Jayden sits in the grass and eases off her sock. The ankle is already swelling. “I better not touch it,” he says. “I don’t want to make it worse.”
“Good idea,” I say. A pang of jealousy rises as I see Jayden’s hands carefully guide the sock off her foot, and I push the feeling down, ashamed.
Zuri’s clearly hurting. Her teeth are clenched and her breathing sounds shallow.
“Do you want to sit up?” I ask. She nods.
We scootch her up so that she leans against me.
A silence falls over us. We look at each other. We look at the bikes. We’re fifteen miles from the trailhead.
“You guys should go ahead,” Zuri says, her throat tight. “I’ll . . . wait here, and you can bring help.”
“No way,” Jayden says. “It would take us till dark to get back to you.”
“We can’t leave you alone.” I wonder if she can hop on her good foot. “What if we get on either side of you, leave the bikes here, and all walk?”
Zuri looks doubtful.
Jayden stands and walks in a little circle. He stops. “What if we all stay here? Your dad would send help if we didn’t show up.”
“Or I could go alone,” I say, though I don’t like this idea much. “I could meet my dad and bring him back here.”
We fall silent, still thinking. None of our ideas feel right. Each one has an odd corner that doesn’t fit.
“What about this?” I say. “Zuri, you sit on your bike and steer while Jayden and I roll it along, one of us on each side. You can rest your foot on the pedal. We’ll leave the other two bikes behind.”
“What if I fall?”
“It’ll hurt,” Jayden says, smiling.
Zuri frowns. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Z,” I say, “it’s the only way we can stay together and keep you off your feet. What do you say?”
We wobble at first; Zuri is heavier than I realized. She needs more speed to stay balanced.
“Let’s lower the seat,” she says. “Then my good foot can touch the ground.” She discovers that she can coast pretty well on her own using her good foot to push herself.
“Are you steady by yourself? Maybe Jayden and I can still ride our own bikes, just slowly.”
“What about hills?” Jayden asks.
On hills, Zuri gets off, leans on Jayden, and hops while I push her bike. I wish it was me leaning on Jayden, but it’s silly to wish for a broken ankle, isn’t it? I focus on doing my part. While Zuri waits at the top, Jayden and I pedal our own bikes up. Soon we are sweating, and we have to stop for water often. Our progress is slow, much slower than walking.
It’s obvious we won’t make it to the trailhead by five, but we don’t talk about it. Dad will be worried sick. With each passing minute, I feel worse for him. We keep moving.
A coyote howls, and I fight an urge to duck. Zuri’s eyes go wide. Jayden says, “Oh, don’t worry. Coyotes run all over my grandparents’ land. They howl to check in with other coyotes nearby.”
“Nearby?” I say.
“Wild ones avoid humans. I promise.”
“Jayday, you’re not very comforting,” Zuri says.
We come to a level place and settle into a slow rolling. I’m teetering sometimes from riding so slowly, but we stay together. The farther we go, the more it feels like we’re going to make it.
Five o’clock passes, then six. Darkness creeps into the treetops. “Our water is running low,” Jayden says. “Z, you drink it.”
I can’t even tell if her ankle is hurting, she’s being so stoic. She takes a sip.
“We’re sure going to have a story to tell,” I say.
Around the next bend, a light bobs in the distance. “See that?” Zuri says.
“I hope it’s my dad.” I don’t think about what it could be if it isn’t.
The light grows. It’s moving slowly and seems like a flashlight. “Dad?” I call.
“Quijana! Jayden? Zuri?”
We’re all smiles as Dad comes into view, but he practically cries at the sight of us. “¡Gracias a Dios! What happened? Is Zuri okay?” he asks.
“She fell . . . ,” I start.
“But we wanted to stay together, and . . . ,” Jayden adds.
“. . . it hurt too much to pedal,” Zuri says.
“But the lake!”
“Definitely the best part.”
“I learned to skip rocks! And even the peanut butter in my sandwich tasted amazing. . . .” Our voices layer over each other, telling the story in pieces.
Dad walks us back to the trailhead, and when Zuri hops into Dad’s pickup, we feel pride alongside relief. We climb in, different people than when we climbed out this morning. Weirdly, this is one of my favorite days ever.
Fatigue takes over, and we settle into silence as the truck drones over the highway. I’m tired in that good, deep way, and close my eyes.
Grandma!
It’s as if I forgot—my mind’s been so full until this second. I sit up straight and look at Dad. He avoids my eyes, which is a bad sign.
I blink tears away as the city lights come into view.
At home, Dad and I unload my bike in silence, then walk in slowly. Mom must see my reddened eyes because she pulls me into a hug. “She called this afternoon, sweetheart. It is cancer. But Grandma’s going to fight this.”
Dad stands close by, looking a little pale.
Mom looks at the clock. “You guys are later than I . . .”
“Well, I had to do a little hiking to find them,” Dad says. “When I drove up, nobody. I almost had a heart attack. Thank God you’re all okay.”
“Except Zuri,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Mom’s look of concern makes me wish I hadn’t phrased it that way.
“She broke her ankle,” I say quickly. “Or sprained it.”
“But they rolled all the way back together,” Dad says. “I started down the trail, and there they came. I about cried when I saw them.”
“You did cry, Dad.”
He clears his throat, then smiles. “They actually handled it well.”
“But Zuri! How did it happen?”
“A root. She tripped on it, and wow, can she scream.”
“I’m going to call Mr. and Mrs. Thomas right now.” She pulls out her phone.
“They took her to the minor emergency clinic when we dropped her off,” Dad says.
“Okay, I’ll call them tomorrow. I’m glad you guys figured out how to get back, at least. You make a smart team.”
I go to my room and text Grandma, even though I’m sure she’s asleep:
So I heard the news. Are you okay?
I even attach the trailhead photo, but my phone stays quiet through showering, brushing my teeth, and putting on pajamas.
“Can I charge my phone in my room tonight?” I ask Mom. Her head swivels between an open book and the computer screen. Another research paper.
“You were with your friends all day,” she says, her fingers hovering above the keys.
“Not for them. For Grandma. She might text back.”
She turns to look at me and pulls her hands away from the keyboard. She lets out a deep breath, and her whole face softens. “Sure, sweetheart. I hope she does.” Her gaze drops to the floor, and suddenly I want to comfort her. We hug, me leaning down, and her squeezing me tight.
“We’re not giving up, you know,” she says in a strained voice. “She’s a strong woman.”
“I know,” I say. And though it feels odd to be the one saying it, I add, “It’ll be okay.”
GRANDMA STILL HASN’T REPLIED to my text by the time I go to school, but Zuri has.
Yup, broken ankle. They put on a cast late last night. The parents are letting me sleep in today. Zzzz. Tell me what happens in English, ok?
First period drones on like a TV show rerun. I’m about to sharpen my already-sharp pencil when the fire alarm blares. Yes! We all snap awake. Mr. Wilson roll
s his eyes. “Why are these drills always on a Monday? Okay, y’all. Out to the soccer field.” I’m relieved to leave behind my map of Texas rivers.
The hallways buzz with quick footsteps and low talking. I check my phone. No text message, only my phone’s sea turtle wallpaper, a photo I took on the beach with Grandma.
Pushing through the doors, I look up. It’s easy to forget the sky is still out here, arching above our classrooms and all of Bur Oak, stretching even to Florida and past the rim of the world. Just looking up, a piece of me widens into the atmosphere.
We’re supposed to stay clumped with our classes, but I see Jayden walking toward me, and today’s rating jumps from a two to an eight.
“Hey, Qui!”
My eyes are still smiling into his when I realize that I haven’t said anything back.
“Zuri got a cast,” he tells me.
“Yeah, she texted me this morning.”
“She’ll be back tomorrow. But it’s just us for lunch. Do you want to eat at the tree?”
“The tree?” A zing corkscrews up my spine. The tree is a towering oak in the courtyard near the cafeteria. Patio chairs and tables cluster underneath. We’re allowed to eat out there, but hardly anyone does.
I try to keep the cartwheels out of my voice. Play it cool. “Sure,” I say. “It’s so nice out.” Just the idea of being under all this sky with Jayden to myself is making my heart beat fast.
“You won’t be cold, will you?”
“I have a jacket,” I say.
“Cool,” he says. “So in other news, my brother stuck a Cheerio up his nose last night.”
“No way! How did it even fit?”
“He’s three.” Jayden shrugs. “But I found out he can yell louder than all of us put together!”
“Did they get it out?”
“Mom pushed on his other nostril, and the Cheerio came shooting out. Then he wanted to eat it!”
“Gross!” I laugh, covering my mouth with one hand. “Hey, my brother’s three, too.”
“Well, watch out when he’s eating cereal!”
A teacher calls Jayden’s name, and he walks backward toward her. “The tree, then?”
“The tree.”
He turns and trots toward his class. “See you soon,” he throws over his shoulder. “I’m hungry already!”
A surge of happiness expands my chest. Is this what a date feels like? I invent a musical where the boy and the girl sing separate songs about their upcoming meeting. The two melodies unknowingly harmonize, and the singers land on the last note in unison. I know it’s just lunch. I know it’s just peanut butter and jelly. But it feels as special as white tablecloths and linen napkins.
Fourth period finally comes, and I spend the whole class doodling a treetop, its branches ending in tiny hearts. When the lunch bell rings, I’m beside Jayden in a second. As usual, our conversation is a door that swings open with ease.
“I’m thinking of filming all my yo-yo tricks and posting them online,” he says.
“Like on a YouTube channel?”
“Yeah, what do you think?”
“I love it. Will you explain each move or just”—I elbow him in the ribs—“show off?”
“The Jayday way: a little of both!” He grins and elbows me back.
I switch my lunch bag to my left hand so that my right is free. Just in case he wants to brush against it, or hold it. Or grab it and pull me, running, to the tree, then lift me up and swing me around. You never know.
We head to a table for two under the tree. Each iron chair back is a curlicued heart, like the ones in movies with French cafés and striped awnings. All we need is a mustached man to play accordion music.
Of course, when Jayden opens his lunch, no surprise chocolate truffle comes out. No red rose. We’re just talking as usual. Eating. And it’s great . . . I guess. But it’s not him declaring his undying love for me.
Just as I’m feeling like an empty-seat theater and realizing that life is not a show tune, he says, “I’ve been thinking.” He ziplocks his apple core, then pushes back from the table. “Okay, I’m doing it. I gotta take the risk. I want to ask you something.”
I hold my breath. Holy cow. Is he about to ask me to prom or something? Get a grip, Qui!
“What would you think”—he looks straight into my eyes—“if I tried out for Sherlock Gets Slimed.”
My accordion music halts. I’ve never heard anything less romantic. “The school play?”
“Tell me the truth. Would I have a shot?”
Wait—that’s what this has been about? I struggle to find words for the new track we’re on. Focus, focus. He’s waiting for an answer. Would he have a shot. “Sure you would! You’d be great,” I say, trying to pull myself out of a hole of disappointment.
His eyes lock on mine. “I really, really want to be an actor. But just last year, I fainted onstage, remember? I don’t know . . . ” He looks at the ground. “I’ll never be an athlete, that’s for sure. Even my dad knows that.”
“You’re perfect for acting,” I tell him truthfully. “You can do voices, accents. You’re the ham of English class. And you’re about to have a YouTube channel.”
“But that’s not on a stage. With set pieces to fall into. I know I pretended it was funny, but it, like, really sucked. I wanted to be onstage more than anything, even right before I went on. So why did I faint?”
I can tell he’s truly worried. “You know what? You might have locked your knees. Mr. Green always says kids pass out in choir concerts from that. And you said you hadn’t eaten. I’m sure it was a one-time thing.”
“You think? I really want to do this.” As he talks about the audition format and the director, my face is still burning. I’m embarrassed by my selfishness. How could I think this whole lunch was about me? He should definitely try out.
“But what if I don’t get a part?” he asks.
What if “myself” is boring? I remember saying to Grandma. “Then you’ll work on the set. You’ll help people run their lines. Something. But, Jayden,” I say, “I think you’ll get a part.”
He grabs my forearms. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I knew talking to you would help. I’m doing it!”
His touch makes my ears fill with applause. As I finish my sandwich, I decide to share a wish of my own. “I have a project, too,” I say. “I’m learning guitar.”
“Cool! What kind of guitar? What can you play?”
“It’s my dad’s folk guitar. Just a few chords so far.” Watching his eyes light up, feeling his excitement, I can’t help but tell him what I’ve been planning. “I want to write my own song.”
“That would be sweet!” He looks genuinely impressed, and I feel a charge of confidence. “Just one thing,” he says. “Promise to play it for me?”
“Deal.”
The bell rings and we start back to class.
“When are the play tryouts?” I ask.
“Auditions,” he corrects me, winking. “This week! I have to read the play right away and be ready to read any scene out loud by Friday.”
Back at our desks, I imagine Grandma would be proud of me. I feel good about my guitar plan, and I’m not changing myself for Jayden. He likes the real me. I still feel two warm places where his hands touched my arms at lunch. I’m glad I’m not inside a show anymore. Or a made-up musical. Real life is better.
Ms. May breaks into my cozy cocoon. “Okay, people. If you have a smartphone, get it out! Find a fact about Emily Dickinson to write on the board. You have three minutes!”
I take a deep breath and look at the sea turtle on my screen before opening Google. Still no message from Grandma. Somehow I’m less scared than I was this morning. We’ll talk soon. I’ll tell her about my plan to write a song. I can already hear her saying, “Wonderful!” I imagine sending her a recording of it, each note making her stronger and healthier.
A dry-erase marker appears in front of my screen. “Okay,” says Jayden. “I got one. Emily Dickinson used to
load up baskets of gingerbread, then lower them on a rope out her window to neighbor kids. She hardly left her house, but she loved the kids.” His eyebrows arch, challenging me to match him. I scroll through the web page I brought up. Nothing but dates and where she lived.
“You win,” I tell him, half laughing. But I feel victorious today.
School wraps up, and I text Zuri while I wait in line for the school bus home.
How’s your ankle?
Oh, fabulous. This cast is going to look great with . . . nothing!
I’m glad she can laugh about it.
Haha! :-(
Still worth it. Eagle Lake was great.
I’m excited to get home and practice guitar, but as I think forward through the evening, I wonder if Memito will be fussy. He’s been harder to keep happy recently.
Hey, I type. I should know this, but do you have any younger brothers or sisters?
Just a big sister. Why?
I’m kinda worried about my little brother.
Like how?
He doesn’t seem to hear other people. It’s like he’s in his own world.
I love being in my own world, don’t you?
Yeah, I guess. Like, when I sing in choir, everything else disappears.
Maybe he’s just concentrating?
Yeah, maybe.
I send her a final yellow heart and slip my phone into my backpack.
I look up to see most of the bus kids clustered nearby. It’s odd. We live near each other, but we have nothing else in common. We might have hung out as toddlers on tricycles, but now we’ve sorted ourselves. We’re jocks, popular kids, sci-fi geeks, leftovers. Every day we stand in the bus line like representatives from different planets. I don’t even know most of their names. I suspect I’m a leftover.
Today, two brown-skinned boys stride toward us. Brothers? I’ve never seen them before. They look a little odd with their tucked-in shirts and matching haircuts. They stop short of our group, and I realize, strangely, that we are a group now, just because the button-down boys have stopped two feet away. They’re a comet from outside our solar system.
Everyone quiets. One brother says something to the other in Spanish. No one from our group says hey or waves. Well, I can’t do it. For one, I’m a girl. In the Rules of the Bus Stop, girls don’t approach boys. In grade school, maybe, but not now—now we’ve got Boy and Girl universes. It is not my fault that seconds tick by with these two new kids looking at their shoes.
The Other Half of Happy Page 8