Nope.
I’m not sure what to say next. I type in See you tomorrow, but backspace over it. Memito toddles back into my head. Hey, your little brother’s three, right? Does he talk a lot?
Again the answer takes some time. I hope he hasn’t run off to get a snack. From down the hall, I hear pouring water and clunking plastic toys—Memito playing in the tub.
Jayden’s answer hits my screen.
Never shuts up.
I send a smiley face to Jayden, but my heart thuds for Memito. Somehow, hearing about another kid—a real one, who’s three, too—makes me realize it’s true. Memito isn’t a late-talker like Einstein. He’s not just different or quirky. Something is wrong.
On my way out to the charger in the living room, I stop near the bathroom. Memito is perched on Mom’s hip in dinosaur jammies, wet hair pasted to his head. He’s double-sweet when he’s clean and sleepy.
“Lella, lella,” he says.
Mom carries him down the hall.
“Lella!”
I know what he wants. I duck into the bathroom and grab his plastic elephant. As I hand it over, he hugs it to his chest and smiles.
“Thanks, Qui,” Mom says.
I wish I could give him something better, though—words.
FRIDAY AFTER SCHOOL, a marimba ringtone xylophones the afternoon air. Dad picks up, and Abuela’s on the phone. “¡Hola, Mamá!” he says.
For the first time, I don’t dive into a chore or disappear into my room. I have a plan. I have memorized three sentences to say to her. Since I’m not going to Guatemala, I figure I can at least say something. It will surprise her, and Dad, too, because I didn’t ask him for help. (If I had, we’d have spent fifteen minutes translating each sentence, talking about every word option and weighing which ones captured the original meaning best, instead of the fifteen seconds it took on a website.)
Plus, I checked my sentences with my Spanish teacher. Señora Francés lit up like a sparkler when I brought over my paper. “Your abuela will be so pleased,” she said. I hope she’s right.
While Dad talks and paces the kitchen, I rehearse my sentences silently. I stay close by. After all that, I don’t want him to hang up.
A half hour later, my chin rests on my folded arms at the table. Memito tugs at my arm. With one finger he points up. This is his signal for an airplane ride. Since Dad sounds nowhere close to saying goodbye, I let Memito pull me to the carpet.
“Okay,” I say and lie on my back with my feet in the air. He sets his tummy on the soles of my feet, and I hold onto his hands, then I rock back, raise my legs, and lift him into the air. He’s a bird. He’s a plane. He’s Superman! He giggles as I fly him back and forth, and I feel my eyes crinkle at the corners, remembering when Dad used to do this with me. When my legs get tired, I bring him in for a landing and listen for Dad.
Memito wants to go up again. “No,” I tell him. “Later.” I point to his dump truck, and he starts running his figure eight as I duck into the kitchen. Dad’s still holding the phone up to his ear. Soon he says, “¿De veras?”
Now a long goodbye starts. Every phrase sounds like an ending, but there’s always one more. Finally, he mentions my name. “Ella está aquí cerca.” She’s here close by. “Sí, por supuesto.”
He hands me the phone. For a second, Abuela’s voice washes away my three sentences. I pull my attention back into my head to remember them. As I start to form a word, I worry that she won’t understand my pronunciation. I worry I can’t do this right. But I figure she can’t normally understand me anyway. “Abuela. Hola,” I finally say. She starts to talk, but I cut her off. In a rush, I say, “Estoy en el coro en mi escuela. Me gustan manatíes. No entiendo mucho español, pero te doy un abrazo.”
“¡Ay, chica dulce!” she says, and continues with fountains of words that sound smiley. It’s over, but I’m trembling. At her first pause, I insert “Adiós, Abuelita,” and hand the phone back to Dad. I’m breathing hard; my heart is thumping. I feel like I’ve dodged an oncoming car.
Dad says more goodbyes, but he’s looking at me. Finally he hangs up. I think I did it right because he’s starting to smile. I press my lips together, and then a smile spreads across my face, too.
“Well, well!” he says. “You speak Spanish!”
I shake my head. “It’s just a few sentences.” I look at the floor. All I said was I’m in choir, I like manatees, and I send her a hug.
“But you did it.” He calls toward the back of the house. “Kim, come here! Quijana spoke to her abuela.”
Oh boy. I didn’t want this to be a big deal. But who was I kidding? Dad makes everything a big deal.
Mom comes in from the bedroom and her homework to gush. “Qui!” Exclamations pour out, pats on the back, hair tousling—the works. I almost wish I hadn’t done it. What if they want me to speak Spanish all the time now? It’s like I’ve lifted something heavy and have nowhere to set it down.
When they finally calm down, I plop on the couch and text Zuri.
Over-the-top parents alert!
Wanna trade? My parents just started dancing to the elevator music IN THE MALL.
She wins that round. But this isn’t how I expected to feel. I just wanted to make up for not going to Guatemala. I didn’t mean for them to think that I’m suddenly interested in learning Spanish. This event was a one-off, not the beginning of a series.
As evening arrives, though, Dad’s still in a sunny mood. He pulls on his coat and says, “Let’s take a walk.”
“It’s dark already,” I say, looking at the grayed-out sky through the window.
“I know, but your mom needs to write lesson plans, and Memito won’t let her work. He keeps climbing in her lap and pressing the computer keys.”
I believe it. He does the same thing with me. Still. “Why do I have to go?” I want to stay home. I wish I could use the homework excuse, but I have the whole weekend to finish it.
“Let’s take flashlights!” Dad’s excitement wins Memito over, and he’s so into it that I laugh. Soon we’re walking down our block following Memito on his tricycle.
The street’s different after dark. The edges of houses smudge into their backgrounds. Our flashlights make circles on the sidewalk that bounce along as we walk. I stop to snap a selfie of me with a flashlight under my chin and post it. Muah-ha-ha-ha! I run to catch up.
Memito looks like such a normal kid, zooming along. No one can tell that he won’t wear anything but soft clothes, that we’ve had to cut out all his shirt tags, that we have to make sure not to shine the flashlights in his face because he still hates bright lights.
As we pass the garage-sale house, Dad says, “I wanted to tell you, m’ija, your pronunciation’s very good.”
Oh, no. Not Spanish again.
“You know, your mamá first learned from textbooks and classes, too, but then she picked up high-level Spanish by reading books. I could show you a couple at home. We could even order some.”
“Dad, I only meant to . . .”
“I know you have far to go. But your three sentences, that’s a start.”
As we walk on under the stars, I decide not to argue. What can it hurt to let him hope? I’ll disappoint him soon enough—like the next time Abuela calls.
Back home, we hang up our jackets and leave our shoes on the shelf by the door. Except Memito. He stomps his feet when Dad reaches for his shoes. “Come on, m’ijo.”
Memito bolts down the hall, his shoes still on. “I’ll try,” Mom says, emerging from her room with a smile, her gaze following the clomp of Memito’s shoes. “How was the walk?” I can tell she got a lot done because she’s really asking, really looking at me.
“Good,” I say. “The flashlight made it fun.” I don’t tell her Jayden “liked” my photo, which was kind of the only good part of the walk.
Mom tugs on the end of my ponytail. “You’re a good sister,” she says, and then goes after Memito. Immediately, crying carries down the hall from his room. I go peek i
n his doorway as Mom grabs him up in a big bear hug, pulls up the Velcro straps, and sets the shoes aside. “Sorry, m’ijo. No shoes in the house.” Now he’s kicking at tantrum-speed, clunking his bare heels on the carpet until they turn red. He tries smushing his feet into the shoes but can’t manage the flapping straps or the twisting tongues.
With a determined look, Mom leaves the room. “He’s fine, Qui.”
He’s whimpering and crying himself out on his little race-car bed until I sneak in and help. Mom always says we shouldn’t reward bad behavior, but he seems desperate. I put his feet in the shoes, pull the Velcro tight, and relief breaks over his tear-stained face. “Memito,” I say, my voice soft. I hope he will look at me, but his eyes close.
When Dad shows up with a bedtime book, Memito is sleeping on top of his comforter, one shoe on each foot. Dad looks at me, and I hold my breath, but I’m not in trouble. He puts his hand on my shoulder. This was more than little-kid dramatics. I know it.
At the dining table, Dad talks with Mom in Spanish. From my bed, I hear keyboard clicks. By now I know the search engine will drive him to another name for what’s happening or maybe to one of the names we’ve seen before. Developmental delay. Sensory integration. Childhood schizophrenia. Mom’s reading a book about allergies and something called leaky gut, and I found headphones for sale that help “auditory processing”—unless that’s a scam.
I try blowing all of this away with a deep breath, but worry keeps tapping my shoulder. What if Memito doesn’t get better? What if he’s never normal again? How will he handle Guatemala, especially without me? Mom and Dad act like everything’s under control. I wish it were.
I climb into bed. Under my blanket, I try to feel my feet. I try to feel each toe and the warm air around them. Heels. Arches. Pockets of emptiness where the blanket isn’t. I picture what it feels like to have lonely feet, each needing a shoe’s squeeze. I’m guessing. I’m imagining. Am I closer to understanding? No one knows.
THE SINGLE DIGITS OF NOVEMBER slip by, and Zuri hasn’t mentioned the huipil for a week. I’m nervous to ask her about it, since it’s such a big favor, and I don’t want to be pushy. At school, our lunchtime talks have been all about final dress rehearsals for Jayden’s play and the fact that his mom will be able to go tomorrow night after all. “She canceled her work thing, after all that!” I hope it means she’s okay with Jayden’s acting. But the thought of money runs behind all my other thoughts because the bus website shows only twelve seats left for my Florida trip.
On Saturday morning, I can’t take the suspense anymore. I won’t even enjoy the play tonight if I don’t know something about the huipil. I pick up my phone to text Zuri, and then a better idea comes to mind. I’ll call her mom. Since it’s the weekend, she’s probably home.
“Ms. Thomas? Um, I’m Quijana Carrillo, Zuri’s friend?”
“Hello, love. I bet you’re calling about that wonderful top.”
She doesn’t have good news. People haven’t shown much interest since the huipil was first listed. “In my experience, reducing the price creates new excitement,” she says. “Could you go down to one hundred fifty dollars?”
“That would be okay, except I won’t be able to give you as much.”
“Never mind that, love. Like I said before, I’m happy to do it. I was wondering . . . Zuri hasn’t told me why you’re selling it. It’s quite beautiful.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s . . . it’s an extra. My closet has a bunch of these.” I feel my cheeks burn red. What am I talking about? My lie sounds dumb.
“Lucky you!” she says, and I feel even worse. “Don’t you worry. We’ll find the right buyer. And in the meantime, will we see you at the play tonight?”
I inhale rapidly, my mind cascading through the possibilities of her meeting my parents and mentioning this project.
“Quijana?”
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, we’ll be there.”
The night falls cool and clear as we drive to school to see Jayden’s play. One of Mom’s college students is babysitting Memito.
We walk in to find the lobby packed. Zuri and I want to sit together, so I text her where to find us. I just hope her parents let her sit with us by herself.
“The enterprising Quijana Carrillo,” shouts Ms. Thomas. She waves, and the family of three speeds over. So much for keeping the parents apart.
I hug Zuri, and the four parents shake hands. The Thomases, tall and regal, bend their heads down to greet my petite parents. “I’m so enjoying getting to know Quijana,” Ms. Thomas says to my mother.
“I’m glad,” Mom answers. “And we’re so happy when Zuri comes over.”
“And Mr. Carrillo, where are you from? I’ve been asking Zuri, but she never can tell me.”
“I was born in Guatemala.”
Uh-oh. Zuri and I look at each other, our breath speeding up. This could go toward huipil territory fast. “We better find seats, don’t y’all think?” I say.
We shuffle as a group into the auditorium. Ms. Thomas remarks, “The fabrics from Guatemala are so intricate and colorful. I love the—”
“Mom, emergency, can you re-tie my headscarf?” Zuri breaks in, rumpling it.
“Jayden said the play is a comedy,” I say randomly, trying to change the subject. “Have you ever been to a junior high school play?” I ask Mr. Thomas.
“No, I haven’t,” he says, his eyes twinkling.
Zuri and I maneuver to walk between the parents as we make our way down the aisle.
“Were you born in Barbados?” I ask Mr. Thomas, though I already know the answer.
“We both were,” he says, taking his wife’s hand.
When we get to an empty row, my parents file in. Then Zuri and I take the next two seats, making it hard for the parents to talk across us. I let out a deep breath.
“That was close,” she says quietly.
“Nice headscarf emergency.” I give her a thumbs-up.
A thick red curtain hides the stage, and the room bubbles with anticipation. Next month, I’ll be on the same stage for my choir concert. Zuri points to Jayden’s name in the program, and my excitement feels squared by hers. We grip each other’s hands. It’s exciting to be at school after dark and on a Saturday, like we’re breaking some rule or something. I take a picture of her holding the program, and then she takes one of me. I send mine to Grandma, then post it as well.
The theater darkens, and the curtain opens. When the stage lights come up, Jayden stands in an old-timey living room looking like a British gentleman, top hat to wingtips. When he speaks his lines, we’re immediately transported to London. I’m amazed at how good he looks in slicked hair and shiny shoes, gliding across the stage—even better than usual.
“Wow,” Zuri whispers, and that’s what I’m thinking, too.
As more characters enter, I keep an eye out for any cute girls who might like Jayden.
Soon the audience is absorbed in the story, laughing in all the right places, and even I am forgetting he’s my Jayden. He’s become his part. For a full scene, I forget he’s my friend at all. I miss several lines as I realize my map of Jayden is too small. I need to add a sprawling new territory. A mountain range. A river.
The cast takes a bow as the audience roars. I don’t think anyone was expecting this play to be actually good, like real-world good, and now we’re two hundred hearts wide open. Jayden steps forward, and I’m clapping louder than I’ve ever clapped before. He’s happy in a way I’ve never seen, smiling with his whole body, eyes glittering.
“Let’s go see him!” Zuri is already on her feet.
“What about our parents?”
“I’ll go get the car, honey,” Ms. Thomas says. “You wait for Zuri.”
“I need to visit the ladies’ room,” Mom tells Dad.
Whew. Crisis averted. The dads might talk, but that doesn’t worry me.
We run to the backstage door, ready to hug Jayden, ready to shout how wonderful it was. We thread our way through costumed pe
ople and props, and I hear the drama teacher accepting praise from the principal. Finally, we see Jayden, surrounded by cast folk and crew. He’s hugging some and fist-bumping others. Students from the grade above us shake his hand.
We’re almost close enough to get his attention when the main character from the play, who must be Seth, grabs Jayden in a bear hug. I hear what he says, but it’s almost a code, filled with inside jokes. “Where’s the seventh Napoleon? Stage left! Don’t be naff!” They’re laughing back and forth and jostling each other when Zuri bellows, “Jayden, that was fantastic!”
He startles and his face flushes when he sees us approach. He glances at Seth, and then says, “Hey!”
Seth stands close by as Zuri moves in to hug Jayden. “Absolutely brilliant!” she says, hugging Seth, too, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know him. “I couldn’t stop laughing!”
I set aside a half thought that’s forming in my head, focus on Jayden’s face, and a surge of happiness returns. “You were amazing!” I say, squeezing him tight, inhaling the cinnamon smell of his hair gel. “I loved it!”
“Thanks, guys,” he says. I can tell he knows he did super well. Seth is still with us, so I say, “You did a great job, too,” nodding and smiling, a kind of through-the-air handshake.
“No one has timing like Jayden, though. We had that rapid fire going, man!”
Jayden breaks into a real smile again. “See,” he explains to Zuri and me. “Seth has to—oh, Seth, this is Zuri and Quijana.” He points to each of us. “Seth has to interrupt me in Scene Three, and then I have to talk over him a line later. It has to feel real without confusing the audience. Sometimes we flub it, but tonight—”
“—it went like clockwork.” Seth holds up both hands and Jayden meets them in a high ten. “Did you see Amanda in the couch scene?” Seth starts laughing. “She almost didn’t pick up the vase!”
Zuri looks at me and I look back. We know it’s time to go. The sparks in the room are for the cast and crew. They’re all electrified, like a bank of lights. Jayden clearly just wants to talk with Seth.
The Other Half of Happy Page 13