“Sweetheart, you were wonderful!” Mom says, squeezing my shoulders.
“Beautiful, m’ija,” Dad says.
“You both know Zuri,” I say, “and these are our favorite actors, Jayden and Seth.”
“Good to see you again, Mr. Carrillo. Great shirt,” Jayden says, shaking hands.
“No kidding!” Seth says.
“¡Gracias, chicos!” Dad’s natural friendliness can’t hide.
“Nice to finally meet you, Jayden. I’ve heard so much about you.” Mom takes his hand in both of hers. “I saw you in the play, and Seth, you too. Amazing job. Zuri, how are you?”
“Yes, Zuri, where have you been hiding? It’s so long since we’ve seen you! Come over any time. Don’t be strangers,” Dad says. “Our door is always open.” Dad’s warmth feels just the right temperature this time.
“Thanks, Mr. Carrillo,” Zuri says. “Don’t you think it was, I don’t know, like being lifted out of your seat? I just closed my eyes and let the music . . . carry me.”
“Me too,” I say, touched by practical Zuri’s emotion. I know what she means, too. Onstage, every problem fell away. Music took me where it wanted to go. “It was like riding the wind.”
“Okay, crazy wind-riders,” Jayden says. “We’re going back to Seth’s to catch the end of the game. Be sure to get me a copy of the concert, QuiQui.”
“I will,” I say, waving.
“I better go, too,” Zuri says. “Dad’s probably waiting out front.”
We hug, and I’m luckier tonight than I have been for weeks.
Mom keeps her hand on Dad’s shoulder on the way home. He tilts his cheek and rubs her hand. They love each other. I think they even love me.
When we turn onto Central Avenue, lined with streetlights, I can’t decide if we drive from shadow to shadow or from one shower of light to the next. I still sense sadness in the front seat. I can’t figure out what to say about the guitar. But I know one thing: I’m not angry anymore.
At home, I’m floating through bedtime prep—brushing my teeth and washing my face—when I hear my phone’s magicwand sound. It’s Jayden.
You still up?
Yes.
Seth’s going to come over during break.
Sounds fun. Why is he telling me this?
No. Call me?
I call him.
He picks up right away. “So after your concert, he said, ‘Let’s get together over the break,’ and I was like, ‘You should come over after Christmas.’ He said, ‘Cool.’ But then I’m driving home with my parents, and I need to tell them, you know, but I can’t. I just sit there. And then we’re home.”
“Where are you now?”
“In my room. Like a coward.”
“Your parents don’t like Seth?”
“I mean, they met him at the play. I’m sure they think he’s fine.”
“They know you guys hang out, right?” “Sure, but . . .”
Now it hits me. I try to step around the wrong words. “They don’t know that . . . you like him.”
“Right. Qui, I’ve never told anyone. I knew I . . . was, you know, but I never planned or said, like . . .”
“It’s okay. I know.”
“I know you know.”
“Well, duh. You totally like Seth, not any girls. Not even Zuri.”
“You mean, not even you.”
I can’t come up with a response to that. I can’t deny that my heart is still a little bruised.
“But I do like you, Qui. You’re my best friend. Zuri’s like my sister, but you’re the one I call, you know, like now.”
This moment tastes like a cough drop, half medicine-y, half sweet. “You’re my best friend, too.” It sounds better than I thought. In fact, it sounds good. I remember hearing that love is built on friendship. Maybe friendship is built on love.
“So, what should I do?”
“Can’t you say Seth is a friend?”
“But he’s not.” Jayden sighs. “I should tell them, right? I should come out to them.” His voice sounds pinched, like his throat is tightening. “They probably know anyway.” He doesn’t sound sure at all. He sounds scared.
“But Jay, you don’t have to do this now. I mean, Seth should come visit, but there’s no rush about your parents.”
“But don’t you think . . .”
“Look. There’s no, like, requirement, to tell them now. If they know already, then they know. If not, that’s fine too. The right time will come along. If it’s freaking you out, forget it and just tell them when you’re ready. That doesn’t make you a coward.”
Jayden’s quiet. Silence soaks second after second.
“You okay?” I listen for his breathing.
“No, you’re right. It doesn’t have to be tonight. It doesn’t have to be this year.” I hear him let out a long sigh. “Right.”
“It doesn’t have to be next year!”
“Yeah.” He almost laughs. “When I’m ready.” I can tell he says the words through a smile. I’m glad I could be there for him, and I’m even gladder that he’s relieved.
We hang up, I plug my phone in, make my last lunch of the fall semester, and load my backpack. It’s strange how I’m rooting for Seth now. I want Jayden to smile.
On my way to bed, I check my phone one more time. There’s a text from Jayden.
Thanks, bestie!
I send back a thumbs-up.
In bed, I lie awake savoring memories of the concert. Mr. Green’s first downbeat, our round vowels making each tone ring, hitting the highest note, and the delicious applause. I also remember Dad’s voice: “Beautiful, m’ija.” From a wise part of myself that feels newly awakened, I hear, He set aside his sadness for you tonight. I promise myself that before tomorrow ends, I will apologize.
WHILE I GET DRESSED FOR SCHOOL, I’m trying to think of ways to apologize to Dad tonight. The guitar can be repaired, but this distance between us—I want to repair that, too. I’ll have to get him alone, and then . . . what words should I start with? Then I realize there’s something else I can do. Something I have to do.
I arrive at the bus stop early. It would be easier if the Latino boys arrived before everyone else, but they don’t. Everyone takes their usual places on the sidewalk. The boy who said “Mexicans!” three months ago saunters to the middle. I’ve learned his name is Garrett. Everyone is looking at their phones. Except me.
The Latino boys walk up, stopping a little ways off, like normal. Are they even Mexican? They could be from lots of countries. El Salvador, Honduras, Bolivia. Even Guatemala. They could be my cousins.
I step closer to them and smile. “Mucho gusto,” I say to them, which is what you’re supposed to say when meeting someone.
“Encantado,” says one. “Emilio.” He gives a little head bow.
“Felipe,” says the other.
The other kids look up.
“Which way do you live?” I ask.
Emilio points down the street and curves his hand to the right. “Linda Lane.”
“I’m up there.” I gesture up the street with my thumb. “Did you just move here this year?”
“It’s LIN-da,” Garrett breaks in.
The three of us turn our heads, questioning.
“Not LEEN-da.”
“Chill, Garrett,” I say. “‘Linda’ is Spanish for ‘pretty,’ anyway. The English name comes from the Spanish in the first place.”
“Okay, Tijuana,” Garrett sneers. A few kids giggle.
I narrow my eyes at him and don’t answer.
“Her name’s Quijana,” says Emma, the girl who stepped on her own shoe back in September.
Several kids have put down their phones. Emilio and Felipe step up on either side of me, forming a line.
Garrett looks at us, then turns, dismissing us with a wave and sucking air between the roof of his mouth and his tongue. He walks off by himself.
The other kids have rearranged themselves into a rough circle. We’re one big group—except G
arrett, who’s back on his phone, or pretending to be. He probably wants to look busy and important, like he has a billion urgent messages to read. We know he doesn’t.
The bus doors open, and I climb on feeling good. I’ve made up for what I didn’t say and didn’t do. With Dad, I’ll need to make up for what I did say and did do. Talking to the boys was good practice, but it’ll be harder with Dad. I can only hope that’ll work out as well as this did.
The day passes in a blur. The best part is going to choir, where Mr. Green passes around little bags of M&Ms in a huge bowl and we watch a video of the concert. It’s weird to see myself on-screen, an earnest face in the second row. We sound even better than I remember.
All day, my thoughts keep circling back to Dad and what I’ll say after school.
I try out phrases in my head as I walk home from the bus, hoping that the right words will come.
At home, I find Mom in high gear. She’s installed a dimmer switch on the dining room light for Memito, is baking a lentil and sweet potato casserole, and has Memito wiping the table. She’s been full of energy and smiles since graduation.
“Mom.” I take a deep breath. “I’m ready to talk to Dad.” I push extra determination into my voice, even though I’m nervous, too.
“Oh, Qui, I’m super glad. You’ll both feel better, I know it.”
I decide to tackle the apology after supper. Everything smells too good to wait, so we eat as soon as Dad walks in. After washing dishes, I’m anxious to get this over with, but then he gets on the phone. And then he gives Memito a bath. It’s nearly bedtime when I steel my nerves and knock on my parents’ bedroom door.
“Come in.”
I push, and the door swings open. They’re both reading on their little couch, Mom sitting cross-legged, Dad stretching his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed. He lays his book in his lap.
I clear my throat. “Dad, can I talk to you?”
“Certainly.” He closes his book, marking his place with his finger.
The words dry up in my throat. I open my mouth, but the room feels suddenly hot.
Mom looks back and forth between us. “Should I leave you two alone?”
Somehow that would be worse. I’m sliding under a wave. “Can we take a walk or something?” I remember our late-evening walk with Memito a month ago. Everything felt easier then. “We can take flashlights again.”
Dad’s eyes start to smile. “How about the backyard?”
We put on our coats, step out the back door, and look up at the stars, standing side by side in the cold air. I see his breath. He must know what I want to say, but he doesn’t speak. I look at his profile and, in the moonlight, notice gray hairs near his temples. I’ve been thinking he wanted some other kind of daughter—a girl more Latina. Maybe I wanted some other kind of dad—more American. Neither of us can trade.
“Dad.” I close my eyes and say it slowly. “I’m sorry I broke the guitar.” I open my eyes to see his head is down. “I was angry. I don’t have an excuse. Before I could think or stop myself, I had done it.” He waits. “I’m ashamed that I hurt the guitar you brought from Guatemala—well, destroyed it. And I never should have yelled at you either. Or said all those things. And now I miss singing. Your singing. And you and mom singing.” It’s true. Life hasn’t felt lively since it happened. “I don’t know why I felt so angry about playing for Abuela. I could have at least tried. It seems silly now.”
He’s quiet for a long time. Then he says, “You’re such a good sister.” He’s looking at the sky, but all I can look at is his face. “Such a wonderful daughter.” Surprise lifts me, almost pulling me out of my shoes. I thought he would yell, or scold me at least. When I think of the splintered guitar, I feel like he should.
“Hijita. You don’t have to sing in Guatemala. You don’t ever have to play guitar. It’s just . . .” His voice wavers. “I wanted to give you something to make your life sweeter.”
I blink. I wonder if I’m hearing correctly.
“Here in the States, it is not so easy to keep the customs, to even pass down memories of places far away. We cannot visit Guatemala often. Is it any wonder that it is as foreign to you as, what is it, Timbuktu? I blame myself about the Spanish. I missed the chance to give you that. Now we are left with songs. And the guitar.” He looks down at his hands. “When I saw you holding it, I admit I was hopeful. I hoped to still give you something of your heritage. Something of me.”
I meet his eyes. He blinks tears away, and my own eyes moisten. “Dad,” I say.
He opens his arms, and I step into them. I squeeze him hard. He hugs me and kisses the top of my head.
In his embrace, I feel all the strain and worry fall away. “I love you.”
“I know, m’ija. I love you, too.”
I pull back. “I’ve only earned twelve dollars.”
“I’m not worried about that,” he says. “It might be time for a new guitar. I know a store, remember?”
Before we go in, I look up at the stars hanging low and glittery. Tonight, each one seems reachable.
Back inside, we can tell that neither of us wants to go to bed quite yet, even though tomorrow is a school day. “I’m going to have some hot chocolate,” Dad says. “You want some?”
“Sure.”
“You know, your grandma’s the one who taught me to use a microwave. And how to wash dishes, too. At home, my sisters did that, but your grandma—she set me straight, said men in America help in the kitchen.” He laughs. “She never let me forget that!”
In three minutes, the microwave dings and we each take a mug. “It’s hot,” he warns. We sip our cocoa at the table. The warmth in my belly spreads to my whole body. Dad usually comes up with a quote to end nights like this. Just as I’m thinking that, he speaks up. “As Cervantes says, ‘You are a king by your own fireside, as much as any monarch on his throne.’”
Right now I wouldn’t trade places with any king.
ON THE LAST WEEKEND before our trip to Guatemala, Mom and Dad and I spend all morning cleaning house for a party. We’re celebrating two events at once: Mom’s graduation and Christmas, with no presents.
I fold paper napkins into fans on the table, then check on Memito. He’s whirling on his Sit ’n Spin in the living room. I’m hoping he’ll enjoy the day and not get overwhelmed when Tía Lencha’s crew and Aunt Jess descend on our house for the buffet-style supper.
My cousins circle the dining table, which is crowded with homemade tamales, tomato rice balls, handmade tortillas, and fresh guacamole, plus a treat that I helped make—strawberries dipped in white chocolate tinted green to make them Christmas-y.
Mirabel grabs my arm right away and starts giving me the scoop on her new boyfriend. She was right. Brian likes her. “He gave me a snow globe on the last day of school.” She says it quietly, but her eyes sparkle. He sounds so sweet. It’s the perfect Christmas gift.
“And it plays music!” Crista says.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring it along,” Raúl says with an eye twinkle.
“Tss.” Mirabel switches back to sister mode long enough to roll her eyes at him. “What about your guy, Quijana? Did you find out if he likes you?”
I take a deep breath. “I found out.”
“Well?”
“We’re . . . just friends.”
“That’s too bad,” says Mirabel.
“No, it’s not,” snarks Raúl. “A friend will last longer than Brian.”
“But love is better than friendship,” Crista says wispy-like, as if she’s just stepped out of a theater after a romantic movie.
“You sure about that?” Raúl shrugs. “I got no one to tie me down. That’s the way to be.”
“You don’t know anything.” Mirabel waves him away, but I think he may have a point. I don’t see him worrying about how to dress, how to walk, how to be liked. I don’t worry about that with Jayden either. And most friendships do last longer. I hope I’m friends with Jayden all my life.
&n
bsp; “I don’t know, I might be on Raúl’s side,” I say, and Raúl nods at me. I get the sense that I’ve finally said something he doesn’t think is totally lame. “Want to see my room?”
All three follow me down the hall. “Nice idea,” Raúl says, pointing to the manatee poster on the ceiling. “I’m going to do that.” He plops on the floor.
Crista squeals at the sight of my stuffed manatee, then runs over and hugs it.
Mirabel perches demurely in a chair by the window. “So, you’re obviously into manatees.”
“Yeah, I’ve actually seen them in the wild. In Florida.” It sounds dorky, but I can’t help getting excited.
“Did you swim with them?” Raúl sits up straighter and looks at me.
“Yeah, I snorkeled. And kayaked. You can’t take power boats near the manatees.”
“So you actually swam next to them and breathed through that tube thing?” Raúl seems genuinely impressed.
“Grandma Miller took me.” I nod toward the picture. It’s weird to think they know her only from the memorial service.
Mirabel gives me a sad smile. “I bet you miss her.”
I nod.
“Um, can someone tell me what to expect in Guatemala?” I ask. “Besides the constant Spanish.”
“The food!” cries Raúl.
They all shout out favorite foods. “¡Elotes! ¡Plátanos fritos! ¡Chiles rellenos!” That’s roasted corn on the cob, fried plantains, stuffed chiles. “And homemade tortillas! ¡Mangos!”
I laugh. “Okay, sounds like I won’t starve.”
“Hunger is the best sauce in the world,” says Raúl.
I recognize the phrase. “Where’d you hear that?” I ask.
“Oh, my dad says it. I think it’s from a book.”
Now I remember. It’s from Don Quixote. “My dad says it, too.” Raúl and I lock eyes and nod. “Hey, does everyone wear those, um, huipils? Abuela sent me one.”
“Oh, no, don’t worry about what to wear,” he says. “Those are mostly for native folks in villages. In the city, everybody dresses the same as here.”
Whew. Maybe no one will ever know I sold mine.
“You’re so lucky you get to meet Abuela for the first time,” says Mirabel. “She’s so sweet! She’ll spoil you with cafecitos and limonada con soda. Little coffees with milk and lemonade with fizz.”
The Other Half of Happy Page 20