The Other Half of Happy

by Rebecca Balcarcel

  “Is something wrong?”

  Mom rests her hand on my shoulder. “We just wanted you to know that Grandma’s doctors are . . . worried about some new test results.”

  “But she’s home,” I say. “She just texted me in the car.”

  Dad takes Mom’s hand and squeezes it.

  “You guys are freaking me out.” I take a step back.

  “No, it’s not—look, she is stronger. They let her go home because she can manage with a nurse coming by for a few hours a day. At the same time . . .”

  Dad steps in. “She’s not out of the forest.”

  Mom lets out a little laugh. “The woods, honey. Not out of the woods.”

  They lean against each other, and Dad kisses the top of her head. I wonder if he mixed up the phrase on purpose because it’s made us all less tense now.

  “Do you want to fly out there?” Dad asks Mom in a low voice.

  “She told me not to come, especially with Thanksgiving so soon. But maybe I should go anyway. Help her out.”

  Dad adds, “And hug her.”

  Mom dabs her eyes. “Hug her.”

  They pull me into a three-way hug, and I close my eyes, willing away the worst. But at least we’re in this together. I feel a little better when we part. I’m glad they’re willing to talk to me and not hide it. I also understand, for the first time, that Grandma doesn’t tell me everything.

  Mom tousles my hair and announces, “I’ll take Memito for a walk. I could use a walk myself.” And then—yes! Dad goes outside to do some yardwork and cover the spigots to protect them from freezing.

  This means that the house is empty, and it’s safe to lift down the guitar and practice my song. It will be the first time I put all the words to the music. If I can do it, I’ll record myself and send it to Grandma.

  I get a rhythm going and hum through the melody, thinking the words in my head. I’m ready to start over at full volume when I hear the back door open, and my fingers go cold. I look up. Dad’s eyes meet mine.“¡La guitarra! ¡Magnífico!” I feel like a thief caught in the act, but of course he’s thrilled, judging from his huge smile.

  My thoughts race as I try to think of a way out of this. “I was just . . .” Before I can stand up, he sits next to me.

  “I knew you would want to learn! Our whole family played when I was a boy—my uncles, your grandfather. In fact, your earliest ancestor came from Spain with a guitar. Go ahead and strum.”

  The guitar feels awkward all of a sudden. Its edges bump my ribs now that he’s here, but what can I do? I strum a D chord.

  “Mira,” he says, which means Here, let me show you. “That chord can be played with different fingers. More resonant.” He closes his eyes to recall his own hand position and starts moving my fingers.

  Why couldn’t he just be like a normal dad and give me a thumbs-up on his way to another room? Instead, he invaded. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid, exactly what I knew would happen.

  “Here’s the chord to learn first.” He moves my fingers again, trying to place them in the right spots. It’s totally unfamiliar to my hand.

  “Could you write it down, maybe?” I ask, trying to speed this up. “On YouTube, the lady has a chart with dots to show where each finger . . .”

  “A chart?” He snorts. “No, this is faster.”

  It isn’t, but I don’t say this. Arguing will only take longer.

  “This is how I learned from my own father.”

  Aha. The real reason we can’t write it down.

  “What’s this chord called?” I’m trying to connect what he’s showing me to anything I know.

  “Fa.”

  “You mean F?”

  “I don’t know ‘F,’ but we say ‘Fa.’”

  This isn’t help; it’s torture. I don’t even know which songs use Fa.

  “Look at my fingers,” he says. I put my fingers on the strings like he has them in the air. “Now you.”

  This time my chord rings. “Perfect, m’ija. Now, play it again.” Three times, four times. Then, of course, he wants to show me another chord. I’m screaming inside. These chords don’t even go with my song. This was supposed to be my thing.

  Forty minutes later, my hand is aching. Where are Mom and Memito?

  “One more, m’ija.”

  By now, my finger pads show creases from playing so long. My whole hand is weak. I press hard, but the thick strings barely move. “I can’t,” I say. “I was already practicing for a while before you came in. . . .”

  Dad shakes his head, not allowing my comment to settle in his ears. “You can. It’s in your blood.”

  By now, I almost want to fail.

  “You know what you need?” Dad says. A new hobby? I think. “Your hands, they’re small. You need a smaller guitar, with nylon strings. I know just the store.”

  Torturous guitar days unspool before my eyes. Hours of bleeding fingertips. Afternoons of memorizing hand positions. And Dad standing over me. “No, that’s okay, Dad.”

  “Sure. We can save a little each month. Maybe for your birthday.”

  “No, really. I don’t need one.” I shake my head vigorously and fight an urge to run.

  “But a Carrillo should have her own guitar. I’ll teach you all the boleros. You can play a song for the family in Guatemala!”

  My heartbeat slams into overdrive. “No, Dad.” I put down the guitar. “I am never going to play guitar in Guatemala.” The guitar is for Jayden, and, I realize, for myself.

  “But you were learning already. Let me help you, m’ija. You can play like the line of Carrillos before you.”

  “Not boleros!”

  When I was little, I used to cheer to see the guitar come off the wall. It meant Dad doing hilarious voices in “Pecos Bill.” It meant Mom and Dad harmonizing Spanish love songs. It meant singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “El Gallo Ha Muerto” in the three-part rounds.

  But now I wanted to keep the fun going in my own way. I wanted to play my favorite songs and write my own. Dad’s ruining everything.

  The magic-wand sound on my phone saves me. It’s Zuri texting both me and Jayden. “Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I better answer this. Later!”

  He’s still in guitar world, tuning the strings and humming—so pleased that I can hardly look at him. I run to my room, close the door firmly, and shut my eyes. I hope he forgets this ever happened, I hope he doesn’t set up a lesson schedule, I hope he gets over the fact that I’m not the daughter he thinks I am.

  I sit on my bed and read Zuri’s message.

  Still up for yogurt tomorrow?

  Yes! Thx for saving me.

  From what? It’s Jayden.

  I type fast. Having a situation here.

  What’s going on? Zuri says.

  Dad’s forcing guitar on me.

  I thought you wanted to learn?

  Not his way.

  You don’t want his help? Zuri’s text bubbles stack up on the screen.

  How can I explain that Dad’s help isn’t helpful?

  At least your dad cares.

  Jayden joins in: My dad knows nothing about music.

  My blue feelings turn black.

  He’s taking over, I say.

  Whatever. I know I sound ungrateful, maybe even mean, but why aren’t they on my side? Dad doesn’t get it—no surprise—but I thought my friends could.

  Just lie low for a while. He’ll forget about it. Jayden’s advice.

  I scroll through a screen of icons to find a face sticking out its tongue.

  Here’s MY dilemma. Zuri’s yellow text bubble pops up. The parents said I can have a gummy-candy maker for Christmas or a trip to Austin. I’m leaning toward the trip.

  I’m not ready to think about trips or gummies. I’m still an angry-sad swirl. They don’t understand. Maybe I can explain better in person.

  But think of the crazy gummy flavors you could make! Jayden says. Which would you choose, Q?

  I choose to ban parents.


  I put down my phone and get a snack. When I come back, I see a new message from Zuri.

  Call me!

  I do right away. “What is it?”

  “Someone bought it! Your huipil sold!”

  “What? Really?” I want to run all the way to her house.

  “Mom says their payment went through and everything, and she can bring you the money tomorrow after work.” Warning lights flash in my head. I can’t let her bring it to the house. “Uh . . . can she bring it to the yogurt place? She could give it to me when she picks you up.”

  “Oh, sure!”

  Whew. I’m walking back and forth in my room, too excited to sit. “Awesome! We did it. That was such a great idea, Z!”

  “Qui?” Her tone has shifted. “Are you sure about buying this bus ticket? I mean, aren’t you scared?”

  I am, especially now that it’s getting so close and so real. But I keep picturing that little kid riding by himself. If he can do it, I can.

  “I guess I’m nervous,” I say, “but it’s pretty simple, right? All I do is board the bus and get off at the right city. I’ll take nuts and raisins and energy bars. It’s just like a long car trip.” I’m rambling, but listing these details makes me feel better.

  “What about when you get there? Is your grandma picking you up at the bus station?”

  I try to ignore the voice in my head reminding me that Grandma doesn’t even know I’m coming. “If she’s well enough to drive. She’s home from rehab now, but she’s still weak. It’s actually good I’m going because I can help her when I’m there. You know, take out the trash and stuff. So I’ll probably take a taxi from the station.”

  “Have you done that before?”

  “How hard can it be? I have her address and some cash for cab fare.”

  “You sound ready, I guess.”

  “I’m trying to be.” I laugh so she’ll stop worrying. Part of me stops worrying, too. But another part doesn’t.

  ON THE MORNING BUS TO SCHOOL, sunlight pours through the window onto my face. It’s cold enough that my breath leaves a little cloud of condensation on the glass. I fog the window with a long exhale, then make a dot in the middle with my fingertip. I curve around the dot, making a spiral out to the edge.

  Then another finger, drawing a road or something, touches mine. I look up to meet the eyes of one of the Latino brothers peeking over the seat behind me. He gives me a close-lipped smile. Smile back! says a voice in my head. But I freeze. Something like fear must have jumped into my eyes because the boy turns back to his window and curves his road in a new direction.

  As we run into the school building, I brush the boy out of my mind and think, The huipil sold, the huipil sold, the huipil sold!

  I rush up to Zuri as we go into English. Seeing her in person makes my trip feel more exciting, less scary. “Yay!” I say, squeezing her arm. “Let’s tell Jayden.”

  “It sold!” I squeal, doing a small hop.

  “So you seem a little happy,” Jayden jokes. As we take our seats, he whispers, “That’s so much money! Good going!”

  I barely manage to sit still until lunch, and we walk to the cafeteria in high spirits.

  This day feels like wall-to-wall good luck: Memito had a meltdown-free morning, now I’ll get J-Z face time, I put a quesadilla in my lunch, in choir we’ll prep for the December concert, we’ll all go to Gerty’s Yogurt after school, and then I’ll get the money for my bus ticket. It’s a hands-down, definite good day.

  When we sit down, Jayden says, “Great to have you back, Quijana.”

  “Back?” I laugh. “Where did I go?”

  “Last night you were, like, low.” He overpronounces the last word, letting his voice drop to a bass note.

  “I guess I was.”

  “Really, though,” he says. “I was worried.”

  “Well, dads. You know.” I start in on my quesadilla.

  Zuri adds, “He sure wants you to play guitar.”

  “I mean, yeah. But it’s more than that. He only wants me to play Spanish songs. He even wants me to sing to my grandmother in Guatemala.” It sounds ludicrous even as I say it. “He’s taking over this thing that was, like . . . mine. He always does.”

  “But you’re not going to Guatemala,” Jayden says.

  “Right,” I say. “But he doesn’t know that.”

  “Why can’t you sing your own songs?” Jayden shakes his head.

  “Thank you!”

  Zuri’s chewing slowly, watching me. “Did you tell him this?”

  I think back. I guess I didn’t tell him, not exactly. Why didn’t I? “It’s his guitar. I mean, I guess I could ask to use it and just tell him he can’t interfere. That I want to do it alone.” This sounds iffy. I can see his eyes going either sharp or liquidy—neither one good.

  The conversation tilts back to regular school stuff, but I don’t listen. Could I actually talk to Dad? Would he hear me?

  When the bell rings, Jayden waves his hand in front of my face. “Hello? Yogurt coordination time. Let’s meet by the front office after school.”

  Yogurt. Right. I remind myself that today I’m celebrating.

  By the time the school day ends, I’ve wrestled my mind back onto the Lucky Express, destination: fun.

  “Jayday,” I say.

  “QuiQui!” he says, meeting my fist with his in the air.

  “Z!” I say.

  “This is going to be marvelous,” she says, leading the way.

  Gerty’s Yogurt is across the street and down a half block. We have all the way till 4:15 before our moms pick us up. Plus, with round tables for three people, I can sit next to Jayden for sure.

  “Mahvelous,” echoes Jayden. “I love her r-lessness,” he says to me in a stage whisper.

  But then, the opposite of luck. Seth waves to us from across the yard. “Oh, yeah. I meant to ask you guys. Can Seth come?” Jayden asks.

  My hopes take a nosedive, but Jayden’s eyes are revved up to extra shine, and Seth is walking toward us. We obviously can’t say no.

  “Sure?” Zuri looks at me for confirmation.

  “Of course,” I say, forcing my politeness gears into motion.

  “Wanna come for yogurt?” Jayden asks.

  “Sounds great!” says Seth. “I’ll text my dad.”

  We shove our hands in our pockets and brave the cold. “My mom said it was too cold for frozen yogurt,” I say.

  “Nevah!” Jayden says, jutting his index finger into the air.

  “All weather is yogurt weather!” Seth pronounces. They’re both laughing out loud as we cross the street.

  We spiral yogurt into paper cups and find a rectangular table for four. I sit across from Jayden, since Seth takes the next-to seat.

  I don’t want to talk about the huipil with Seth there, so I say, “Hey, guys, our choir concert date got announced in class today. It’s December ninth at seven-thirty. You in?”

  “Of course!” says Zuri.

  “Great!” I say. “There’s this one piece I love especially. One of my favorites ever.”

  “Is that a Monday?” Seth is shifting in his seat. “Jayden and I usually watch Monday-night football at my house.”

  “But Seth,” says Jayden. “This’ll be a big night. I think I should go. We can miss one game.”

  Should. The word sounds louder in my ears than the rest of the sentence.

  Seth nods, then gives a little salute. “Whatever you say, Captain Winters.”

  After that, I have trouble holding up my corner of our four-way conversation. But soon it’s mostly two-way. Jayden and Seth talk theater class while Zuri and I just listen.

  “What made you think to improv that cell-phone conversation?”

  “I just went with what Danielle started.”

  “No, but then the beach ball!”

  “I know. Mr. H is, like, crazy sometimes!”

  I keep hoping the guys will touch on something I can add to, but I’m relieved when Zuri asks about Memito. “Last night
he figured out how to twang those coil things behind doors,” I tell her. “Doorstops. So that was pretty much our evening.” She laughs, but it’s half-hearted. We listen to Jayden and Seth for a minute.

  “You should’ve been there,” Jayden says to us for the fourth time.

  “Sounds like it,” I say, letting my annoyance show a bit. I don’t think they mean to leave us out, but Seth and Jayden have chemistry. They’re in sync, like a pilot and a co-pilot. My plastic spoon is scraping the bottom of the cup before I figure it out. Their banter back and forth, their deep smiles. How did I not notice before? They like each other. As in like like.

  The sky of my heart cracks. Their conversation sounds like it’s underwater. I am intensely focused, suddenly, on not crying. Now Jayden’s turning to me, demonstrating a crazy tongue twister they say to warm up their voices in theater. Something about a sixth sick sheep, but I don’t hear him well—my memory’s black box is lining up facts in my brain. Jayden sitting with two girls at lunch. Jayden talking to me without ever flirting. Jayden and Zuri in the friend zone for years. It all makes sense. This flight was doomed from the beginning. Jayden will never fall for me. He’s fallen for Seth.

  Jayden checks his phone. “Almost four-fifteen. We better stand outside or your mom will flip out, Z.”

  When she drives up, I’m not nearly as happy as I thought I would be with my thick envelope of huipil money. Thoughts about Jayden have taken all the excitement out of what was supposed to be my moment of triumph. “Are you sure you’re comfortable carrying this much cash? I could write your mom a check instead.”

  “No thanks, Ms. Thomas. My mom will be here in a minute. I won’t be carrying it for long.”

  Thankfully, she accepts this and drives off. Then Seth’s dad comes. Normally, I would feel lucky to have Jayden to myself, but I feel like my brain is misfiring.

  “Hey, text me tonight,” Jayden says.

  I make myself say, “Okay.”

  “I want to hear about your choir pieces. And remind me what time to come.”

  He’s saying all the right things, but I can’t figure out how to act. “Oh . . . you don’t have to come, really. It’s football night.” I try to sound like I’m teasing.