The Other Half of Happy

by Rebecca Balcarcel

  I put away the stepstool and think about how to get Dad or Mom to sign the form. Maybe I can fold back the Unaccompanied Minor part and say it’s for school. No. Maybe I can forge Mom’s signature. Risky. Maybe Jayden or Zuri could sign it? Or maybe it’s time to tell Grandma the truth; then she could sign it. I’d mail it to her, and she’d mail it back. Or I could bring it with me to Thanksgiving! She’d be happy to sign it and have me come. That’s my best plan for now.

  At the sink, I fill a glass and take a long drink of water. My heart is still beating fast, and I’m not sure what to do next. Zuri and Jayden have sent a thumbs-up and a smiley face. Now what? A book might calm me down. I don’t even take off my ankle boots before I flop onto the bed and start reading.

  I open my book and rejoin Harry and his friends at their school for wizards. My breath slows as I drop into their world. The kids enter a giant hall lit with magical candles. They have just taken turns putting on the Sorting Hat when Dad barges in, brandishing the guitar. I must not have heard the garage door.

  “I have something for you!” His eyes flash with enthusiasm. He’s so excited that he makes me not want to be excited at all.

  “I’m trying to read, Dad.”

  “This song—it’s perfect for your Guatemalan debut!” He strums the guitar and starts crooning in the middle of my room.

  His voice is loud, but my ears fill with the sound of my own blood pumping hard. First he bursts in without knocking, and now he’s pushing another song on me? In what universe is this okay?

  The song comes to a cutesy ending, and I realize it’s not even a serious song. It’s for children. I want to scrape his voice off my walls. “Stop!” I shout, throwing down my book. Standing now, I yell. “I’m not a little kid! I’m not doing some silly little kid’s song.”

  Dad pulls back, looking genuinely shocked. “But it’s tan chula. A sweet little song.”

  “I don’t care about sweet little songs!”

  “Quijanita.” I hate the primary colors in his voice.

  “I’m twelve! Haven’t you noticed? I don’t want to play guitar in Guatemala. I don’t even want to go!”

  “Of course you do.”

  “No, I don’t! I’ve told you that a hundred times!” Why does every word I say bounce off?

  “But you already play guitar. Why not share it con tu familia?” I wish he would stop pleading.

  A red power rises in me. “Why should I? I’m just learning—for myself. And I’m learning songs that I choose, not you.” I throw the last word like a dart. “I don’t want to sing your stupid song. I don’t even know what the words mean! Wait till you get my report card. News flash: I stink at Spanish.”

  “Qui.” He’s faltering. “I can tell you what the words mean.”

  “Who cares!”

  “Here,” he says, trying to hand me the guitar. “I can show you.”

  I cross my arms.

  He’s still holding out the guitar, but now he frowns. “You are a Carrillo,” he says. “You’ll carry the tradition, just like I hoped. You are half Guatemalan and my daughter.” He pushes the guitar toward me. “This is your heritage.”

  “Well, I don’t want it. Have you ever thought of that? Maybe I just want to be American. I’m half Anglo, Dad.” I spit the word at him, and he flinches as if stung. I’m glad.

  He sets the instrument down with deliberate gentleness, propping its neck against the low side rail of my bed. It’s a battle line between us.

  “Quijana.” Dad takes a boss-of-the-house tone. “Listen.”

  “You listen! I’m not going to be your . . . strumming puppet, Dad, just so you get to pretend that I love the song and I love to play guitar and I love Spanish. Just say it. You’re ashamed of me! You want me to be like Mirabel and Crista.”

  My father’s face contorts. “That is not the point at all! It never was! Do I wish you would speak español? Por supuesto, pero . . . but . . . you could if you wanted to. You do not even try! Why should my daughter fail Spanish? Because she is not smart? No. Because she does not care! I know you are American, but you will not insult my country, my people, your people! Who is ashamed? You are.”

  “I try hard in that class! How would you know anyway? You have no idea what it’s like to be me. All you see is who you wish I was.” Teachers, family, friends—everybody wants me to be someone different. In one avalanche, I hear Jayden’s laughter with Seth, Memito’s crying from pinched fingers, Elena’s ugly insult, and Dad belting out the stupid kiddie song. Behind it all, another word is pounding in my ears: Guatemala, Guatemala, Guatemala. I’m tired of being a disappointment, tired of being wrong no matter what I do.

  “Quijana Patricia Carrillo, no child should talk to her father this way. Where is your respect? If I even raised my voice to my father . . .”

  My chords, my song, my lyrics turn to ash. My world becomes a black whirlpool sucking me down. I have to pull myself out, make it stop, make him stop. He’s still yelling, still insisting, still arguing. I stomp.

  Crack!

  Strings twang as my boot lands squarely on the narrowest part of the fret board. The guitar neck breaks in half.

  Dad halts mid-sentence. He’s silent, raising his arms and then clasping his head. He’s whispering, murmuring something in Spanish. It sounds like a prayer. He bends to pick up the pieces as if they are parts of his own body, detached for the first time, and I finally hear what he’s saying. “Oh, Quijana, Quijana. What have you done?”

  Tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t move.

  FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS, the ceilings at home press down on me. Dad’s face is tight, and Mom can’t look at me without pursing her lips. I know I’ve done something unforgivable, but at the same time, my own anger is still smoldering. I don’t apologize. I pick my way through the house as if through broken glass. I vent to Jayden and Zuri, but leave out the fight. I’m too raw. Then I go straight to my room and stay there as long as I can. In the evenings, I stay in my room with homework and books. I only let Memito in. The guitar’s wall hook hangs empty.

  I text with Grandma each day, but I can’t bring myself to tell her what’s going on. My cheerful updates on classwork start feeling like lies. Even though it’s late in her time zone, I send a message at bedtime.

  Grandma, I did something I shouldn’t have.

  Want to talk about it?

  You’re up!

  I can’t sleep much these days.

  Oh.

  What happened, sweet pea?

  I didn’t mean to, but I messed up pretty bad. Had a fight with Dad.

  Can you fix it?

  If she only knew how much I cannot fix a guitar!

  No.

  Can you apologize?

  But he started it. And before that a girl insulted me at school and before that I found out that Jayden doesn’t like me. So everything pretty much sucks right now. Grandma hates the word “sucks.” I’ve never used it in front of her before. But there’s no better word.

  Can I be honest?

  I hesitate. I don’t want to be told how inadequate I am. But how can I say anything but yes to Grandma?

  Will it hurt?

  Probably. :-) But here it is: No self-pity! Act like the wonderful person you are. Ask yourself, What would my best self do? Then do it. I know you can.

  I’ll try.

  At least someone believes in me.

  On Friday afternoon, Mom calls me to the table. “Sit down.” She remains standing. I know what’s coming, and I’m almost glad. I’ve lived in suspense, wondering what my punishment will be.

  In front of me, she sets a piece of paper. It says $400 at the top. “This is what we think it will cost to repair the guitar.” I’m thankful that Dad’s out with Memito right now. Dad would either yell or cry, while Mom’s approach is businesslike, so it doesn’t require me to stop feeling self-righteous. I know I shouldn’t have wrecked the guitar, but I’m not the one who brought it to my room and forced it on me. Dad’s the one who shouldn
’t have made demands.

  “Here’s a calculator,” she says. “You earn three dollars a week for chores, right? Figure out how many weeks it will take you to pay this.”

  Fair enough.

  I press the buttons and get 133 weeks. That sounds long. I divide by twelve and it comes to two and a half years. That’s really long. I recalculate to make sure. This means that in one second, I did two and a half years’ worth of damage. My body feels heavier in the chair.

  Mom’s brisk. “If you want to do additional chores, I’ll deduct those from your total.” I wish I’d known this way to raise money back when I was saving for my bus ticket. Although it would have taken me a year to get out of Texas. “Why don’t you write a list of extra jobs you can do around the house, Quijana.” Yikes, my whole name. Now I hear anger behind Mom’s matter-of-fact tone.

  “Mom, if he hadn’t . . .”

  “Just write, please.”

  I put my head down and start listing.

  Wipe out refrigerator.

  Wash windows.

  Sweep driveway.

  I can’t think of many more, but Mom can.

  Vacuum under sofa cushions.

  Wipe down baseboards.

  On it goes. My hand slows as I near the bottom of the page. “You’ll do all your regular chores, plus an extra one from this list on Saturdays.” I nod.

  “Mom, I—”

  Her face stays serious.

  “I mean . . . I didn’t mean for it to happen. I wish I could go back and break something else instead.”

  Her voice stays hard. “Well, it did happen. Now you have to make it right.”

  She never even asked me what happened! Doesn’t she want to know my side? I didn’t go looking for that stupid kiddie song. He dragged it in. I thought Dad would at least be a little happy that I was learning to play guitar at all. Isn’t he the selfish one for insisting that I play the songs he likes? Grandma Miller’s words flash to my mind: No self-pity! Yes. But, Grandma, this is so hard.

  “You understand, Quijana?”

  “Yes, Mom.” I look down at the table and scratch a speck on the edge. “I just didn’t want Dad to . . . take over like that.”

  “Oh, Quijana.” She lets out a deep breath and rubs her eyes. “I know it feels like that guitar is all about you right now, but think beyond yourself for a second. That guitar. You know when I first saw it? Your father serenaded me when we met. He sang to me every night for a week with that guitar. Before you were born, we went camping with friends and sang around the fire—with that guitar.”

  I forget that the book of my parents’ life started before I came. I’m a middle chapter. “Will the guitar . . . be like it was?” I ask, speaking to the tabletop.

  “What?” Mom looks at me, and I try to meet her gaze.

  “Will it, you know, sound the same after it’s fixed?” I feel a heat behind my eyes that threatens to become tears. I know it’s selfish to think of it, but I’m devastated that I won’t be able to play the guitar either.

  “I don’t know.”

  I look back down. Thinking of all the years Dad played the guitar, I read the chore list and the $400 across the top. I can never truly pay for it. The weight of what I’ve done makes my head hang.

  “Since you’re making reparations—that means paying for the damage—you and I don’t need to talk about this again. But you and your dad have to work things out—just the two of you.”

  She hangs the list on the fridge with a rainbow magnet. I wish we had a black-hole magnet. I’d like to drop inside and never come out.

  Supper is quick and quiet like it has been all week. Mom and Memito act like themselves, but Dad either concentrates on his food or makes pronouncements like “Good broccoli, Kim” or “Busy day at the station.” He even talks to me, but not in the old way, just asks how my classes went today. He tells no stories with exaggerated gestures and dramatic pauses. He quotes no authors or philosophers.

  It’s cold out here, in the free space I thought I wanted. Dad’s changed. Yet I can’t imagine that horrible day ending differently. I still don’t want to learn a Spanish song I’ve never heard before. I’m still that disappointing girl.

  Mom sets down her fork and clears her throat. “Quijana.” Her voice startles me. “I’ve been wanting to have a family discussion about something. Your Aunt Jess and I have been talking. Me and Dad thought hard about this, too, and it’s been a tough decision. I think it’s the right thing, although I know you’re not going to be happy.” She rests her forearms on the table edge and I look up. Am I in yet more trouble? “We feel that Grandma’s not ready to host a crowd of people. She’s . . . well, she’s pretty weak. We’ve decided to cancel Thanksgiving.”

  “What?” Please, no.

  “We’ll still have a gathering, but not in Florida.”

  “But, Mom.” I try not to whine, but I can’t help it. Not having Thanksgiving in Florida—without Grandma?—is like not having Thanksgiving at all. Plus, I realize with a pang of guilt, I need Grandma to sign that stupid form. “Can’t we go anyway? We can do all the cooking, you and me and Aunt Jess. And Dad,” I add, uncertain if I should even say his name.

  “We thought about it, but Grandma may have to go back to the hospital.” Mom’s shoulders are slumped, I realize, and her voice is flat. I’m not used to seeing her like this. Mom is one of the strongest women I know. The woman who can do anything with enough Post-It notes and lists. Now she looks exhausted.

  “Really? The hospital?” Grandma’s texted me almost as much as usual. I thought she was getting better. I may have to help her more than I thought when I get there in December.

  “We’ll see. I’m going to fly out on Sunday to see her. It’s the soonest I could get a flight.” This Sunday? Mom’s making it sound like an emergency. That worries me.

  “I want to go with you,” I say.

  “It’s too expensive, sweetheart.”

  “We could take the bus.”

  “Sweetie, I already bought my plane ticket. Look, I’m just going to spend a few days, and we’ll have a late Thanksgiving next weekend. Aunt Jess is going with me. She said she’d host a Turkey Day for us when we get back.” She turns to Dad. “Watch out, kids. Your dad may have to cook some.”

  Dad reaches out and rubs Mom’s shoulder.

  Who cares about a Turkey Day? I just want Grandma.

  Before bed, I write her a letter. I ask Grandma to sign the form, explaining that I want to see her and that I can’t face Guatemala. Then I send her a book-length text, telling her about my song, about how I think Jayden likes Seth, my Memito worries, and how I blew it with Dad.

  Thanksgiving won’t be the same without you, but we’ll see each other soon.

  I don’t mention the letter or the form in the text. I can’t mail them yet since Mom will be there. I’ll send it after Thanksgiving.

  My phone makes its magic-wand sound. It seems too late for Grandma to message me. I swipe my sea turtle screen. It is Grandma!

  I hate to hear of life being so tough for you, sweet pea. I wish I could cheer you up with some pancakes! When you’re ready to hear advice, listen to your heart. You’ll find answers there. I have heard your father say, “Fortune always leaves some door open to admit a remedy.” A quote from Don Quixote, I believe. You’ll see an opening for a solution, I’m certain. Meanwhile, my love is with you always. XXOO

  The memory of Dad’s disappointed face floats in front of me, and I hear his What have you done? over and over. Then I remember his yelling, his insisting. The feeling that I would be bent and twisted into something unrecognizable if he won. I look for an open door, but I don’t see one.

  WITH MOM IN FLORIDA, Dad and I have no one to talk to. We can’t talk to each other until one of us apologizes. It won’t be me. Maybe when the guitar is repaired, it’ll feel easy again, like it used to. As for now, he’s fizzy with Memito, but goes flat when he asks me to take out the recycle bin. The weirdest thing is the silence during times whe
n Dad would normally strum or sing. After supper, I’m used to hearing him pick out a melody. I’m still not sorry.

  Jayden and Zuri text me from their relatives’ houses, where they’re having real Thanksgivings. Jayden’s silly selfies make me smile, though a sadness rises up, too.

  Mom texts me only once, but she calls Dad every night. Tonight I stop reading my book to listen to the half conversation.

  “Good idea,” Dad says. “The right medication will make all the difference.” He pauses. “A turkey. Can’t I thaw it in the sink?” Loud noises erupt from the other end of the phone. “Okay, okay. The fridge, got it.”

  Thanksgiving Day passes like a normal day, except for a big group video call. Grandma looks more like herself with her living room in the background and her regular clothes. “It’s so good to see you, dear Quijana,” she says.

  “I wish I could hug you through the screen!” I say.

  Friday night brings Mom home, and on Saturday we trundle down the road to Aunt Jess’s for “Thanksgiving.” She’s invited us and a few friends. The strangers will make Memito withdraw, which could be good. He’ll cling to Mom and not get into trouble. The rest of our Carrillo family won’t be coming. They went on vacation to San Antonio, so Mirabel, Crista, and Raúl are probably snapping photos of the Riverwalk and mariachi bands, having fun. I’m surprised to almost wish I was with them. Without Grandma Miller with us, it doesn’t seem like we should have fun.

  I feel better when I smell pecan pie. “I followed Mom’s—your grandma’s—recipe exactly,” Aunt Jess tells us. As the pie comes out of the oven, I take a picture and send it to Grandma. Your pie looks yummy. Missing you.

  Dad brings in the cooked turkey, and after a few minutes of reheating, it comes out golden. He’s proud of making the main dish, and I have to admit he did well. He’s better at following YouTube directions than I thought.