The Other Half of Happy

by Rebecca Balcarcel

  “Wait, Qui.”

  I lift my head to see Jayden’s green eyes soften.

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Remember lunch at the tree? I didn’t know if I would even try out for this thing. I was worried about—well, you remember.” Jayden smiles, and Seth looks at me more closely. “I have you to thank for all of it.”

  “I knew you’d be great.” A little glow warms my chest, and I really wish I could talk to him alone. Now is the time to tell him what I couldn’t last week. Now would be perfect.

  But the moment doesn’t come. Cast members slap Jayden and Seth on the back, and Seth stays right at Jayden’s side. Zuri and I say our See you Mondays and walk back toward our dads.

  The hall of walking coats seems tame, a world without spotlights and applause. I’m happy for Jayden, and I feel special to him, but my heart slumps. I’ve seen something I didn’t expect. The play is Jayden’s life tonight, and I am in the wings.

  THE GOOD THING about Jayden’s play is that it majorly inspires me to work on more song lyrics after walking church on Sunday morning. I imagine singing the lines to Jayden, his eyes sparkling as I strum. I click Notes on my phone.

  The more I know you, the more I want to know you more.

  And when you fix your eyes on me,

  I feel my heart expand, fly free.

  Without your love, I’m incomplete.

  Togetherness makes life more sweet.

  The more I know you, the more I want to know you more.

  Two more lines. That’s what it needs. I open up a rhyming dictionary site and skim the most common rhymes, like “-ight.” Then I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I think of Jayden onstage, Jayden at the lunch tree, Jayden biking to the lake, Jayden laughing at the lunch table.

  Your life inspires; I want to bloom.

  A better me lights up this room.

  Yes! I read it over again, singing it under my breath.

  Three raps on my window startle me. It’s Mom in a sun hat and gardening gloves, carrying a tray of winter pansies. “Don’t forget, we’re having lunch at Tía Lencha’s!” she shouts.

  I give her a thumbs-up, but my spirits sink.

  When we pile in the car later, I ask, “Will Memito be okay at Tía Lencha’s?” He looks fine right now, rolling a train engine on the back of Dad’s seat.

  “I think so, Qui,” Mom says. “It’s a familiar place.”

  But I’m not so sure. Lots of stuff triggers him now. Loud laughing, bright lights, crowds of people. His mind is a little bowl that fills up fast. I worry it will overflow.

  “What if he gets upset? Will we leave?”

  “No, mi angelita,” Dad says. “Our job is to help him handle it.”

  I was partly asking for Memito and partly asking for myself. I’d like to clear out of there as soon as we can.

  I text Jayden in the car on the way.

  You were so great last night!

  He responds right away.

  Thanks! Talk later?

  Yes!

  I hope this means we’ll talk more, now that the play is over.

  “Okay, phones away, please,” Mom announces as she turns off the engine. Dad clicks off his screen.

  “One last text to Grandma?” Everyone sits still as I send an image of a fat cat with hearts above its head and Are you home from rehab yet? I hope so!

  I hold Memito’s hand in the apartment building’s parking lot, and my breath goes shallow. I’m thinking of the hours to come. It’s not just the Spanish that’ll be soaring over my head. It’s also Tío Pancho using hand gestures I don’t recognize, and Tía Lencha speaking English to me that I can’t always understand through her accent. She has to repeat two or three times, no matter how hard I listen. I feel like I’m falling through a tunnel of sound, not a single word to grab on to.

  But when Tío Pancho opens the door, my worries are replaced by the aroma of frijoles negros and fresh tortillas. Wow. Dad’s food never smells this good.

  I watch Memito touch every piece of furniture with the back of his hand—yet another new routine of his. Half my attention is on him until he sits down and starts playing with a stack of wooden coasters.

  In the warm kitchen, I breathe more deeply. Mirabel and Crista pat balls of harina into palm-sized circles, then Tía cooks them three at a time in her big skillet. She flips them like pancakes and piles the finished tortillas in a basket, keeping them warm under a thick dish towel.

  “Hey Quijana, you can help,” says Crista. She’s wearing a plastic tiara that sits a little crooked.

  “If you wash your hands,” Mirabel tells me.

  I hesitate for a second, but it looks pretty easy.

  “Good idea,” Dad says. “Learn here so you can help Abuela when we get to Guatemala.”

  Right. Nothing matters if it’s not about Guatemala.

  “Guatemala!” says Mirabel. “That’s right! When do you go?”

  “Next month,” I say, then realize November’s half gone. A queasy feeling stirs in my stomach. It’s way past time to buy my ticket. I really should have thought of a backup plan to selling the huipil.

  “I wish I could go.” Crista stops her work and looks at a spot above my head. “I remember going to this market, and Don Paulo giving me a stick of candy every time we bought his vegetables.”

  I wish I could give her the airplane seat I won’t be using.

  “¡Sí, sí! Es verdad,” Tía says and launches into memories in Spanish. Mom and Dad and Tío Pancho join in. A salad of voices tosses around my head.

  Worried, I look around for Memito, thinking that all this noise must be bothering him, but he’s okay. He’s found a quiet corner and a picture book. If he can handle this visit, I should be able to, right?

  I scoop up the cornmeal dough and watch Mirabel’s hands. I try to form a ball, but the stuff crumbles.

  “Here.” She sprinkles water onto my cracked wedges. Now it’s less grainy and flattens easily.

  “That’s it,” Crista says, straightening her tiara with her wrist. “Easy, yeah?”

  It is. Just like Play-Doh.

  “So we heard you spoke Spanish to Abuela,” says Mirabel.

  “What?” I almost drop my dough.

  “Your dad told us.”

  “He did?” Thanks a lot, Dad. Why does everything have to be a family headline?

  “Well, what did you say?”

  The room stops. Not only Mirabel and Crista look at me, but Tía and Tío, too. “I only said three sentences.”

  “So say them.” Raúl appears from behind his phone.

  “Sí, m’ija. Say them.” Dad’s voice is a drumroll. He smiles as if he’s showing his prize pumpkin at a fair.

  I try to remember. The two-week-old phrases start to take form, then crumble apart like the tortilla dough. Heat moves up my neck into my face. “I don’t remember.”

  Dad’s smile fades.

  “Sure you do, honey,” Mom says.

  “No, I don’t.” I press the tortilla between my hands hard. Now one of the sentences does bubble up in my mind, but I hide it under my tongue.

  Tía Lencha clears her throat. “Eh, Quijana, what grade you are this year? The seven?”

  This is my out, my chance to let it go, but I’m still too angry. “I learned those sentences for Abuela, not for any of you,” I say quietly.

  My parents look stunned, like I’ve splattered them with drops of hot oil.

  Raúl bursts out laughing. “Dang!” he says. “That’s cold.” This gives everyone permission to unfreeze.

  “It’s fair,” says Tío Pancho, looking at me and nodding. “She has her own mind, this one.”

  Tía looks at my tortilla dough and says, “Perfecta.” She winks to show she’s not offended, but the mood of the table has still shifted—because of me. Mom raises her chin and inhales as if to say something, but just moves to bring Memito to the table. Dad doesn’t budge. I can’t look at him directly, so I watch Tía cook my
tortilla and flip it into the basket. I know Dad would say I should feel sorry, but I don’t. Sure, it’d be nice to make my dad proud of me and be a daughter he could show off. But I guess she’s not me.

  The table is too small to hold all of us, so we eat in shifts. Kids first.

  Mirabel leans toward me and says, “Sorry, girl. I didn’t mean to start a thing. Do you want guacamole?”

  I take a spoonful, still feeling cross with Dad. I can feel his disappointment at my outburst from here. Everything he does sharpens my edge. He forgets I’m not like my cousins. He sees our dark heads around the table, a ring of black beans, and thinks I’m another one of a set. Instead, I’m a decoy. Wake up, Dad. See me as I really am. Would that be so disappointing?

  After a while I hear Dad’s laugh and I know he’s recovered. Even though I’m not sorry for what I said, I’m still relieved to know he’s not mad.

  I stop eating to check my phone—my other life, my real life. Monday sounds delicious right now. But the screen just tells me the temperature and announces an app update. No missed calls. No messages. No way out of here.

  Mom says something about Grandma Miller to Tía. “Espero que se mejore pronto,” says Tía Lencha. I understand it as “I hope she gets better soon.”

  “Guess what!” Crista says, leaning over the dining table. She pulls my mind out of its furrow. “Mirabel’s in love.”

  Mirabel startles. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yeah, right! Then why’s the name ‘Brian’ all over your homework folder?”

  “Okay, whatever,” says Mirabel. “I like him. But that doesn’t mean I’m in love.”

  “Are you in like, then?” presses Crista.

  The girls tussle about this as we clear plates. Their easy banter makes me wish I had a sister. I’m delighted by the two of them, but half-distracted listening to the grown-up conversation. I want to know if they’re talking about me. Dad’s voice wafts through the air, the slow, deliberate tones he uses when quoting an author.

  “Wanna see a picture of him?” Mirabel volunteers, and we scamper down the hall and crash on her bed. Mirabel scrolls through the photos on her phone until she finds the one she wants. “I know he likes me,” she says, “because he keeps asking my friends about me. Here.”

  I look at his face. He’s decent-looking, but I’m still hearing Mirabel’s last sentence. He’s asking her friends about her? I have to say, that sounds inefficient. Jayden just talks right to me. He’s never been nervous around me. Not even the first day. Maybe that’s a good sign.

  “Do you like anyone, Quijana?” asks Crista, reading the direction of my thoughts.

  “No.” I shake my head, but my face reddens.

  “Ooh, you do! Who is it?” She pounces in front of me, her tiara shifting.

  I smile and a half laugh escapes my mouth. “Nobody, really.”

  “Tell us!” Crista’s eyes light up.

  I show them a picture of Jayden on my phone. “Green eyes!” Mirabel says. “Does he like you?”

  “I mean, we’re friends.”

  Mirabel squints. “So, no?”

  “Well, I . . .” I don’t like this conclusion.

  “You don’t know?” Mirabel says.

  The protest on the tip of my tongue dissolves. I guess I don’t know. I think of our daily chats, texts, and the day we ate lunch at the tree. Here in front of my cousins, none of it looks like strong evidence. I feel like a lawyer with no case. My heart beats faster, and my head sloshes.

  “You should send him a note!” Crista says.

  “You would say that, Crista.” Mirabel frowns. “Notes are for elementary school.”

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking of asking him about it,” I admit.

  “You should.” Crista’s confident in her verdict. I wish she could wave her plastic wand and help me somehow.

  “Tell us when you find out,” she says. She positions herself exactly opposite her sister and holds up her hands. “Do ‘Chocolate’ with me, Mirabel.”

  Mirabel sighs, but chants through the hand rhyme with her little sister. Their hands clap and pat in unison. Each syllable gets a clap, high ten, or hammer fists. I remember these from the playground. It’s fun to watch, but the question of whether or not Jayden likes me wanders behind my thoughts.

  The girls say the rhyme faster and faster until they’re making mistakes and laughing. “Now you try,” says Crista, pivoting to me. She teaches me in slow motion.

  Cho-co-la-te. Cho-co-la-te.

  Choco choco la la.

  Choco choco te te.

  Choco la. Choco te.

  Cho-co-la-te.

  “You’re getting it,” she says, as my hands learn what to do when. We get it going pretty smoothly.

  “Here’s one in English,” I say.

  Say, say, my playmate,

  come out and play with me

  and bring your dollies three

  climb up my apple tree . . .

  Before I can finish, Memito rams himself into the bed. “Coco!”

  “What does he want?” Crista asks.

  “Coco!”

  “I think he wants us to do ‘Chocolate’ again,” I say.

  “Okay!” Crista loves this. She’s so sweet, a little fairy godmother who loves granting wishes.

  We do the rhyme again while Memito watches. “Ga!” he says, meaning “again.” We do it twice more.

  “Ga, ga!” he says.

  After two more times, even Crista is tired of it.

  “Coco!”

  “That’s all,” I tell him. “All done.”

  His lip quivers. Then his mouth opens into a full cry, which of course brings Dad in. “M’ijo, what’s wrong?”

  “He won’t let us stop,” says Crista.

  “The clapping rhyme,” I explain.

  “I see. Come here, m’ijo.” Dad tries to lift him up, but Memito goes limp and Dad can’t get a grip. The crying goes on, and Crista covers her ears.

  “Memito!” Dad uses his serious voice. He tries again to pick him up. Finally, he grabs Memito’s waist and carries his flailing body to the living room.

  I follow them and see Mom stop her conversation with Tío Pancho.

  Memito’s sobbing drowns out every other sound. “Coco-o-o-o!” he yells. I wish we could all go back to having fun. Why does he so often get stuck on one thing?

  Dad puts him down, and he writhes on the floor.

  “Memito, sweetie,” Mom tries. She approaches him, but he kicks, keeping her away. “Manuel Carrillo.” I’m sure Memito doesn’t even hear her.

  “We should go,” says Dad.

  Wait. I thought I would want to hear that, but I’m not ready to go. I want to show Crista my hand rhymes. I like hanging out with her and Mirabel.

  Mom gathers up Memito’s toys, and Dad tries to lift him again.

  “Thanks for everything, Lencha. Sorry about this,” says Mom.

  “The boy, he’s tired,” says Tía. “No problem. Raúl was the same.”

  “Coco!” Memito shouts. I doubt this is just about Memito being tired.

  I imagine sitting next to this crying machine for five miles. Then I get an idea. “Can I stay?” I ask. “Maybe Tía could bring me home later?”

  “Quijana, let’s just go,” Mom says.

  Dad’s already wrestling Memito out the door, and Mom hasn’t even looked up from stowing Memito’s sippy cup and board books. “We can’t set this up right now. Maybe another day.”

  “But there’s nothing to set up! I want to stay!”

  “We can bring her,” Tía intercedes.

  I give her an appreciative look.

  “No. Thanks, though, Lencha. It’s a school night anyway. Quijana, get your coat. And get Memito’s, too. Help me out, here, please.” Her look to me is half plea, half command. I guess only one kid gets to be crazy at a time.

  I stomp to the coats laid on Mirabel’s bed. I said this would happen, and Dad said we wouldn’t leave. But then, I didn’t think I�
�d want to stay. Looks like we were both wrong.

  Mom and Dad are already in the parking lot when I get to the front door. Everyone hugs me, and Mirabel and Crista give me kisses on the cheek that I’m not expecting. “Later, Qui,” they call. “¡Hasta luego!”

  I see Dad leaning into the car, trying to fasten Memito into the car seat. Mom’s on the other side, probably offering him a cracker. This is so not normal.

  My thoughts go back to the kisses. They were so sweet, like Mirabel and Crista really liked me. Maybe I’ll try kissing their cheeks next time. But would it seem fake coming from me, like I’m pretending to be Latina? It’s definitely not something I could do at school. But here, with my family, maybe I could. Maybe I would.

  ON THE WAY HOME from Tía Lencha’s, Memito gnaws on a fruit bar, finally quiet, and I hear from Grandma. Yes! Happy to be home at last. Have you talked to your mom? Can’t wait till Thanksgiving!

  Mm. What does Mom have to tell me?

  “You know,” says Mom, turning to look at me from the front seat. “Memito wasn’t the only one having a little trouble behaving back there.”

  Ugh. She’s not telling me anything about Grandma. It’s those three Spanish sentences. I thought they’d been forgotten—and forgiven. “You mean the Abuela sentences?”

  “Qui, it’s okay that you forgot the sentences or didn’t want to tell us. Nobody minds that. But we do mind you speaking rudely.”

  “I only said that I learned them for Abuela.”

  “Only that?” She gives me a look that makes me shrink back in my seat.

  “Well, no . . . but I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings.” My voice gets softer toward the end.

  “Ladies, this was partly my fault,” says Dad. We both look at him in surprise. “I didn’t mean to put you, how do you say it, ‘on the spot,’ m’ija.” We stop at a red light, and he looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You couldn’t remember. Everyone was listening. I would feel the same.”

  “You would?” Our eyes smile at each other in the mirror.

  At home, Memito runs to his room while the rest of us hang up our jackets. I turn toward my room, too, but Mom touches my hand.

  “Quijana, can we chat a minute?” I wonder if she has more to say about the Spanish sentences, but then I notice Dad standing right next to her like they both have something to tell me.