It’s a fish.
In the fading light I can make out the little waves it makes as it bumps into the wall of its home and then changes direction. I grin. “Hello, fish.”
And then the fish swims toward me, looks straight at me—or as straight as a fish can look—and just stares. My hand gripping the spinner goes cold. The fish gets as close to the surface of the water as it can without leaping out. I’m still on my knees in the garden, so I’m not sure if anyone else can see this. I think of the swarm of fish that rose to the surface at Lake Mad, desperate for a strawberry from Alyssa’s ice cream, and I realize the fish must think I have food. I toss a leaf into the water. Fish are so dumb; they think anything is food. But the leaf lands just behind the fish’s tail, and the fish doesn’t flinch. It just keeps staring at me. I’m getting creeped out now, and that makes me mad. Why does this thing keep looking at me? With my free hand I reach into my pocket for Papa’s medal so that I can show the fish what we do with fish in Minnesota.
But my pocket is empty. I dig into the other pocket. Nothing.
Did I lose Papa’s medal? Tears prick my eyes. I had the medal when we were at the clinic. I had it in the car. The fish flicks its tail, and the water makes soft splashing sounds. And there, in the fish’s mouth, is Papa’s medal. The bronze color catches the light from the plaza for a moment.
Snatching the disc from the fish’s gummy jaws, I announce, “I’m going to catch a fish.” The fish in the fountain just stares up at me. “On a hook. And eat it!” The fish looks back at me, a bored expression in its glassy eyes. Then it does a little flip with its tail and swims away.
By the time I’ve leaped over the low hedge and skidded to a stop in front of Abuela’s bench, Big Eddie is there with two ice cream bars. Abuela is sipping from a plastic cup.
“What took you so long? Did you fall into the fountain?” Big Eddie says, laughing.
“There’s a fish there,” I pant. “In the fountain. It took my—something of mine.”
“The fountains don’t have fish,” Big Eddie says. “Let’s see your volador elástico. I used to love playing with these.” I trade my spinner for the ice cream in his hand. He stands up and expertly flicks the rubber band. The spinner goes high and straight in the air, a beacon.
“Yes,” I insist, shoving cold chocolate ice cream into my mouth, “there was a fish in the fountain. And it—”
“No, fish can’t survive in those fountains. Chemicals and heat. No way.”
“But I saw a fish. A brown fish.” Big Eddie shoots the spinner into the air again, and Abuela claps. “It stole—” I pause. Did the fish really steal Papa’s medal? Or did I simply drop it? Is there another explanation?
“Hombre,” Big Eddie says, shaking his head at me, “you might be a true Colombiano now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember the hat? At the beach?”
I shudder at the thought of those leeches. I know where he’s going with this. Magic. Magical realism, I think they called it. “But this was real.” I stuff the rest of the ice cream bar into my mouth, lick my fingers, and grab my brother’s arm. “Come look for yourself.”
Big Eddie follows me over the low hedge and toward the fountain. It’s even darker now, the water barely visible. “It’s right in this—”
I’m interrupted by a whistle. A man in a black uniform and fluorescent vest is saying something and gesturing, clearly telling us to get out of the garden. Big Eddie leaps back over the hedge with one step, and I scramble after him. He waves the spinner at the guard, and I hear them talking as I slide next to Abuela on the bench. She lifts her face toward the night sky, a smile on her lips. I’m panting, and I put my head between my knees, trying to catch my breath.
“Mira, Eduardito,” she says, “a star.”
I sit up and see a twinkle between the branches of the tree above us.
“Colombia is magical, isn’t it, mijito?”
14
BIG EDDIE SITS at the dining table, papers spread out in front of him. Two lines wrinkle the space between his eyebrows.
“Can we go fishing tomorrow?” I’ve been waiting to ask him this. For the past two days after her doctor’s appointment and our adventure at El Centro, Abuela has been in bed. The house has been quiet and kind of boring. I read my encyclopedia, played with Big Eddie’s old soccer ball on the patio, and helped him move a big chair into Abuela’s room. He’s worried about his grandmother, and he’s been having stomachaches and not eating very much, so I add, “Maybe fishing will help you feel better.”
He looks up. The patio doors are wide open, and doctors’ bills and hospital bills flutter in the morning breeze. An important-looking document with many pages and stamps peeks out from under forms filled in with his neat, all-capitals handwriting.
“Not now, Little Eddie.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs.
I plop onto the couch and try not to sulk. But if I can’t go fishing, how will I be ready for the tournament? And if I’m not ready for the tournament, how will I catch a fish? And if I don’t catch a fish, how will I get a medal just like Papa’s? And if I can’t be like Papa, how can I still be his son? How will I know who I am?
My phone pings in my pocket. I hope it’s Liam. Or Cameron.
It’s Mama.
I heard from Big Eddie that Abuela’s not doing well. You listen to your brother and don’t bother him. Don’t be a burden to them, ok?
I type a response promising her I’ll listen. She replies right away.
Are you wearing sunscreen?
She adds a smiling sun. Since I can’t roll my eyes at her, I send a thumbs-up emoji. Even though I don’t even know where my sunscreen is.
When the phone pings again, Big Eddie looks up from his papers. “You get lots of messages, hermanito.”
“It’s just my mom,” I say, reading her message.
The Honda is starting to make a strange noise. Maybe it misses you as much as I do!
“She’s complaining about her car.” Mama must be lonely if she’s talking about the car.
“What kind?”
“Silver,” I say.
“No, what kind of car?”
I feel my face get hot. “Oh, right. Honda.” Next he’s going to want to know how long we’ve had it and how many oil changes it’s had.
“Nice. They run forever.”
“Hers stinks and leaves puddles in the driveway. And she says it’s making strange noises too.”
“You have to watch the timing belt on Hondas.” I wonder if Big Eddie knows this from all those magazines on his nightstand. “Has Liz changed it?”
“I’m not sure.” What if my brother could fix Mama’s car?
“Well, right now I need to get through these papers,” Big Eddie says mostly to himself, even though I didn’t ask him for anything. He straightens them into neater piles.
From the other side of the courtyard wall and through the open patio door, I hear small, shrill shrieks. “¡Americano!”
I get up from the couch and go outside.
“¿Dónde está, Americano?” A familiar brown face pops up over the bricks.
“Big Eddie,” I call into the house, “what are they saying?”
Big Eddie sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, and then comes outside. “Buenos días,” he says to the faces above the wall.
“¡Americano!”
“They’re calling you the American.”
Americano. American. Almost the same word. Only not.
“Hi!” I call up. “Do you know them?” I ask Big Eddie.
“Those are the Paredes children. Always visiting their grandparents and always making lots of noise. I think the Paredes family has been here as long as Abuela. Probably since the mango tree.”
“Hola,” I call to the kids. When I wave, they giggle.
“Vamos a la playa,” the boldest boy says.
I turn to Big Eddie. “That means ‘beach,’ right
? They want to go to the beach?”
“La playa,” the boy repeats. He makes swimming motions with his skinny arms.
“Can I go with them?” I ask.
Big Eddie looks back at his stack of papers and then up at the little faces above the wall. “Okay. If it’s all right with their grandma. But just to play in the sand.” He says something in Spanish in a warning, grown-up-sounding voice. “I told them not to go swimming without an adult.”
I meet the three children (who make enough noise for ten) in the front garden of Abuela’s house. A woman stands on the stoop next door and waves at me. She says something in Spanish. I nod at her. I’m sure she’s telling us either to be careful or to have fun—the only two things grown-ups ever say.
Like a tornado, the children pull me down the street, their little brown hands tugging at me. The bold boy is about seven, and the smaller boy and girl are both about six, maybe twins. They chatter and skip, laugh and spin, as carefree as little chickadees.
“Americano,” they say. “Playa.”
When we get to Avenida Santander, I make everyone hold hands. Then we race across the street to the sand on the other side of the road.
The beach is crowded today. It’s Sunday, and lots of families are having picnics under umbrellas and tents that dot the shoreline. Fathers and mothers sit in folding lawn chairs, and children run back and forth between the water and the tents, their fingers dripping with melted ice cream. Babies play at the water’s edge, just like they do at Lake Mad, their chubby hands slapping the waves. The three Paredes children are already piling their flip-flops on the sand and heading toward the water.
“Wait. We’re not supposed to go swimming without an adult,” I call, not that they can understand me—or are listening. What about the leeches? And not only am I not wearing sunscreen like Mama wants, but I don’t know if the water is safe. But she’s not here and neither is Big Eddie. It’s just me. Squinting in the sun, I watch the children run into the waves, their shorts and T-shirts getting soaked in seawater. Sweat drips down my back. I step out of my flip-flops and peel off my shirt. Even without swim trunks, I’m going in. We weren’t supposed to go swimming without an adult, but compared to these little kids, I practically am an adult.
“¡Americano!” the seven-year-old shouts.
The waves splash and the sun beats down. For the first time since I got here, I feel free. I’m in charge, I’m responsible, and I don’t have to worry about acting sad and respectful like I do around Big Eddie. The Paredes kids start with a chasing game that’s a version of tag in the water, with me always being “it.” Then the kids think it’s funny to gang up on me, their little fingers scratching at my legs. When I try to get them back, they giggle and dart away, all three of them little minnows. We’re laughing so hard, my mouth fills with salty water again.
One of them grabs at my leg. “Cut it out!”
The kids swim toward shore until they stand, knee-deep on their short little legs, a few feet away from me. “¡Americano!” They wiggle their skinny butts, stick out their little pink tongues.
I feel another hand on my leg. But wait.
The kids are over there. I feel it again. My heart goes flippity-floppity. What’s in the water? What if it’s a fish?
“Ouch!”
It hurts. My ankle. It feels like a bee sting and a skinned knee rolled into one. I’m not sure what to do, so I run toward shore. The pain comes in slow motion. Is this how a fish feels when it chomps on a lure and finds a hook in its mouth?
I make it to the sand. My ankle has swelled to an angry red. A sinking feeling lodges itself in my gut. I should never have come here by myself. Why did Big Eddie let me go?
“Come on!” I call to the kids. They wave and giggle. I motion to them. “¡Vámonos!” I try. Is that the right word for “Let’s go”? It must be, because the three of them come splashing toward me. They stop when they see my red swollen ankle coated in sand like a sprinkled donut. My whole leg hurts.
The little girl grabs our shoes and my shirt while her brothers wrap their skinny arms around my waist and help me hobble back to Abuela’s house. No matter how hard I try not to let them, tears stream down my cheeks and mix with the salt water.
* * *
“Aguamala,” Big Eddie says after abandoning his paperwork. I’m on the floor in the living room. Abuela is sleeping in her bedroom, so we’re whispering.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a kind of fish—what do you call it? Aguamala. You know. It means ‘bad water.’ ”
The little Paredes kids brought me home and then scurried away in their wet clothes, clearly aware that they were going to get in trouble.
“A fish did this?” I look down at my swollen and aching ankle. Nita brings over a rag soaked in something foul-smelling.
“No, not quite a fish. Una medusa. What do you call it?” Big Eddie dabs my ankle with the rag. “Vinegar will help with the sting. It’s not a fish.” He sets down the rag and hooks his thumbs together, wiggling his fingers. “You know: aguamala?”
No matter how many times he says it, I still don’t know what he means. My ankle—my whole leg—aches, and he keeps repeating something I don’t understand. I get madder and madder each time he says it. I wish I had my encyclopedia, or a Spanish-English dictionary.
“Aguamala,” he says yet again, dabbing my ankle one last time and helping me onto the couch.
I can’t understand him, and he can’t translate. As Big Eddie props my ankle on a pillow, I wish I were with Mama; I wish I were at home; I wish I had never come.
“Oh, yes!” he says so suddenly, my heart jumps. “Jellyfish. Aguamala.”
A jellyfish? I’ve seen them in the tank at the zoo, all liquid and innocent-looking. They don’t even look like they have teeth or a stinger. Now I wish I had my rod and a hook. A really sharp hook.
But Big Eddie is never going to take me fishing, I think as he returns to the kitchen. I pull Papa’s medal from my pocket. How am I going to catch a fish if I don’t go fishing? The pain in my ankle, Abuela’s cancer, the jellyfish. All these things pound me like an ocean wave keeping me down.
Ping. Maybe it’s Liam. I look at my phone. A message from Cameron.
Guess who’s going to Kamp Kids now? Alyssa. Ugh. Did you know you can buy live bait at the hardware store?
I try to imagine Alyssa at camp. It seems odd, but not as strange as having a jellyfish sting in Colombia, I suppose.
Ugh about Alyssa. I hope your dad got you a rod. Did you know that jellyfish stings are cured with vinegar?
Before I put away my phone, I snap a picture of Papa’s medal and send it to Cameron for inspiration. While I wait for it to be sent through the slow connection across the Caribbean, I watch Big Eddie and Nita. He washes the vinegar off his hands, and she mops up the wet, sandy spot I left on the tiles.
It sure is a burden trying not to be a burden.
15
WHEN PAPA was in the hospital, Mama brought crayons and paper for me so I wouldn’t get bored. I sat on his white hospital sheets and drew my family. Sticks for bodies, sticks for arms. Huge bobble-heads with red smiles. I didn’t know he would never come home.
Now I sit with Abuela in her courtyard with her lemon tree, and I’m not bored. I’m glad she isn’t in the hospital. I’m glad she’s sitting in her white plastic chair with me next to her. I’m glad she has my brother and Nita to take care of her. We watch the birds flitting from the wall to the tree. They’re brown and small like the chickadees back home.
“El pájaro,” Abuela says, pointing at the bird.
“El pa-pa-who,” I say.
She laughs at my attempt and repeats: “El pájaro.”
I try once more, and she slows down. “Pah-ha-row.” I try it again, and she reaches out, squeezes me in a hug stronger than you’d expect from an old woman with cancer.
Even after my ankle has healed from the jellyfish sting, I spend a lot of time with Abuela. And you know what?
It’s not so bad. Nita makes delicious empanadas, which are like little meat pies, and she teaches me how to blend a bunch of fruit with milk to make juice. I don’t feel like going swimming anytime soon, but my nervousness about Colombia has faded. I love Abuela’s house and her lemon tree.
“Ven acá,” Abuela says to me over and over, and I bring her things, running between the kitchen and her spot in the living room and back to her bedroom. She keeps all of us busy and laughs almost as much as she sleeps.
Later, after I help Abuela inside for lunch and into her room for her afternoon siesta, Big Eddie and I sit on the concrete front porch of Abuela’s house waiting for his friend Arturo. My brother is going to fix Arturo’s motorcycle. Nita is already preparing dinner, and the whole house smells like fried plátanos, so it’s nice to get fresh air. The front yard is planted with two pink blooming bushes and a spindly vine with purple flowers. The yard is surrounded by a short iron fence, and the street beyond it is crowded with moms and dads coming home from work, some in little cars, some in taxis, some on motorbikes.
My brother watches the traffic and says quietly, “Her breathing is getting worse.” But Abuela doesn’t want to go to the hospital, he tells me. “I’m glad you’re here, Eduardito,” he adds. My chest feels warm and my mouth wants to smile, but I know I should still show him I’m sad about Abuela. I glance at him. He’s nodding at nothing, staring straight ahead. I nod too, trying to be cool like him.
Ping. I look at my phone.
Finally. A text from Liam. I open the message, but it doesn’t say anything. It’s a selfie of him and Clara. I don’t know what to say either, so instead I take my own selfie making a fish-eyed face. I wish that we could talk. I wish I could tell him about the aguamala and the fish in the fountain. But I don’t know how to begin. Liam sends one more picture, and this one includes his two stepbrothers. The three of them are smiling, and one has his eyes closed. Are those boys like friends, or “real” brothers to him? I look over at Big Eddie. Is there a difference?
What If a Fish Page 8