Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  “That’s not cool, man.”

  “Jay, we had to work on a project at the beginning of the year and I did all the work.”

  “But you’re so smart!”

  “Forget it. I’ll do a guide to local agriculture. Or migrating birds. Anything but working with you again.”

  “All right,” Mr. Richt says, reading off class names. One by one, my classmates share the places they’re putting in their tourism guide.

  Lacey’s guide is about the town’s movie house and how it used to be a vaudeville theater in the 1920s. She says there can be daily tours of the old theater that end with a movie or show of some kind.

  Gus shares his movie poster with the class, and I’m not sure everyone gets it. They probably haven’t seen Pan’s Labyrinth.

  “Miss Torres?” Mr. Richt says. “You’re up.”

  My walk to the front of the class feels like hours. When I get there, my hands start shaking. I can see why public speaking freaks out Mom. I was going to ask her for tips, but I wasn’t sure if she’d text back in time. So I’m doing this on my own.

  “Miss Torres?”

  Mr. Richt signals for me to continue.

  “Sorry,” I say. I study my notes and take a deep breath.

  “Umm . . . I’ve lived here all my life, and what I think most people would like to visit in Merryville is, umm . . .”

  Gus gives me a thumbs-up.

  “My family likes to cook, and a lot of my memories have to do with food. I spend a lot of time with my grandma shopping for ingredients, so I thought I could take visitors to the place where we buy ingredients to make the food that makes us feel good.”

  “Wait,” Jay says. “Are you saying you’re taking visitors to Kroger? I wouldn’t go on that tour.”

  A few kids laugh, but they stop when Mr. Richt tells them quit it.

  “Kroger doesn’t sell specialty items to make Cuban food; only Don Carlos’s Grocery Latino does and—”

  “That’s not even in Merryville,” Clarissa interrupts while raising her hand.

  “Um, it’s in Park View, and Park View is in the same city, just a different neighborhood.”

  I see a few confused faces in the crowd, but I keep going. I know they’ll be interested in the next part.

  “Okay, so I asked Don Carlos when he opened his store, and he said 1996 because there was demand for it. I wanted to know why there was so much demand in 1996. Did you know that’s the year Atlanta hosted the Olympics?”

  I get excited all over again and I start talking about some of the other information I found.

  “Do you know how Atlanta built Olympic Village so fast? Immigrants. The government made it easy for immigrants to help. But guess what! After it was built they expected people to leave, but they didn’t. And there are laws trying to get rid of people even though the government basically invited them, and I’m wondering, Mr. Richt, why we aren’t learning about this in school because Georgia is all connected and what’s happening in other places affects Merryville. Oh, and I want to take tourists to the library because that’s where I learned all of this. They can get a library card and learn more for themselves. And finally, they should visit the Cherokee rose shrubs all over the Merryville woods because they’re pretty but they also tell us about the history of the Trail of Tears, which we really need to learn in school also!”

  I take a huge gulp of air because I think I forgot to breathe during my presentation. Everything came out—even stuff I didn’t write down. I turn toward Mr. Richt, a little embarrassed, but he nods like he’s impressed.

  “Wait,” Clarissa blurts out. “I mean, I love you and all, Emi Rose, but most of what you said has nothing to do with touring places in Merryville.”

  “Actually,” Mr. Richt says, “this is what I was hoping all of you would do: dig in. Ask big questions. Look into places that are personal and also have depth. Don’t be content with turning off your brains after class. For us to be tour guides, we have to analyze the information that’s around us. Tour guides are historians in some ways.”

  Part of me feels proud, but the other part really wishes Mr. Richt hadn’t said that about my project. Now everyone is going to think I was sucking up to him for a good grade.

  “Miss Torres even went so far as to connect history with present-day policies,” Mr. Richt adds.

  “I don’t get it,” Jay says.

  “Great work, Ms. Torres,” Mr. Richt says, ignoring Jay completely. “I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

  A lump sets in my throat as Mr. Richt walks back to his desk.

  * * *

  When class is over, Clarissa follows me into the hall.

  “Sorry I jumped in like that, Emi Rose,” she says. “I still think your project is more about Park View than Merryville, but I guess Mr. Richt didn’t want you to start all over, huh?”

  “I guess,” I tell her, but I know that’s not what he said at all.

  Clarissa has strong opinions. Last year, on a field trip to the Georgia Aquarium, Clarissa moved all the way up to the front of the school bus, right behind Mrs. Loretta, and kept giving her directions on how to get there. With her phone in hand, Clarissa would tell Mrs. Loretta to “exit here” and “turn right in three hundred feet.”

  You could hear Clarissa’s GPS app barking driving directions in a British accent while Clarissa repeated them. Mrs. Loretta mostly ignored her. I did see her roll her eyes once or twice in the rearview. Our science teacher finally told Clarissa to turn off her phone and let Mrs. Loretta drive.

  “Hello? Earth to Emi Rose?”

  “Hmm?”

  Clarissa stares at me with a sideways look.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  She takes my hand and walks with me down the hall.

  “Emi Rose, you’ve been one of my best friends since kindergarten. I don’t think you need to go ‘uncover’ things for some school project, you know? I mean, you’re Emi Rose! You’ve always been fun and creative, making cute projects for your daddy while he was away and things like that.”

  I try to say something, but she talks over me.

  “Bless your heart, you got so worked up in there, and I don’t want you to get stressed out. It worries me.” Clarissa smirks a little. “It’s just a school social studies project, Emi Rose. Don’t take it so seriously.”

  I feel like someone just shocked me. Like when you attach jumper cables the wrong way.

  “You poor thing,” Clarissa says. “Probably overwhelmed with your daddy being home and being all by yourself because your momma left.”

  “She’s on a work trip,” I snap. “And my abuela is here.”

  “Oh my goodness, your granny is the sweetest,” Clarissa says. “She’s such a good Christian.”

  I don’t even bother telling Clarissa that Abuela’s Catholic. What’s the point?

  “Can’t wait for the hang tonight, Emi Rose!” she says. “I confirmed at least twelve seventh graders are going to be there.”

  “It seems like this ‘hang’ is turning into a party,” I say.

  “Shush!” Clarissa says, drawing near. “If I say it’s a party, more people are going to want to come.”

  We pass Gus in the hall.

  “Hola, chicas.”

  Clarissa sighs deeply.

  “Hey, Gus,” I say.

  “I love your project topic, Emilia,” he tells me.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Yours too.”

  “Well, I’ve got an amazing actress playing multiple roles, so that’s a major reason it’s going to be awesome.”

  My shoulders relax.

  “Well . . .” Clarissa butts in. “She’s probably not going to have time, Gustavo, so you might want to find another actress.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Clarissa. You can be in it too if you like.”
<
br />   Clarissa laughs and pretends to wipe tears from her eyes.

  “Yeah, right, Gustavo!”

  “Well, thanks for letting me know how you really feel, Clarissa,” he says, then turns to me. “See you after school, Emilia?”

  “I’m going to go to the library, but after that, sure.”

  “Um,” Clarissa says. “You have plans later, Emi Rose. Don’t forget.”

  “And Gus is invited, right?”

  Clarissa watches Gus then turns back to me. It seems like she might be holding back a scream.

  “Why, of course,” she says flatly. “Otherwise, what kind of host would I be?”

  Gus shakes his head. “Catch you later, Emilia,” he says. He turns to Clarissa and bows. “Your Excellency.”

  My laugh echoes through the halls.

  Clarissa smirks. “I just love how he doesn’t care what other people think.”

  After school, I go to the library and see Mrs. Liz sitting behind the reference desk.

  “What brings you in today?” she asks.

  I tell Mrs. Liz about my presentation. She says the connections I’m making—from the jobs created because of the Olympics to the resulting immigration patterns to new policies—are fascinating.

  “Does that mean you want to look at the recent news and politics sections of some local newspapers? Maybe some opinion pieces, too?”

  “That’s probably a good start,” I say. “Do you think my visitors are going to be bored if I add too much stuff?”

  “Well, it’s your tour,” she says. “What would you want them to know about your town?”

  “If they start the tour at Don Carlos’s, I’d like them to know why he is here in the first place. And maybe get them to think about how his store helps the community.”

  “I think that’s wonderful. I’m sure plenty of tourists would want to know that.”

  “Can I use the microfilm machine?”

  “Of course!”

  It takes me a while to find my first useful article. I glance outside a few times to make sure it isn’t nighttime yet. I’ve been sitting for a long time, so I get up and stretch. Mami would probably be proud of my research.

  Mrs. Liz comes over to see what I’m up to.

  “Having a good stretch, Emilia?”

  “Mrs. Liz, do you know how many Latinos live in Georgia?”

  “I can’t say that I do, Emilia,” she says. “But I can do a quick search for that information, if you’d like.”

  “I can’t use the Internet,” I remind her.

  “Sweetie, I’m a librarian. My one job is to make sure my patrons have access to the information they need to educate themselves.”

  “This is why Merryville Library is a stop on my tour!”

  Mrs. Liz winks and starts typing. Her fingers move quickly across her keyboard.

  “According to the most recent available data from the Pew Research Center, there are over nine hundred thousand Latinos living in the state of Georgia.”

  Nine hundred thousand people. Some who were born here in Georgia, some in other parts of the United States, some in other countries. Students, shoppers at Don Carlos’s Grocery Latino, business owners, horror filmmakers.

  Just then, my phone buzzes with a text from Dad.

  Dad: Come meet me at the garage!

  He doesn’t offer any details, so I figure I should go straight to the shop to see what’s happening. It’s getting late anyway.

  “Hey, Mrs. Liz, I have to go. But thanks again for all your help.”

  “I’m at your service, Emilia,” she says. “Nothing makes me happier than feeding an inquisitive mind!”

  I’m not sure what she means. I start to go, but I think of one more question to ask.

  “Mrs. Liz, do you know where else I can find information about unfair laws? Where should I look?”

  She takes a moment to think about it.

  “Well, I can help you find resources if you stop by tomorrow,” she says. “Also, since you can’t use the Internet, maybe a parent or guardian can check out the American Civil Liberties Union website for you? That has a ton of information,” she says.

  I type that into my phone and wave at Mrs. Liz as I head out.

  * * *

  The sky is clear on my walk home, and I can feel the first signs of humidity in the air. It can get pretty cool in Merryville. It even snowed one year when I was younger. It wasn’t a big snowfall like they have in the Northeast. More like flurries. Papi was outside with me and together we raised our hands to the sky, mouths open wide so the snowflakes could land on our tongues.

  Abuela and Mami were on the porch. Mom was wrapped in her big fluffy sweatshirt and Abuela wore earmuffs and ski gloves that she’d bought when she saw the forecast. She kept telling us that we were going to get pneumonia. Whenever the temperature drops, Abuela insists I wear the warmest clothes to avoid getting sick.

  I’m excited to see my dad at the shop. I hope he’s feeling good today. I have a lot I want to tell him.

  * * *

  When I get there, Papi says he has a surprise for me.

  “I ordered it over the weekend and it’s at home. But I have to work on this hood first. It’s almost done.

  “Can I watch?”

  “You’re wearing closed-toe shoes, so that’s good. Now, let’s see if we have some safety gear that fits you.”

  I follow him to the tools and gloves and welding helmets. I try to put on a pair of coveralls hanging on a hook by the shed, but I look like I was stuffed into a potato sack with two drawstrings.

  “That’s not going to work,” Papi says, lifting the coveralls up so my head disappears inside the suit, which smells like an old gym bag.

  Next, Papi hands me a helmet. “Actually, hang on.”

  He rushes over to Abuela’s office while I wait, and he comes back with a helmet that looks like it belongs to an X-wing pilot. I try it on and it drops forward, and suddenly my head is surrounded by a sweaty sock smell. It’s like nobody has cleaned the inside of this helmet. Ever.

  I flip the shade down and everything goes dark. I can only make out tiny fractions of light from the outside. When a shadow approaches, I lift the shade. Papi hands me a fresh bandanna.

  “Don’t put that stinky thing on without your own bandanna. Plus, it’ll give you a little more support.”

  “I need a whole other head to fit into this, Papi,” I say, taking off the helmet and placing it back on the table.

  Papi digs for some protective goggles and hands them to me. “Use these and stay back here while I work.”

  “Why can’t I be close to you?”

  “The weld arc can literally make you blind. It’s like looking at the sun. And you don’t have any protective clothing that fits. Actually”—he takes off his long-sleeved flannel shirt and puts it on me—“better put this on as well. Just in case.”

  “Papi,” I say, my arms disappearing inside the long sleeves. “I’m like a hundred feet away from where you’re going to work. This seems like overkill.”

  “Just wear it, Sweet E. I always made sure my unit was safe above all else.”

  I grumble but agree to use the goggles and watch from a distance.

  He clamps the hood on top of the workbench outside. Before he slides down the shade on his helmet, he looks back and winks. Papi takes the welding gun and, with a flick of his finger, it lights up. The crack-crack-crack echoes across the shop as he bonds metal to metal, and I try not to look at the sparks.

  He welds a few tacks on the hood then stops.

  “So, what I’m doing here,” he says loudly while pointing to two small pieces of metal, “is making as straight a bead as I can, connecting these.”

  “Like it said in the book?” I yell back.

  “Yeah, but this isn’t a book,” he says. “You
have to be careful. The welding gun is incredibly hot.”

  As my dad gets back to work, I feel a rush of excitement. I want to use that welder so badly! Papi flips up his shade and inspects his weld. I look back at the helmet I tried on before. There’s a strap inside. I can tighten it so it fits better.

  While my dad’s busy, I pick up the helmet and pull the straps tighter. I take the bandanna and tie it around my head and keep my safety goggles on. The helmet is still pretty big, but it fits better. I dig around the box for gloves. When I find the smallest pair I can, I carefully make my way to my dad.

  He stops working immediately.

  “You’re not following the rules, Sweet E,” he says. “I asked you to stay over there.”

  “I put on all the gear, like you, so I thought maybe I could try to weld something. Maybe?”

  He shakes his head, but can’t help but grin.

  “Nothing stops you when you set your mind to something, huh?”

  “Nope,” I say, trying to make him smile.

  “All right,” he says, checking my helmet to make sure it’s secure enough. “One highly supervised weld. Okay? No more.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Papi clamps down the curved metal onto the workbench then hands me the welding gun. I get used to how it feels while my dad steadies my hand.

  “It can burn you. Be careful, okay?”

  I nod in excitement.

  Papi says a bead is when the tip of the welding gun melts the metal, creating a line that connects pieces to one another. He lets go of my hand and steps back. The gloves I have on are big and hard to move with, but I try to keep steady. I can feel the intense heat waiting to be released.

  “Aim, then flip the shade down when you’re ready,” Dad says, pointing to the helmet.

  I do as Papi says, and I can barely see through the dark glass. My breathing echoes inside the helmet, but it doesn’t fog. I feel secure even though the helmet is still too big. I pull the trigger on the welding gun as it touches the metal.

  The heat rises and pours out of the gun, sending sparks in every direction. The dark glass protecting my eyes lights up, and the clack-clack-clack illuminates sparks all around me like stars dancing on a moonless night. They die down as I release the trigger. I place the welding gun safely on the workbench and flip up my shade.