“The U.S. government prefers a neutral expression, sir.”
Now I smile.
The lady motions for him to take the stool in front of the white screen. Dad makes his expression “neutral” too.
Outside, Mom takes one car to her night class. The rest of us take the other car home.
After homework, I sit cross-legged on my desk chair and open my laptop. Mom said Grandma’s test results were due back in a few days. I hope she’s online. She usually checks email after her supper, which is before supper in our time zone. I type,
Hey, Grandma.
Hey, sweet pea. Grandma’s message pops up on a chat screen. How’s Jayden?
I texted her about Jayden a few days ago, pretending he was just a nice kid I met. In two seconds she figured out that I liked him.
He’s great.
But . . . ?
Grandma always knows when I’m holding back. The one thing I’m worried about with Jayden is that he’s sticking me in the friend zone. Maybe she can help.
How do I get him to like me? I type.
Ah. Little one, right there is your problem.
Where?
You want to know the secret?
Well, duh! I send her just ?
Don’t try.
What?
You can’t make him like you. If he likes you, he likes you. If not, fine. Don’t “get him” to like you.
I think about this. My cursor blinks.
And if you change yourself to get anyone to like you, *I* won’t like you, she types.
You’re kidding, right?
Nope. I’ll always love you, but I’ll only LIKE you if you stay true to yourself.
I reread her sentence. I don’t know what it means. Like, love. True to yourself. What if “myself” is boring? Or just lame?
Then figure out what makes you interesting. Do you know what I was doing when your grandpa called me for a first date? I was hiking the Appalachian Trail! My roommate had to take a message.
How long did he wait?
I hiked over 300 miles through four states right after college. I didn’t come home for five weeks.
Over a month?
He always said I was worth the wait. But see? Don’t wait around. Do something interesting. If you make your life interesting, that boy, and plenty of other people, will want to be part of it. Have you heard of gopher tortoises?
Just separate gophers and tortoises, I joke.
The gopher tortoise is a land turtle we have out here, about the size of your head. It’s called a keystone species because when it makes its burrow in the sand, hundreds of other species move in, too, from rabbits to rattlesnakes.
And there’s still enough room for the tortoise?
Sure. They dig a long, deep, sandy burrow. Plenty of room. Even owls move in.
I think I see what she’s getting at, but I’m not quite sure. So are you saying I’m a tortoise?
I’m saying you are a keystone. Just do your thing, and the right friends will come along. If this Jayden doesn’t like you, he’s not worth it.
I guess.
You guess? What are you afraid of—that he won’t like the real Quijana? Don’t let fear narrow your life. Be YOU.
WHO IS THAT? I want to type back. But I send her a heart emoji instead.
Grandma seems strong. So strong that I almost forget she’s sick. My feelings clear; she’s telling me something to remember.
Do something interesting. Don’t let fear narrow your life.
We say I love yous, and I’m alone with my laptop—and with a big question mark where my real self is supposed to be. I do love to sing, and I’m even learning to read music in choir.
Do something interesting. I type learn guitar into a search engine, surprising myself, since I told Dad no to guitar. But that’s because he would teach me Spanish boleros, instead of the songs I like. But what if I could play my own music? Sing and strum. Compose a song of my own and accompany myself . . . I picture myself on a stage, alone, with a mic and a guitar.
My hand stops in the air above the Enter key. I don’t want Dad to find my web history and ask me about it. I can already hear him saying, “¡Estupendo!” and making a big deal. I know he wants to be the one to teach me and pass down the tradition, but I have my own songs to sing. I push Dad aside. I think of Grandma and her adventures. ENTER.
YouTube shows me a long list of how-to videos. I pick “Learn Guitar in Ten Minutes a Day.” The lady on-screen demonstrates a chord called G, then C, then D. With these three, she can play a whole song! Then she scrolls a list of songs that can all be played with only these chords. I can do that, I think. One set of chords, one song. I’ll borrow Dad’s guitar while he’s picking up Memito from pre-K or when he and Mom come home late. My life is full of secrets all of a sudden, but this is one I’ll share someday. Just not until I learn my own tunes.
I pick a song that makes me smile, whose melody is like running up stairs made of sunshine. Not for Dad, not even for Grandma. Just for me.
AFTER SUPPER, I TEXT GRANDMA AGAIN. I can’t believe I forgot to tell her about the bike trip.
Biking 30 miles on Sunday with J and our friend Zuri.
I attach a map of the Eagle Lake Trail.
Love it! Take water, she writes back.
Dad reads Memito a bedtime story and Mom studies, while I take a walk in the last rays of sun. Green leaves hold to their branches, but I smell a crispness and snap that means fall.
Down the street, I see a man setting up a table in his garage. I stroll closer and find a couch on the lawn, lamps with missing shades, and a ratty recliner perched on the driveway. A woman looks up from a deep box to wave at me.
“Is this a garage sale?” I ask.
“I hope so,” she says, wiping her forehead. “It’s fixin’ to be, anyway.”
“You’re going to sell all this stuff tomorrow?”
“If we’re lucky,” says the man.
My thoughts speed up. I choose my words carefully. “I’m Quijana Carrillo. I live up the street?”
“The yellow house,” says the woman.
I nod. “I was wondering. Do you need some help? Like, I could help you set up and stuff.”
“Well, that’s awful nice of you, hon. But we can’t pay you anything.”
“If I help set up, can I bring some things to sell?”
“How many things?” says the man.
“Four or five.”
“Aw, you can bring more than that. I’m Travis Walker. This here’s Laurie.”
I shake their hands, step into their garage, and start unpacking boxes. I set vases and dishes on the table. I help Mrs. Walker hang a clothesline between two trees, where we’ll hang pants that smell like cedar and mothballs in the morning. When the sky darkens to navy blue, I thank the Walkers and head home. I do a little skip as I reach the house. Saturday and selling is going to be as awesome as Sunday and the bike trip.
In the morning, I roll Memito’s wagon down the street. I pull it carefully so I don’t jostle my lava lamp, the snow globe, a few books, a glass chess set, and a couple of puzzles. I left behind the huipil. I think I can sell it for more money than people pay at garage sales.
Cars are already parking along the curb near the Walker house when I arrive. I add my items to the table and mark the prices with masking tape.
“How much is this?” asks a woman in a wide-brimmed hat.
I pick up the cookie jar and turn it over to find the sticker. “Two dollars, ma’am. Would you like a bag?”
“Nice assistant you’ve got here,” she tells Mrs. Walker.
A teenage boy picks up my lava lamp and pays. Mrs. Walker puts the money in an envelope with my name on it. Later, as the sun turns hot, Mr. Walker brings me a glass of water.
By late afternoon, most of the table is empty and half the clothes are gone. The recliner and couch, too. Everything I brought has sold except for a book.
“Looks like the rest will go to charity,” Mr. Walke
r says. “You were a big help, Quijana.”
“Let her take something home, Travis,” Mrs. Walker says as she counts coins.
“Why, sure. Take anything you like.”
“Thanks,” I say, not sure that I actually want anything. I paw through a box of Christmas ornaments, then move to a little tray crowded with knickknacks. Then I see a flash of chrome. It’s a dome with a push button, a sales-counter bell. “Can I have this?”
“It’s yours. You know, a squirt of vinegar will shine that right up. And here’s your take of the cash.” Mrs. Walker winks. The envelope feels a little thicker than I was expecting.
“Thank you, Mrs. Walker.” It feels impolite to open it yet. “I can put that in the garage for you,” I say, pointing to the ornaments.
“Naw. You go on home. The donation truck’s due soon,” Mr. Walker says. “We sure appreciate your help.”
I’m tired, but I run home, too excited to walk. At my desk, I open the envelope and bills spill out. I count $10. Ten! I’m now at $50 for the bus ticket.
To celebrate, I ding my bell. Its clear tone rings through the air. I’m pleased with its round shape, its little push button, its round black base. I take it to the kitchen and shine it up with that spray of vinegar, then tap the button, pretending to arrive at a fancy hotel. Ding. In a grand voice I say, “I’d like to check in, please.” I pretend my jeans are a drapey dress and diamonds. I curtsy, tap the bell, and say in a British accent like Zuri’s, “Here’s my credit cahd.”
But my T-shirt returns and the diamonds wink away as I notice my brother. When I ring the bell, Memito doesn’t look. He’s playing cars on the floor and never turns his head toward my London hotel. I tap the bell again. He plays on. I ring three times, like an irate customer. A shrill, repeated pinging. Worry rises like a theater curtain, revealing my little brother downstage, playing in a separate world.
Dad’s out mowing the lawn, so I run to Mom. “Hey, Mom?”
She keeps typing. She’s probably writing a paper for school. “Mm?”
“It’s Memito.”
Her hands still hover over the keys, but her fingers stop. “What is it?”
“He’s not hearing the bell.” She squints at me. “I mean, I got a bell. At the garage sale. But when I ring it, he never notices.”
When Mom gets up and sees for herself, I’m relieved, but she’s not. She takes on the heavy fact and calls Dad inside. I feel weirdly proud.
They try out the bell again, then call Memito’s name. When he doesn’t look toward the dinging, they start talking in low voices, using Spanish so I won’t understand. They don’t want me to worry, but I hear them answer questions with other questions. If he can’t hear, it could explain his not talking. Could it also explain why he spins his truck’s wheels for hours?
I’m glad to not know every word of Spanish for once. If they find an explanation, they’ll tell me in English. Spanish is the inside of the world and English is the outside. Like in earth science. Español is the molten mantle, flowing and shapeable, but Inglés is formed, rigid. I know it can hold my weight. When they switch to English, they’ll have a plan to announce, a stable crust for us to walk on.
Memito walks to the coffee table and lines up train cars side by side. I wonder what his teachers see when they look at him. What about other parents?
Finally I hear Dad say, “We can ask Dr. Porter for a referral.”
“Tell her we need to see an audiologist.”
I look up this word on my phone and find out it’s a hearing doctor.
I remember studying the ear in school. With map pencils we labeled the hammer, the anvil, the stirrup, and a spiral whose name I forget. The stirrup looked exactly like a horseback-riding stirrup, but tiny. Fairy-sized. Now it seems obvious that something so small could easily break. Or sounds could get dizzy spiraling their way to the brain, so they arrive garbled and backward.
I cover my ears, trying to imagine what Memito hears. I fold hope like a paper airplane and send it to the audiologist.
I WAKE EARLY, just as daylight washes out the stars. Bike day!
We’re so excited on the drive out there that we barely talk at all. And soon enough Jayden, Zuri, and I are unloading our bikes from Dad’s pickup at Eagle Lake Trailhead. Morning air meets my face like the cool side of a pillow. The only down part of my up day is bad news that might come about Grandma Miller. She said she’d call today if she got her test results. If the results are good, they won’t call her until Monday. If bad, they’ll call her today. I know she’d want me to enjoy the bike trip and not worry, but fear tugs at my thoughts.
We attach water bottles, tuck in first-aid and tool kits, then stow food in bike bags, borrowed from Jayden’s dad, that now hang on either side of our back wheels. I guess he’s a big cyclist. I’m shivering in the dim light, but I know I’ll warm up soon.
“You look ready,” Dad says as we fasten our helmets.
“Thanks for bringing us, Mr. Carrillo.” Jayden gives him a salute.
“I’ll pick you up at five.” Dad looks at his watch. “Seven hours from now. Your phones have no connection out here, but count on it, I’ll be here.”
That means I won’t know if it’s cancer or not until he picks us up. For some reason this is actually comforting.
“You have enough water?”
He’s been reminding me that water is more important than food since I was little. “Yes, Dad,” I say, trying to sound grateful instead of exasperated.
“Then I give you the big clear.”
“The all clear, Dad.”
“Right. The all clear.”
Zuri and Jayden smile but don’t laugh.
“Bye, Dad,” I say flatly, nudging him to go. I want to start our adventure.
When the crunch of gravel under his tires dies away, none of us says anything. The quiet feels weighted. Thirty miles. On-screen, it looked easy. A bright green line marking a smooth path. Now we see it starts with a steep hill.
“Let’s do this!” Zuri says, unfreezing us.
I hold up my phone, stick my head into the camera’s frame, and try to get the trailhead sign to show.
“A selfie already?” Jayden says.
“We might not survive,” says Zuri, joking.
“Come here.” I motion them over.
We clonk our helmeted heads together, and I touch the screen. Three nervous smiles, but all eyes open.
We sweat up the hill, clicking our gears to easier speeds, inching forward. “Okay, I really hope the next hill is easier,” puffs Jayden.
“I thought I was in shape,” I say. My legs are burning.
“Better shape than I am,” he says, clicking to first gear. “I’ve found my Achilles hill!”
Zuri groans at his pun as I laugh.
Finally, we coast down a long grade, and Jayden lets out a whoop as the wind rushes past. Tires hum against the pavement. We pedal through dense trees, then open fields. I imagine Grandma cheering me on. I hear the triumphant climax of a choir song in my head. By the time we reach a covered picnic table at the lakeshore, the sun is high. It’s supposed to be cool today, but we’re hot.
“Get ready for hat hair,” Jayden says, taking off his helmet.
“Speak for yourself,” Zuri says, her new braids in perfect order, of course.
I hang my helmet on my handlebars, lean my bike next to the others’, and pull my ponytail band out. “I think my mane’s turned into a mop.”
Jayden grins. “Mop-top!”
“Check out this view!” Zuri says.
We’ve been heading toward the lake for nearly four hours. Now it lies shimmering before us. A deep calm comes over me as I take in the expanse of rippling light. Zuri takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’m so glad you knew about this beautiful place,” she says. A breeze lifts off the water. This is the kind of moment I want to write songs about. “Check it out,” Jayden says, skipping a stone across the water.
Zuri and I look for a stone, too. “My dad say
s flat ones bounce better,” she says.
I pick up a flattish, gray one and copy Jayden’s technique. The stone plunks into the water. “And a brilliant throw by Quijana,” I say in a sportscaster voice. It’s such a great day that I can laugh at myself.
“It takes some practice,” Zuri says, as her rock jumps three times.
“Like this.” Jayden throws again, this time in slow motion.
My next rock makes two jumps. “I’m getting it!”
“I’m impressed,” Zuri says.
“And I”—Jayden starts, his hand on his heart, his voice ultra-sincere—“am starved!” We all crack up and sit at the picnic table, the shaded metal benches cool under our legs. “Everything tastes better out here than it does at home, I swear.”
“It’s this fresh air,” Zuri says. She waves her empty water bottle in the air and trots toward a spigot sticking out of the ground.
“These live oak trees must be ancient,” Jayden says, looking up. The trees rise to the sky. Then he looks into my eyes, and his voice lowers. “Do you ever feel too small to hold a big feeling?”
I nod and hold his gaze. “My body can barely hold my heart sometimes,” I say.
“Right? Like the high note of a great song. Or the first morning of summer vacation.”
This wasn’t what I expected him to say.
“It’s like, I don’t know, when you overload on sugar and almost keel over!”
I laugh, but my joy dips. I thought he was talking about love, of course. Like I was.
“This place. Totally great!” he stands up.
Just then a shriek pierces the air, and we run toward the sound.
Zuri is on the ground by the water spigot, pushing up off the grass. Then she twists onto her back. She holds one leg straight, keeping her ankle stiff.
“Are you okay?” Jayden asks.
Zuri winces. “My ankle.” Her words come out pinched. “I tripped. On that tree root.” She points behind her.
“Is anything bleeding?” I ask. “Can you move your foot?” I clasp her hand and kneel by her head.
“I don’t think so.” She props herself up on her elbows.
The Other Half of Happy Page 7