of breath by the time we hike up Krysta’s impossibly long driveway. Of course, she’s not the least bit winded.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get a snack and practice our routine in the backyard. Then we can go work on our writing journals.”
Our journals are the only homework Krysta and I do together. Miss Patel doesn’t grade them, but Krysta still wants hers to be perfect. I help her find the exact right words so that her ideas sound better. In exchange, Krysta reads my poems and tells me which ones are the best. If Krysta says she likes something, then I know it’s good.
But as we walk up Krysta’s walkway, Mrs. Perez comes out the front door. She’s wearing bright pink sneakers that perfectly match the headband in her blond hair. Her arms are high above her head in a graceful stretch.
The instant I spot her, my hands start sweating. As Krysta waves hello, I try to step behind one of the neatly trimmed rhododendron bushes that surround the house, hoping Mrs. Perez will speed past without noticing me. But her metal-gray eyes lock on to mine, and she stops.
“Hi there! Now, let me see if I can finally get your name right. Vow—” She shakes her head. “No, don’t tell me how to pronounce it! Vwoo… Voodoomeera? Is that right?”
She’s not even close.
“Włodzimira,” I say, trying not to cough at her overpowering perfume.
Mrs. Perez smacks her thigh as if she’s punishing herself for getting my name wrong again. “Next time, I’ll have it!” she says.
“Call her ‘Mira,’ Mom,” Krysta breaks in. “Everyone else does.”
I’ve told Mrs. Perez this for years now, but she never seems to hear me. I think she only wants to prove to the world that she can get it perfect.
“You should take pride in your name,” Mrs. Perez says, as though I should be embarrassed to use a nickname. Even though it’s one that her daughter gave me. “Although, I bet in your country, Voodoomeera is pretty common, isn’t it?”
It’s not, actually. Mama always teases Tata for insisting on my old-fashioned name when I was born. Before I can explain that, Mrs. Perez clears her throat and adds, “By the way, could you let your parents know that some people have been complaining about their… landscaping? The neighborhood association has certain standards, you know.”
Even though Mrs. Perez looks nothing like her daughter, sometimes she sounds exactly like her.
“I’d tell them myself,” Mrs. Perez goes on, “but I’m never sure if they can understand me. Your father especially.”
My face grows hot. Sh
e’s right. Tata won’t bother trying to learn the language past the minimum he had to know for the exam to enter the country. Mama complains that he’s being stubborn, but I think he’s embarrassed about his accent.
“Mom!” Krysta says. “Who cares? They’re just flowers.”
But it’s obvious that to Mrs. Perez they’re much more than that.
“I’ll tell them,” I say.
“Good girl.” She turns back to Krysta. “What are you two up to?”
“Nothing,” Krysta says quickly. Nobody—especially not Mrs. Perez—knows that I help Krysta with her writing journal. Being perfect means she’s not supposed to need help with anything.
“Well, I’m off for a walk. Keep out of the yard.”
“What?” Krysta cries. “But we were going to—”
“Your father has some election business to attend to,” Mrs. Perez says. “You need to stay upstairs until he’s done, all right?”
I can’t imagine what “election business” Mayor Perez might be conducting in the backyard, and I’m surprised that for once Krysta doesn’t argue. Instead she says, “Fine. Come on, Mira. Let’s go inside.”
We park our bikes and head up the front steps, as Mrs. Perez hurries down the driveway, her arms swinging at her sides like useless wings.
4
When I get home, Tata is tearing up the garden again. At the sight of me, he sits back and surveys the withered flowers he planted last week.
“It’s the soil,” Tata says. “Or maybe it’s the water. What do I know? I’m a doctor, not a gardener.” His face darkens. “At least, I was a doctor.”
The medical license Tata earned back home doesn’t count here, so when he’s not working in the garden, he does odd jobs around town while I’m at school. Usually they’re the jobs no one else wants to do, like tearing up poison ivy or hauling away old junk. It’s no secret that he hates it, but it’s the only kind of work he can find.
He looks wistfully across the street at the Horowitzes’ yard with its giant lilies, so colorful that they barely look real. Those are nothing compared to the flowers in the other gardens on our street. Krysta’s family’s garden is the best in the whole neighborhood, of course. Her house is surrounded by a jungle year-round, no matter the weather. Our yard used to be nice when we first moved into our house, but Tata hasn’t been able to make it look like all the others since then.
The Wonder of Wildflowers Page 1
