The Other Half of Happy

by Rebecca Balcarcel

  I’ve decided to audition for three parts, including the lead! he says.

  Crossing my fingers for you!

  I’m just sure he’ll get one of them.

  At lunch on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday, he explains the play’s clever mystery plot, and Zuri and I take turns guessing how it will end. I understand that the play is important to him, but Grandma and her cancer are on my mind a lot. I want to tell them about it, but it never seems to be the right time.

  When audition day comes on Friday, Jayden’s more preoccupied than ever. Zuri and I sit down at the lunch table to find his nose in the script.

  “Um, you guys, I gotta tell you some news,” I say.

  “It would be cheesy to do an accent, right?” Jayden says, more to himself than to us.

  “You could try it,” I venture. I’m excited for him, but something about his eating with one hand and holding the script with the other annoys me. “My grandma has cancer,” I say.

  “Wait, what?” Jayden immediately closes the script and Zuri turns to look at me, alarmed.

  I feel guilty for using the news to get Jayden’s attention, but at the same time I’m relieved to tell them. “She’s having surgery next week. Mom says it’ll be fine, but . . .” Saying it out loud makes my throat tighten. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Whoa. That’s terrible.” Jayden shakes his head. “Is she the woman who hiked the Appalachian Trail?”

  “And saves sea animals?” Zuri asks.

  I nod. Cancer seems crueler than ever.

  “You must be so worried,” Zuri says. “My aunt died of cancer.”

  “Z, don’t say that!” Jayden shoots her a frown and leans across the table toward me. “She might be fine. She’s too adventurous to die.”

  I chuckle in spite of my sadness. “She actually said that death would be an adventure.”

  “Well, it’s an adventure that can wait,” he says firmly. “Keep us posted, okay? Like, text me when she’s out of surgery and all.”

  “Me too,” says Zuri. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s kind of refreshing to hear someone talk about dying, because it’s what we’re all thinking, but my parents hardly talk about it. They’re being all positive, probably protecting me. Grandma’s more honest with me.”

  “Sounds like her,” Zuri says.

  Jayden nods, his eyes flowing with concern.

  “Thanks, y’all, for just, you know, listening.” I feel lighter, like the weight of it is shouldered by all of us instead of me alone.

  After school, a text comes through from Jayden.

  I got the part of Watson! Totally pumped. I’m turning somersaults!

  Congrats!! I knew you could do it!

  I add a hand-clapping emoji. I’m happy for him, and even the worry for Grandma at the back of my mind doesn’t cancel out the good parts of this day.

  Though it’s October, summer heat holds on for the next week. It’s hot after school when the bell rings. I sure wish the school bus windows could open farther, because Zuri’s riding home with me so we can paint our fingernails at my house. She hops onto the bus on her good leg while I carry her knee scooter. She’s sweaty before she even sits down.

  Still, everything seems exciting with her there, even the green, plastic-y bus seats, the pop songs on the bus radio, and my own front door. When I open it for Zuri, I wince a little at our Guatemalan living room. No TV living room looks like this, and none in the movies either, but Zuri doesn’t seem to care. She rides her knee scooter up to the couch and sits on one end.

  “You’re good at driving that thing,” I say.

  “Getting used to it,” she says. “Except for stairs. And of course my room is upstairs. The first night I slept on the couch! Now I use crutches to get up there.”

  Out of her bagful of nail polish, we choose the three best colors. Her favorite, my favorite, and a second-favorite we agree on. We line them up like Olympic medalists on the coffee table. She opens the first bottle.

  “Pink looks good with your skin,” she says, pulling the brush down my thumbnail.

  “Yours too.”

  “Nah. Darker skin needs bolder colors. Like this royal blue,” she says.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of this.

  “So one green pinkie?”

  “Your right one and my left.”

  When she finishes, I curl my hands and blow on my nails.

  “Do you know that Aiden kid? He said I talk funny,” Zuri says.

  “When was this?”

  “Last period.” She shrugs. “Probably thinks I’m stuck-up because of my accent. I bet he’s never heard of Barbados, much less the fact that it was a British colony. And not everyone’s mother went to British boarding schools like mine did.”

  “Your mom went to boarding school? Wow. But who makes fun of people’s accents? That kid has no class.” I shake the blue bottle and open it.

  “It’s happened ever since I came here. I look like I’m from Africa; I sound like I’m from Britain. Black kids, white kids. No one sees me as one of them.” Her tone sounds casual, but her shoulders curl forward.

  I’m surprised to hear that Zuri has anything wrong with her life. Now I realize that even though she seems perfect, it isn’t all peach cobbler and ice cream for her. And our problems aren’t that different.

  “Same with me. Latino kids know I’m not legit.” I press the excess polish off the brush.

  “Cause you don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Right.”

  “You, me, and Jayden—we found each other. We make a group of our own.”

  “We’re like that ice cream with vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate in it,” I say.

  “Neapolitan!”

  “I think I’m more caramel than strawberry,” I say, looking at my arm.

  She grins. “But your nails are strawberry.”

  We click a photo of our green pinkies linked together.

  We’re getting a few likes from classmates when the door opens and Dad’s Spanish tumbles through the air. He’s streaming clattery words to Memito, trying to stop him from running inside with muddy shoes. “Ay, m’ija. Qué día!” Dad says to me, not noticing Zuri, not seeing the startled look on her face. She knows that my dad speaks Spanish, but I guess he didn’t speak this much on our bike trip, and she looks surprised. So am I. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

  I feel like we’ve transported into a telenovela on the Spanish station. I was having a nice, normal moment here, Dad. Can’t we look like a regular family for once? I desperately want to change the channel.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, my own unaccented English ringing in my ears. He wrangles Memito’s shoes off, then turns to Zuri.

  “Hello, Zuri! I hope your ankle is healing. You will join us for supper?” My father’s friendliness is a sun that burns too warm.

  “I wish I could,” Zuri says, “but my mom is picking me up.”

  I’m glad, actually, that she won’t stay. She doesn’t seem to care whether we’re normal or not, but somehow I still do.

  Then Memito peeks around Dad’s pant leg, showing one brown eye. In a voice like she’s talking to a kitten, Zuri says, “Hey.”

  He ducks away, but then shows both eyes.

  “You must be Memito,” she says, meeting his gaze.

  My annoyance flakes off as my little brother walks to Zuri and touches the top of her hand with one finger. Zuri looks at me and smiles. “He’s sweet,” she says.

  My shoulders relax a little, and I silently thank Memito. He made a bridge between my family and my friend.

  “M’ijo, let’s brush now,” Dad says. Memito runs toward the kitchen, and Dad calls, “Nice to see you Zuri,” over his shoulder.

  “He doesn’t like the brushing,” I tell Zuri.

  “Teeth?” Zuri asks.

  “His skin. They say it might help.”

  “His skin.” Zuri says each word slowly.

  “It’s supposed to make
him less picky about tags in his shirts and rough fabrics. They call it occupational therapy. Since he turned three, Memito hates to wear jeans or anything stiff, even a picture on a T-shirt.”

  “That’s kind of . . . weird?” Zuri says.

  “Yeah, definitely. Hey, come see something?”

  Zuri rolls after me on her knee scooter. I close my bedroom door behind us and pull the huipil from my bottom drawer.

  “Wow. This is beautiful.” She runs her hand over the bright colors and fine needlework.

  “Yeah, I know, but—how much do you think I could sell it for?”

  “Sell it?” She looks confused. “Why would you sell it?”

  “Uh . . .” For some reason I don’t want to tell her about my trip yet. “I need money. Besides, I’ll never wear it. Would you?”

  “Yeah, I might.” She unfolds it and holds it up to her body. “What do you need money for?”

  I decide to trust her.

  “You can’t tell anyone, okay? Except Jayden.”

  She makes an X over her heart and sits on the bed.

  “My parents want to take a Christmas trip to Guatemala, remember that? But . . . I don’t want to go.” She nods. “So I’m not going. The night before the flight, I’m sneaking out and riding the bus to my grandma’s in Florida.”

  She pulls back, her face worried. “Can you do that?”

  “I checked the bus schedule. Jayden said he’d walk me to the bus depot. But I need more money for the fare.”

  “But can you DO that? Won’t your parents freak out?”

  “I have to. I can’t go to Guatemala. Maybe if I spoke Spanish, but Zuri, I can’t spend two weeks, like, nodding like a puppet and feeling like an idiot. Plus, my grandma in Florida is the one who is sick. We’ll see her at Thanksgiving, but I want to see her as much as I can before . . . just, as much as I can. I know it sounds crazy, but I saw a kid traveling alone when we took the bus out there. If he can do it, I can.”

  Zuri nods. “Okay, then. How much more money?”

  “I still need one hundred twenty-five dollars.”

  “That’s a lot, Qui.”

  “I know.” I drop onto the bed.

  “Hmm. Let’s think about this. My mom makes extra money with a shop online called eArtisans. Have you looked up how much this . . .”

  “Huipil. Whee-PEEL.”

  “. . . huipil could sell for?”

  I shake my head, and we both pull out our phones.

  She clicks and scrolls. “This could work, Qui. Look at these.”

  The screen shows one huipil for $575, another for $98, and another for $150. She scrolls down and different styles show up, some simpler than mine and costing nearly $100. A wave of excitement rises through me. “That one says handmade, like mine,” I say. “And it’s the same style, too. Two hundred dollars.” We look at each other with wide eyes. “How do I sell on eArtisans?”

  “You need a good photo. Mom always says a good photo is key. Put it on.”

  “Put it on?” I don’t want to put it on.

  Zuri rolls her eyes. “For the photo, silly.”

  I hold the huipil at arm’s length, then slip it on over my T-shirt. The thick fabric feels heavy on my shoulders.

  “Okay, stick your arms out. Stand in the sunlight.” Zuri clicks several photos. “Come see.”

  The pictures look good. I’m glad to see she’s taken the picture without my face in the frame. I doubt Mom shops on eArtisans, but it would be awful, like horrendously awful, if she saw this picture of me somehow. Zuri deletes one that’s out of focus. The others show off the fabric nicely, and it looks like something someone would pay a lot for.

  “Hey, Zuri?”

  She looks up.

  “Thanks.”

  She smiles. “I got your back.”

  I wake up my phone, click “Sell on eArtisans,” and read through the guidelines. “Uh-oh. I don’t have a checking-account number and no credit card to pay these setup fees.” I have an idea. “What does your mom sell on her site?”

  “Bracelets, stuff from antique stores. Cloth purses she makes from African prints.”

  “Can she buy the huipil from me and then sell it on her site?”

  “Maybe.” Zuri tilts her head. “I mean, why not?”

  “I guess she might want to sell it first and give me the money afterward,” I say, biting my lip.

  “Oh. I bet she would.”

  “Well, how long does it take things to sell?”

  “Depends. She’s at the post office every few days, it seems like. Although there is one orange hat she’s had up there for a year.”

  A car horn honks. “Oh, man, what time is it? That’s Mom. I have to go,” Zuri says.

  I grab a bag out of my closet. “We have to try. Here.” I slide the huipil into the bag. “Tell her I think it will sell for two hundred dollars, but I only want one hundred forty. She can keep the rest. I’ll write this down. You start rolling.” I take a piece of paper out of my backpack, write down the numbers, and slip that into the bag, too.

  I run out to the living room, where Zuri is scooping up the nail polish and her backpack. I add the bag to her backpack, and she rolls to the door. She twists around and crosses her fingers. I cross mine, too. “Bye, Mr. Carrillo!” she shouts.

  It’s almost all right that Dad yells, “Adiós!” toward the door at full volume, his sun burning hot as ever. It doesn’t bother me like before. I think of the huipil, out of my drawer and zooming farther away every second.

  My phone vibrates, bringing me out of my reverie.

  Sup Q-zers? It’s Jayden!

  Great news!

  Really? Call me!

  Telling Jayden about eArtisans is almost as good as living through it the first time. But when he says, “You’re pretty amazing, Qui,” I think it might feel even better.

  DAD RUNS ERRANDS on Saturday morning, and Mom takes Memito for new shoes, so I lift the guitar down from the wall. My chords come more easily now, and I can make it through a whole song without stopping if I take it slow enough. I’ve decided that the song I’m writing is for Jayden. I’ll find a way to sing it to him when it’s done. Maybe for his birthday.

  I daydream and let the first line float around in my head. The more I know you, the more I want to know you more. The chords suggest a new line: And when you fix your eyes on me, I feel my heart expand, fly free. I sing these two lines back to back and try different variations on the tune. I almost don’t hear the garage door opening. I hang the guitar and run to the fridge.

  “Our mechanic today was from Puerto Rico” is the first thing Dad says.

  Random. “That’s nice, Dad,” I say, pulling out a nectarine.

  Mom and Memito arrive, and after sandwiches, Mom shouts, “Everybody outside!”

  I almost forgot. We’re supposed to rake leaves today, even though some trees haven’t shed any yet. The big Arizona Ash drops its leaves during drought, though, as well as early fall, so we’re ankle-deep. Not even Memito is off the hook to help. He swings a child-sized rake that Grandma bought for Mom when she was a kid.

  Grandma makes me work hard when I visit Florida. Even when I was really little, I remember her showing me how to wash dishes by hand. She’d always say, “I cooked, so you clean.” I’d start by squirting soap in a dishpan, and then she’d come help and we’d end up talking. She’d tell hiking stories while she rinsed dishes, like the time she lost the trail but found a pristine pond.

  “Quijana, you start over there.” Mom points to the front corner of the yard. “Honey,” she says to Dad, “what about you?”

  “I’ll start under the tree, here,” he says. “Quijana and I can handle the whole front yard, right?” He gives me a thumbs-up.

  “I bet you can, crackerjackers! We’ll start on the side yard. Meet you in the middle.”

  At first Memito rakes with Mom, but soon he is “helping” by running from one leaf pile to another, adding a single leaf to each one. “Well, thank you, goofy go
ose,” I say to him.

  “Qui,” he says and hands me a red leaf. As he walks away, it occurs to me that I could test his hearing. “Memito?” He walks on, unfazed.

  My phone vibrates, and I take a minute to text Jayden a sad face.

  Can’t talk. Raking duty.

  Dad and I have cleared a small area when Dad’s phone rings. “Hola, Mamá!” he says. It’s the October call from Guatemala.

  I rake vigorously. I hear Dad say the words “work,” “audiologist,” “Memito,” and “Kimberly,” Mom’s first name. He finally says “Quijana,” and I listen harder. She enjoys singing. She’s doing well in school. This much Spanish I understand.

  With these two traits, I imagine Abuela building a Quijana. She makes legs out of singing and good grades. She adds skin and hair from mailed photos, plus light in the eyes from her memory of twelve-year-olds. She builds a heart with Dad’s self-discipline and Tía Lencha’s warmth. She stuffs all the gaps with good qualities. How disappointed she would be to meet the real me. I’m doing us all a favor by skipping Guatemala.

  When Dad passes me the phone “just to say goodbye,” Abuela talks to the invented Quijana. The word “abrazos,” hugs, is for that Quijana. So is “besos,” kisses she wants to give me. This is exactly why I don’t want to go to Guatemala. I’ll be a stranger she’s supposed to love. How can she know what to say to a stranger?

  But on she goes. Understood or not, Abuela fills the phone with lilts and curls, swishes and swoops. It’s pretty great that she’s willing to waste all these words on me, knowing I can’t understand them. She’s obviously in a good mood. It all feels like a hug. I wish I could give her something back. But other than stammering out “te amo”—or should it be “le amo”?—I’ve got nothing. My heart is a full sink with a stopped-up drain.

  Soon she’s saying goodbye, and I can only manage, “Adiós, Abuelita.” When I hand the phone back to Dad, I’m still feeling swayed by her syllables.

  Maybe next time, I can say something. I could plan it out. Use Google translate. Then a pang of guilt passes through me. Abuela sent the huipil as a gift, and I’m about to sell it. But she doesn’t understand I can’t possibly use it.