Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  “I can give you a chance to retake the test, Emilia. But please study next time.”

  There’s a gigantic D in bloodred marker across the top of my test. If my mom found out I got a D, I think she would fly back on the next plane to annihilate me.

  “Promise me you’ll study for the retest?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m sorry, Ms. Brennen.”

  “It’s okay, Emilia. I know your mom was gone last week and your daddy just got back. Make sure you study, though, okay?”

  “I will,” I say.

  I thank Ms. Brennen and head out to the hallway. When I step outside, I can hear Gus before I see him, and it gives me the shivers. He’s in a full-blown argument with Clarissa. Students stand around them as they bark at each other and say things that are awful.

  Clarissa yells at Gus that he has no right to talk to her this way.

  “You’re not even from here!” she barks.

  “I’m from Alabama!” Gus shouts back. “But I live here now!”

  “Nobody asked you to move, though!”

  At first, I can’t believe Clarissa says these things. Actually, that’s not exactly true. She’s always been cold to Gus. But this is deep-freezer cold.

  “Why does he need your permission, Clarissa?” I finally say. The crowd of kids turns to me and I step back a little. I don’t like all this attention.

  “Stay out of it, Emi Rose,” Clarissa says. “Why are you suddenly interested in immigration and laws and school districts? You’re spreading lies about your home. Who’s going to want to come visit the place you describe? You should fail your project.”

  “Everything I said is true, Clarissa,” I say through gritted teeth. “I can send you the links—”

  “It’s not like any of that affects you or anything. You were born here. You speak English properly, not like Gustavo. You’re one of us, Emi Rose. You’re betraying your neighbors. It’s sad.”

  Clarissa’s words electrocute me. It’s a fast, hot jolt to the skin followed by an intense sting. I got zapped for real when I was around ten, a few weeks after Gus had moved to Merryville. There was a loose wire in the garage and I picked it up. Señor Orestes rushed over just in time to help me. But I remember the feeling—the vibration in my head, like an aftershock.

  I try to find anything to get me out of this hallway, but I’m dizzy and I can hardly hear over the arguing. Gus mouths something to me, but I don’t respond. Clarissa continues to yell at him. And that gets other students snapping at each other. They’re on both sides of me and I’m caught in the middle, blocked from the hallway so I can’t run away. Mr. Richt appears with a few other teachers to break up the arguing. He puts his hands up and calls for calm. I take my backpack and leave the second I have an opening, without saying anything to Gus or Clarissa.

  When I get far enough away, I stop next to the water fountain. The water shoots out long streams. I have to step back a little or I’ll get soaked. Everything will get soaked.

  When I get home after sitting in the woods on a tree stump to think, I hear the three words I hate more than anything else in the world.

  “Hay que limpiar,” Abuela says. “A clean house will make your papi happy. Then we can cook something nice for him.”

  “All he does is sit on the sofa or go to his room,” I reply. “I don’t think he cares what the rest of the house is like.”

  “He’s going through a lot, mi’ja. It’s up and down. We have to be patient.”

  I’m tired of hearing that I need to be more patient with everything.

  Abuela takes out the mop and broom and leans them against the wall. Then she turns on the radio to La Nueva Mega, a radio station based out of Atlanta. Abuela really needs to learn how to read a room. Now is not the time for Latin pop songs.

  “It’s always good to learn how to clean up after yourself,” she says, wiggling her hips. “And, of course, to cook.”

  “I know how to cook, Abuela.”

  “Well, I haven’t given you my secret picadillo recipe yet,” she says. “That used to be your father’s favorite when he was your age.”

  She starts sweeping and dusting around the dining room table.

  “Pour the Mistolín into the bucket,” she says, pointing to the floor cleaner that smells like lavender and really tart limes.

  I dip the mop in and drag it across the floor like it’s a lazy dance partner. Abuela doesn’t seem to notice, because she moves from sweeping to dusting to setting the table at a pace that’s like she drank twenty cafés con leche.

  She pauses to look at me and takes the mop from my hands.

  “Mi’ja,” she says. “You’re not mopping at all. ¡Dale con gusto!”

  Mom, Abuela, and I used to do the chores around the house together. I would sweep; Mom would do the laundry. Now Abuela is telling me to help her do everything while my dad sits upstairs watching television? It’s ridiculous.

  “Abuela,” I say. “Papi should be down here helping us clean.”

  “Mi’ja, your father is recovering. He needs time. Oh, and look at your socks,” she comments.

  I have one bright-orange-and-yellow sock on my left foot and one blue with white polka dots on the other. I’ve had them on since this morning. Why do I need matching socks to clean the house?

  “I like it,” I say, admiring them.

  Abuela exhales and shakes her head. “Bueno,” she says, “let’s go make the picadillo with arroz y frijoles negros.”

  “I hate black beans, Abuela.”

  “Are you not feeling well?” Abuela checks my forehead for a fever. “What kind of person doesn’t like frijoles negros?”

  “I know,” I say, feeling irritated. “I guess I’m a bad Cuban. I feel like getting bánh mì instead.”

  “¿Cómo que bánh mì?” she asks, tilting her head. “You’re not Vietnamese.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t like Vietnamese food. I love that place in Cartersville we went to with Mom a few months ago.”

  “A mi no me gustó,” she says. “Too spicy.”

  “Well, I think it’s delicious.”

  “Emilia, that place is thirty minutes away. We’re not going to go eat that right now. Vamos, let’s prep for dinner.”

  I clench my jaw and march angrily to the kitchen.

  * * *

  At dinner, Abuela puts out the picadillo. We cut little potatoes and fry them into crispy cubes and add them to the ground beef and olives. There’s a tray of black beans and rice, but I just move the beans to the side.

  My dad eats in silence while Abuela goes on and on about how we cleaned the house and made the meal. She asks my dad how he’s feeling and if he likes the food and blah, blah, blah.

  “Y Emilia and I are going to go to Atlanta over the weekend to maybe look for dresses,” Abuela tells my dad, who is still checked out.

  “You know, Emilia,” Abuela says. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s a good thing you haven’t gone to the woods with Gustavo in a few days. You need to help me around the house more. You’re becoming a señorita and that comes with responsibilities.”

  I’ve had it. No más.

  “Abuela, what is wrong with you?!” I say, standing up from the table. “This talk about being ‘una mujercita’ and planning my quinceañera and now you’re telling me that I shouldn’t hang out with Gus. Well, guess what?! I don’t like to clean, and I don’t want to cook and I’m fine with my socks and church can be boring even if I made a promise to God! And I. Like. Spicy! Gah, just leave me alone already!”

  Oh no. The Coke bottle with lemon juice has officially exploded.

  “And you,” I tell my dad as my anger surges. “Papi, you just want to work on that Shelby, Green Hornet, whatever you call it, and watch TV. You don’t even take a second to explain why? Why didn’t you respond to my videos? You could have sent at l
east one note. At least told me one time that you liked them, hated them, anything. But you didn’t. And now when I ask you, you just get upset. Well, you know what, Papi?”

  Tears stream down my face. It’s slick, like the rain that makes it hard for tires to get traction on a road.

  “You know what?” I repeat, wiping my face. “I don’t care anymore, Papi. I don’t care that you didn’t respond or that you don’t want to talk or that you won’t even think about getting some help. You leave me alone too!”

  I take off, dragging my napkin halfway to the base of the stairs before it falls to the floor. I run to my room and instead of diving into my pillow, I pace around with my jaw clenched and my hands balled into fists. I’m so sick of everything and everyone!

  I grab my phone to open my puzzle app. I want to do the ten-thousand-piece puzzle and not come out of my room until I’m done.

  Before I open the app, I see an unread text. Mom has sent me a message.

  Mom: Big News!!! Call you soon!!!

  My phone rings and I answer it.

  “Hi, Mami.”

  “Hey, mi amor! How are you? You okay? You sound upset.”

  “It’s nothing. Abuela is being super-annoying. And I yelled at Papi and I don’t know. When are you coming home?”

  “I’m so sorry, honey. I’ll be home Thursday.”

  “Everything is a mess right now.”

  “We’ll talk through it, okay? Don’t worry.”

  My mom says that because she doesn’t know the whole story.

  “You should talk to Gus. How’s he doing?”

  “We haven’t spoken in a few days. He’s mad at me. Then he got into a big fight with Clarissa at school today and she said something that was really hurtful, but I don’t even know what to think about it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that my project is nothing but lies and that talking bad about Merryville is like I’m betraying my neighbors. I froze and didn’t say anything, and Gus watched me like he was totally over our friendship.”

  “Aye, esa niña. I’m going to have a talk with her mother.” I hear Mom exhale loudly. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with all that, mi amor. I’ll also call Mrs. Jenk—”

  “Mami! I don’t want you calling Clarissa’s mom or Mrs. Jenkins. There are other kids who could use some help too. Like Barry, who seems to be struggling like me, but nobody cares. Besides, how can other students see Mrs. Jenkins if you make me talk to her all her time? There are problems bigger than mine that need attention.”

  All I hear is the hum of the phone under the silence. Mom takes another deep breath and continues. “Okay, mi amor. You’re right. Every student should get the same amount of help, and there are other important things that need attention. Geez, I leave for a few days and you grow so much. You’re not going to need me soon.”

  “Of course I’m going to need you, Mom,” I say, fidgeting with my puzzle app.

  “So, how about some good news?”

  I start to feel nervous again, and I don’t know why.

  “I just had an amazing meeting with a company. . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not only do they want to develop my app, they want to hire me to work full-time! Isn’t that incredible? I haven’t said yes, but I’m seriously considering. I can’t wait to tell you all about it. The Bay Area is amazing!”

  I put the phone on mute. What is going on right now?

  “Emilia, you there? Hello?”

  I take the phone off mute.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  What’s wrong? What’s wrong?! She’s just been offered a job in San Francisco and she’s “seriously considering,” that’s what’s wrong! I’ve already yelled at Abuela and Papi. I just don’t have the energy to yell at my mom, too.

  “Honey, listen. We’ll talk about the details when I’m home. Nothing is set in stone. . . .”

  I look at my socks again. I smell the arroz y frijoles and the picadillo downstairs. Nothing is right about any of this. Nothing. My mom says this is the opportunity of her life. She says she’ll be able to give me everything she’s always wanted to give me.

  I don’t tell her that the only thing I need is for her to be here. At home. In Merryville. Helping me talk through all these problems. I don’t tell her that I don’t care about San Francisco.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  That’s all I say. The phone is quiet.

  “Does that sound like a plan?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Bye, Mom.”

  “A little change might be good for all of us, mi amor.”

  “For you, maybe. Anyway, I gotta go. I have to study for a math retake.”

  “Maybe I can help. I have some time now.”

  “No, I can do it myself. Thanks. Bye.”

  “Okay? Bye, baby. I love you.”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up the phone. I know she feels bad. I could hear it in her voice. After sending every ounce of anger I have inside to the people I love most in this world, I don’t even have the energy to cry anymore. I wait awhile to see if my dad or Abuela knocks or comes into my room. But neither of them do. I hardly even hear a footstep.

  I’m in the office early the next morning, waiting to talk to Mrs. Jenkins about my math test. I’m sitting in a chair next to Principal Andrews’s office when I overhear a conversation she’s having with Mr. Richt.

  “I told you to keep the history project light.”

  “A tourism guide is light,” Mr. Richt says.

  “Come on, Mike. You encouraged them to go off course.”

  “I’m proud of them,” he says. “Emilia especially. That kid sparked a great discussion and the entire class followed her lead.”

  My heart skips a few beats. Overhearing your favorite teacher say they’re proud of you feels really good.

  “Many parents have called to complain saying the project is too controversial. That it’s causing their kids to act out disrespectfully.”

  “They are gathering, analyzing, and synthesizing information related to social studies topics and applying that information to contemporary problems.”

  “I appreciate you adhering to school district standards, Mike,” Principal Andrews tells Mr. Richt, “and the creative nature of the project. But students fighting in the hallways and yelling at each other is not how they should process information. Come up with something else. Something not controversial, okay? I don’t want to have to write you up again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mr. Richt doesn’t argue further. He doesn’t say much more, actually. Like he’s just given up. Mr. Richt leaves the room looking defeated. When he walks past me, he just gives me a weak smile. A few minutes later Mrs. Jenkins calls me into her office to talk.

  “Hey there, Emilia.” She tells me that some teachers have said I was extra distracted in class last week. I mostly stay quiet. My brain is still exhausted.

  “Your mom will be home soon,” she says. “I’m sure she’ll get you back on track.”

  I think about the train tracks in town. How they run through Merryville, most times without stopping. Would anyone riding those trains know anything about what goes on here? Would they bother to look for Park View if they visited—get to know the people who help make this place so vibrant? Would they bother to find out?

  “Emilia, are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, and ask to be excused.

  “Sure.”

  Before I leave, I say, “Mrs. Jenkins?”

  “Yes, Emilia?”

  “You should check in with Barry Johnson every once in a while. He’s really smart. Actually, there are lots of kids who might need a little attention. Not just me.”

  I don’t wait for her to answer. “Have a nice day,” I tell her, closing the do
or behind me.

  * * *

  Homeroom feels tense and quiet.

  I sit down at my desk and watch Gus walk into class. We make eye contact and then he moves over to his locker to put away his things. When he sits down, I offer a hello.

  “Hi,” he says, sounding distant.

  “I hate everything that’s happened,” I tell him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Like a horror movie.”

  “It’s not a horror movie, Emilia. It’s real life.”

  “I’m sorry for Clarissa’s party, Gus.”

  “Do you have any idea what happened that night?” he asks. “My apá stays in town so he can pick me up from Clarissa’s house. And on the way back, we got stopped by a cop!”

  My heart drops to my knees. I immediately think about the articles I read.

  “They said my dad was speeding, pero no era cierto. Luckily, we had our documentation with us ¿pero si no? And Barry hasn’t spoken to me since because I bailed on our movie night and storyboarding.”

  I can’t believe all of that happened because I was too distracted with my own stuff.

  “I told you I didn’t want to go to Clarissa’s stupid party.”

  His voice gets higher than I’ve ever heard it.

  “And yesterday—you just left! You didn’t even stick around to put Clarissa in her place. I’m starting to think she’s right. Maybe you don’t understand.”

  His words sting. It’s like a sunburn in the middle of summer and I have no sunscreen or aloe to cool it down.

  After the Pledge of Allegiance, moment of silence, and morning announcements, Mr. Richt stands up from his desk to get everyone’s attention. Homeroom is over and he’s trying to start first-period social studies.

  “Listen up, folks. We’re going to switch gears. I know you were all looking forward to presenting your projects, but there’s been a change in the curriculum.”

  Everyone groans.

  “So, no more project?” Richie asks.

  “Actually, we’re just going to swap topics,” Mr. Richt says. “Instead of the individual tourism guides, I’d like you all to attend the school board meeting on Thursday, after which we can discuss democracy.”