What If a Fish

by Anika Fajardo

  First my feet go numb. My knees follow. They buckle and fold. I wasn’t worried, but now I remember the news stories of guys getting stopped by the police, sometimes shot, sometimes killed. I sit on the floor, and Mama looks up. I hope she’s not going to ask me to talk to Liam. I can’t right now. But I see that her eyes are squinty and pink. “Did you find him?”

  I want to nod. I want to say: Yes, Mama. Big Eddie is sitting on the front steps right now.

  But he’s not. He seems farther away now than when he was living in Colombia.

  “Did you have breakfast?” she says, covering the phone with her hand. “Have a grapefruit.”

  I don’t want a grapefruit. I don’t want breakfast. But I sit down at the table and scoop out segments of the grapefruit that Mama cut, even as she worried about Big Eddie. I eat the bitter fruit and pull the medal from my pocket. It makes a harsh clang on the kitchen table. Big Eddie must have taken the car so that he can help me win the tournament. I close my eyes and make a wish.

  I open my eyes. I swear that smiling fish sticks its tongue out at me.

  25

  THE TOURNAMENT starts at two o’clock, so I only have three and a half more hours to get ready. Because, even though Big Eddie is gone and the car is missing and Cameron’s hair isn’t purple anymore, I have to try. I think of Papa. Abuela. I have to fish today.

  Inside the garage the smell of damp cement and musty cardboard tickles my nose. The cartons and junk remind me of Cameron. I kick a soccer ball that has rolled off one of the shelves. I wish I were in Cartagena, in Abuela’s yard, kicking the soccer ball to the Paredes neighbor kids. It’s funny; when I was there, I wished I were here, and now I’m here wishing I were there. Isn’t anyone ever happy where they are?

  The soccer ball rolls to the back of the garage. What if Cameron and the Schmidts come back? I pull the garage door closed using the red nylon cord inside. The space is suddenly very dark. The only light comes from the window of the side door, which I see that someone didn’t slam shut. I go to close it, but when I do, I walk past the spot in the corner of the garage where the fishing rods are supposed to be.

  They’re gone.

  The green tackle box, the one I left on the floor next to them before the trip to Cartagena, is gone too.

  “Mama!” I’m back in the living room, and she’s back on the phone.

  “Did he come back?” she asks.

  “No. But, Mama, have you seen my fishing stuff ?”

  “Not now, Little Eddie.”

  Back in the garage, I tear through the shelves, pulling down the same boxes Cameron and I organized. I tip over shovels, and one falls onto the microwave. The fishing gear must be somewhere. It can’t be gone.

  But it is.

  * * *

  Inside, Mama’s still on the phone. I don’t know who she’s talking to and I don’t care. Not now. The tournament starts in two hours, and I have no partner, no brother, and no fishing rod. Maybe, hopefully, somehow, Big Eddie will show up at the dock. Maybe he’ll bring new gear.

  I listen to the chirp of Mama’s voice as I lie on my bed crowded next to all my encyclopedias. Eduardo Aguado León’s encyclopedias. Which one should I read? Which one will tell me where Big Eddie took the car? Which one will say if he stole the fishing rods, too? Which one has the answers? The spine of the X-Y-Z volume cracks as I open it. Xerox, yoga, Zanzibar. The photo drops out. There they are. Big Eddie, Eduardo Aguado León, and the fish. Taunting me.

  I roll onto my back and hold the photograph up to the light.

  “I’m so afraid of what could happen,” I hear Mama say from the living room. A strange sound gushes out of her before she goes on. “I would never forgive myself if something happened to him.”

  I look at Papa’s smile in the picture. I look at Big Eddie’s boy-face. The boy who helped catch that beautiful, magnificent, enormous fish. The boy who is making Mama cry. The boy who knew Eduardo Aguado León like I never did.

  “Those brothers are so much like their dad. Between the two of them, it’s like having Eduardo here again.”

  I take hold of the two top corners of the picture and pull. The thin Kodak paper barely makes a sound as it rips in half, splitting the fish in two, leaving Papa on one half and Big Eddie on the other. As the two pieces fall onto the sheets, my own hot tears follow.

  * * *

  I must have fallen asleep, because my neck is at a funny angle and the sun is bright and hot, streaming through my bedroom window. I hate sleeping during the day. The torn photograph is crumpled under me. And it’s one thirty. This is a terrible day for an accidental siesta.

  I rush into Big Eddie’s room, but he’s still not there.

  “Mama!” I shout out the door. “Is Big Eddie back?” Maybe he came home just in time to go to the tournament with me. I look around the room. His bed is made but not as neatly as Nita can make it. Piled on the bedspread is an assortment of things from Abuela’s house: a gold picture frame, a small clay vase, a book on farming that was in her living room. There’s the juice glass from Abuela’s bedside table. The chocolatera that Nita used for making hot chocolate in the morning. I look in the little closet, behind the door, under the bed. No fishing tackle. No rods. Big Eddie’s clothes are piled on the chair. Jeans, a Colombian soccer jacket, a pair of purple boxer shorts.

  “No sign of him,” Mama calls back to me. “Or my car.” Her voice is scratchy like she took a nap too.

  Maybe Big Eddie is going to meet me at the lake. He has to. I’m not sure where he’ll park the car, but he’ll figure it out. The Fourteenth Annual Arne Hopkins Dock Fishing Tournament starts in half an hour, but I don’t care that I don’t have fishing rods. I don’t care that I don’t have a partner. I don’t care that Cameron chopped off her purple hair. I am going to the tournament.

  Papa’s medal is on the desk next to my bed, and I jam it into my pocket.

  “I’m going to the lake, Mama!” I call as I pull on my shoes.

  “What?” she calls from her bedroom.

  “Bye!” I shout. She can’t stop me.

  Nobody can stop me.

  26

  LAKE MAD is as busy as it usually is on a summer Saturday. Gray-haired ladies walking, shirtless muscle men running, sleek bicyclists. I keep an eye out for Big Eddie’s black hair above the crowd because I still think he might show up. I still think this might turn into my lucky day.

  Next to the dock a tent and speakers have been set up. A big sign strung across the tent says, ARNE HOPKINS DOCK FISHING TOURNAMENT. People are wearing green T-shirts with the smiling, fishing fish. I check in at the table.

  “Name?” the woman asks me. She’s wearing the same green T-shirt as the others and has a pink bandana around her neck. She’s wearing a stick-on nametag with “Louise” written in thick marker.

  “Eddie Aguado.” I want to say Tito, but that’s not the name I had when Cameron and I registered. It feels like that was another lifetime. Like it was someone else who paid the fifty dollars and signed up two friends. I don’t know where my supposed friend is right now, any more than I know where my fishing gear is.

  “Is your partner here, honey?” Louise looks like someone’s grandmother, and that makes me think of Abuela.

  “My partner is… around here somewhere,” I lie. I have no idea where Cameron is, but I know she’s not here. I scan the crowds. What if Big Eddie shows up? “Um, can I substitute a partner?”

  “You’ll need to check them in if you use a sub,” Louise says, and scribbles something on the roster. “All members of the team need to be present, okay?”

  “Got it,” I say. I feel bad lying to Louise. But I’m going to win this tournament. Or at least compete. I may not have a partner, much less fishing gear, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I’ll figure something out.

  I walk to the parking lot near the dock. Big Eddie must be here somewhere. I have twelve minutes until the tournament begins. There’s some kind of car show going on, and half the lot is fill
ed with boxy old cars like the kind in the movie Grease. Some are pink, some are mint green, and a lot are red. Big Eddie would love this. I scope out the regular cars, looking for Mama’s Honda. There are three Civics, but none of them are hers. I see a man with black hair and a Colombian-style shirt, but when he turns around, he has a beard and a receding hairline. Big Eddie’s not here.

  I head back toward the dock and stand on the shore where the boys at Kamp Kids had the lemonade fight. Little kids of all ages are out with their dads, some with grandmas who look like the registration lady. A family of two little girls and a mom bumps into me. One of the girls drops a bottle of sunscreen, and I pick it up. She takes it without saying anything. I feel invisible. Alone.

  I stare at the lake. There, at the end of the dock, at the exact place where Alyssa dropped her ice cream—that is where I will catch the winning fish.

  Even though I don’t have a rod. Or a partner.

  I clutch Papa’s medal.

  Something pokes me in the back. Some clumsy fisherman. I step aside so that I won’t get bumped again, but I feel a second poke. I turn around.

  “Cameron.”

  She’s got her short hair—which is no longer purple—hidden under a baseball cap, and she’s not wearing earrings or bracelets. She lets her bike topple. Under her arm, sticking out and jabbing me, are two rods. In her other hand is a green tackle box.

  Papa’s fishing gear.

  “You?” I say.

  She shrugs. “You weren’t using it.”

  I look at the rod she has shoved into my hands. “You stole it? My fishing gear?”

  She locks her bike to the sign that says DANGER DROP-OFF and sits on the grass next to Papa’s stuff. She’s a traitor. She’s a thief. I can feel tears prickling my eyes. I’m glad and so angry at the same time.

  “You’re a thief,” I say. I wish I weren’t so relieved to have a partner. I wish my brother were here instead of a thief.

  She doesn’t look up. “It’s almost time to fish, Eddie,” she mumbles.

  “Why would I fish with you?” I spit the words out. I want to be sure she can hear me. “Besides, I’m waiting for my brother,” I lie. Even though I know now that he’s not coming and it’s not true, I say, “He’s my partner.”

  Cameron doesn’t answer. She’s pulling and retracting the line on the rod in her hands, and I wonder who taught her how.

  “I don’t want to fish with a thief,” I say.

  “I’m not a thief,” she says, her voice so quiet that I can hardly hear. “I didn’t steal your gear.”

  I snort, a half laugh, half sob. I jam my hand into my pocket and hold Papa’s medal. What if I hadn’t gotten his rods back? What if the tackle box had been gone forever? An empty feeling lands in my stomach. I look down, and Cameron’s hand is inches away from my foot. I have a sudden urge to stomp on her little finger. It’s just sitting there, small and pink like an earthworm. Like a leech.

  “You’re a leech,” I say instead. “You know what leeches do? They live off other organisms. They don’t have their own lives. They’re parasites.” I inch my foot closer to her pinkie. What if I smashed her whole hand? Would she end up in the hospital? “No one likes leeches.”

  “Listen, I didn’t steal your stuff.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I helped them, though.” Cameron looks up at me. “They dared me. All three of them. Alyssa. Her brothers. They dared me, and I knew your mom didn’t lock that door. I knew your fishing gear would be there.”

  When did this happen? While we were bringing Abuela to the beach? While I was fishing in the Caribbean? While I was watching my huge fish swim away?

  “Just tell me why.” I make my words sound as mean and as hard as I can. Because if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll cry or, even worse, forgive her.

  “I don’t know,” she says. Her voice is smaller than a minnow.

  I’m silent, because I’m tired of people not telling me things. Not talking is sometimes the same as lying.

  “I needed a rod,” Cameron says finally. “My dad wouldn’t get me one. I wanted to practice so I could fish with you. So we could win. And I was going to give it all back.”

  “But you knew, Cameron. You knew it was my dad’s stuff.”

  She doesn’t answer at first, and a slippery thought worms its way through my mind. What if I had loaned her Papa’s gear in the first place? I think of Big Eddie not telling me about fishing with Papa. What if I hadn’t wanted to keep it all to myself?

  “Have you ever felt out of place?” Cameron asks. I look at her, but she’s staring at the grass like it’s the most interesting video in the world. “Like you didn’t belong?”

  I was the only English speaker at Abuela’s funeral and the only kid at Little Tykes Preschool with a dead dad and the one the Schmidt brothers called a spic. I don’t even bother saying yes.

  “I just moved here, Eddie. After you left, I didn’t know anyone. They—Alyssa, her brothers, a couple of other girls—they started being nice to me after you left for Colombia.” Her voice is suddenly sharp, as if it was my fault I had to go, as if it was my fault I have a Colombian half brother and a dead Abuela. “Alyssa started going to Kamp Kids, and her brothers sometimes walked us home, and they were all being really nice to me. Made me feel like I fit in, you know?”

  “Alyssa? Really?” I sit down in the grass next to Cameron. We both wind and unwind the reels.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Eddie. She can be nice. It’s Mason and Ivan that are jerks. But then they got to talking about the tournament. They remembered your rods. I’m sorry. I told them I knew you, that I knew where I could get fishing gear. I didn’t take it, but I brought them to your mom’s house, late one night.”

  I think of the empty bottles that Big Eddie lined up to keep burglars out. I wish I could have protected Mama and my fishing gear like that.

  “But I got it back. I made them give it to me.”

  As she says this, the blare of a horn sounds from the tent. It’s two o’clock. We have two hours to catch the biggest fish and win the tournament. Do I want to win it badly enough to fish with Cameron?

  “Eddie!” Cameron cries. “Please.”

  I think of Papa’s bronze medal in my pocket, of the missing car and my missing brother. I think of Mama. I’ve come too far now, and Big Eddie is still nowhere in sight. “As long as you’re here,” I say, “we might as well fish.”

  * * *

  According to my encyclopedia, fish like to hide in the shade of docks on warm summer afternoons. They’re trying to find cool water out of the sun, especially bass. That means we have a good chance of catching some today. They can be pretty big, big enough to maybe win a fishing tournament. The trick is getting the right lures, the right temptation.

  Cameron and I are not quite next to each other, but we’re not too far apart either. I’m standing at the exact spot where Alyssa dropped the ice cream cone. I peer into the water, searching for the monster. Cameron pulls in her line and starts over, hoping the commotion will attract some dumb fish. I wiggle my line, swing it from side to side. I try to make it look like a real, live worm even though it’s just a plastic lure. Cameron reels her line in again, so close that it’s almost touching the wooden slats of the dock.

  I want to stay mad at her, but there’s something calming about standing on the dock waiting for a fish to bite. The longer we wait, the more I feel my anger drift away.

  And, man, do we wait. We wait and reel and wait and cast. It’s like waiting for a friend to text you back. It’s like waiting for Mama to tell me about Papa. It’s like waiting for Big Eddie to come home.

  Another fishing team settles on the dock behind us. They get their rods in and almost immediately pull out a bluegill.

  Then I feel a tug. Suddenly I’m in Cartagena, the ocean spray in my face, the pull on the line. The sparkling water and the flying fish. Cameron smiles a half smile like she can’t decide if she’s allowed. But nope, it’s not
hing. My floater bobs on the tiny lake waves.

  At the other end of the dock two men in army-green fishing vests pull in a tiny silver sunny and throw it back. Guess it’s not my lucky day.

  Cameron and I pull our lines in at the same time as if we are some well-rehearsed team that’s fished this lake for eons. The water drips off the empty line and glistens in the afternoon sun. Droplets form into butterflies that break loose and flutter away.

  Or maybe I’m getting heatstroke.

  Cameron takes off her cap and wipes the sweat from her forehead.

  “Why did you cut your hair?” I ask.

  She fluffs the ends. Then she puts the cap back on, backward this time. “Would you rather be a fish or a middle-schooler?”

  She doesn’t want to talk about her hair.

  “A fish,” I answer. “Well, a fish far away from this tournament.”

  “Me too, Little Eddie.” She drops her line back into the water.

  “It’s Tito,” I say.

  “What is?”

  “My name. Call me Tito.”

  “That’s way better than ‘Little Eddie.’ ” She pulls her line out again. “I think a new name is a cool way to start school.”

  “Will people make fun of me?”

  “With a name like ‘Tito’? No way.” She brandishes her fishing rod like a sword. “You’ll challenge them to a fishing duel if they do, Sir Tito.”

  We hear a shout across the dock as a mother-daughter team pulls in a pike, bigger than two of my hands end to end.

  “Did you see that?” I ask.

  Cameron slants her eyes toward the successful fish catchers. “Too bad one of us didn’t catch that one.”

  My shoulders slump.

  Too bad my brother didn’t show up.

  Too bad I don’t have a dad.

  Too bad Abuela died.

  “For two kids that know nothing about fishing, we’re doing pretty good,” Cameron says. She stands up straighter, plants her feet with purpose on the dock.