What If a Fish

by Anika Fajardo

  “I guess,” I say as we flick our rods in unison, and her line tangles with mine. We laugh as we yank and pull. “Or maybe not.”

  Once we’re untangled, Cameron asks, “What if we don’t win?” There’s a flash of something sour in her voice.

  “What if  ?” I say. Loud. Louder than I expected. “Only one way to find out.”

  We switch our yellow lures for jangly spinnerbait and cast our lines back into the water where the fish must be waiting for us.

  27

  THE FISH, it seems, were not waiting to be caught by either me or Cameron. She snagged one sunfish, no bigger than her sneaker, but it slipped away. I have nothing. No fish, no medal, no prize money.

  “Time to weigh in,” a voice calls over the loudspeaker. Most of the contestants have already gone ashore. We head to the registration table to admit defeat.

  “Got skunked, huh?” a man in a damp fishing cap says as we wait our turn. Even though I suppose I always knew that winning was a long shot, it still feels like something good just turned into something bad. Like a hat turning into leeches.

  Louise in the pink bandana smiles up at us from her place behind the registration table. “How’d it go?” Cameron and I both shrug. Then Louise hands Cameron a red-and-white bobber printed with the fishing fish. “One free for each team,” she says. “Come back next year, you two.”

  “Humiliating.” Cameron holds out the plastic bobber after we walk away from the crowd of contestants and their smelly fish. The bobber isn’t even a real one, just a toy. “Want this?”

  I stop and open Papa’s tackle box and drop the bobber into one of the little compartments. I drop his bronze medal in too. I don’t feel like carrying it around anymore.

  * * *

  When Cameron and I get to the corner where she goes right and I go straight, she stops. “Eddie—I mean, Tito.” She straddles her bike and rests her elbows on the handlebars. Then she says, “I’m sorry.”

  Neither of us says anything more as a mother passes us. She’s pushing a baby stroller with one hand, and with the other she guides a toddler on a tricycle.

  “Fish!” says the toddler, and points at the rods. “Pole!”

  Cameron and I look at each other. “Rod,” we both mouth.

  After the family has crossed the street, Cameron looks at me. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  I’m not sure what to say. I was mad at her, but having someone apologize makes me feel funny.

  “I’m not going to make excuses.” She sits on her bike seat and then plants her feet on the ground. “My dad says, ‘No excuses,’ like it’s his life motto or something. But there could be worse mottoes, I guess. My mom is nothing but excuses.”

  Cameron looks down at her Converse and then picks at a peeling Princess Tiana sticker on her bike handle.

  “So, I’m not going to be like her. I’m going to be like my dad and not make excuses. I’m just going to say sorry. Again.”

  I wonder. What if she hadn’t made friends with Alyssa while I was in Colombia and what if she hadn’t let the Schmidt kids into the garage and what if they hadn’t taken the fishing gear? Would we have caught a fish today? Would we have won the tournament? Would we still be friends?

  Are we still friends? Do I want to be friends? I think of Big Eddie, wherever he is. What if he doesn’t come back? I picture him carrying Abuela to the water’s edge in the moonlight, and I know he’ll be back. He has to be. Will I forgive him? Will I forgive Cameron?

  “Have you ever made a stupid choice?” she asks.

  “Sure.” Like the little Paredes kids and the aguamala. Another mom passes us, this one with a baby strapped to her back. The baby’s blond curls are damp under a little pink sun hat, and her eyes are half-shut. Her head bounces with each of her mother’s steps. The baby looks so peaceful, just letting the world happen, letting the forces of nature work on her like she’s riding the wave of life. Could I do that?

  “It’s okay,” I tell Cameron. It really is okay. Everyone makes bad decisions sometimes that hurt people they care about but not because they’re trying to. A tight coil seems to unwind itself inside my chest. I take a deep breath. Is this what forgiveness feels like? “Are you mad we didn’t win?” I ask.

  “Mad? What is mad, Tito? I could be mad about a lot of things. Mad at myself for—for what I did to you. Mad at Lake Mad for not giving us any fish. Mad at my mom.” Cameron takes off her ball cap and hangs it from the handlebars. After tucking her hair behind her ears, she buckles her helmet under her chin. “You asked why I cut my hair?” She spins the pedal of her bike. “I Skyped with my mom, and she hated the purple. I told Alyssa about it, and she told me she agreed. She said it was tacky.”

  “It wasn’t tacky. It was cool. The coolest.”

  Cameron smiles, a real smile this time. “It was, wasn’t it?” She salutes like a Boy Scout and then jumps her bike over the curb. I watch her, and my lungs feel like they’re trying to leap out of my chest. I hope she dyes her hair purple again, but I sort of like how she looks either way. I may not have won the Fourteenth Annual Arne Hopkins Dock Fishing Tournament, but I got my friend back.

  She pedals into the street, and I gather both rods under my arm, gripping the tackle box in the other hand. When I reach the opposite corner, I stop. I set down Papa’s tackle box and stretch out the fingers on my left hand. The box is heavy, and the two rods keep slipping. As I stoop to pick up the gear, I hear a noise like an eagle catching its prey or maybe it’s like the wind through a lemon tree or maybe it’s like someone’s heart breaking. I look up.

  Cameron is on the asphalt, her bike half under her. She’s partially on the curb, like it’s a pillow, like she’s asleep, like she couldn’t wait to get home to take a siesta. Her arm is bent at a funny angle. An old man with almost no hair is getting out of a silver car. The one that hit her.

  Someone is screaming, and I realize it’s me. I run across the street.

  “Cameron!”

  She looks up at me. “It’s a bad-luck kind of day,” she says, and then moans. Tears fill her eyes. “Especially for my arm.”

  Other cars have stopped, and I can feel someone standing too close behind me. Heat from all the cars’ engines radiates, and I’m sweating like I’m back in Cartagena. Even though it’s sunny and warm, it’s like a garage door has just closed, plunging me into darkness. I squeeze my eyes shut for an instant. The silky smell of lighter fluid from someone’s grill snakes through the neighborhood.

  When Cameron cries out, I jerk back to reality and kneel beside her. She has a red gash across the side of her face, and there’s a drop of blood about to drip down her cheek. “You’re hurt,” I choke out.

  “Something’s not right, but I think I’m okay,” she says, but she doesn’t look okay. Her arm is lying next to her like it’s not connected to her body. “Eddie,” she says, clenching her teeth through the pain. “I mean, Tito. I was thinking about how we didn’t catch any fish. And I wasn’t watching. I swerved—”

  Someone puts a hand on my shoulder. I jerk it away and whip around.

  “You?” It’s my brother. Big Eddie, standing in the street next to me. Mama’s car is right behind him, its engine purring. “Where were you?” I yell.

  “Hello,” he says to Cameron, ignoring me. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I don’t think the car actually hit me.” Cameron’s face is pale.

  “That guy’s car hit you?” Big Eddie is angry now.

  “It was more of a tap,” she says. “And I swerved. And, well, my arm.”

  “Can you get up?”

  He helps her stand and then unbuckles her helmet while she cradles her injured arm with her other hand. The old bald man starts mumbling and apologizing and saying stuff about not seeing her, and about kids needing to watch where they’re going, and then he’s apologizing some more.

  “Mister,” my brother says, his arm around Cameron, “please stop. I’m going
to take this girl to see a doctor.” He opens the passenger door of Mama’s Honda and helps Cameron in. He gently closes the door once he gets her as comfortable as she can be. “Come,” he says to me.

  Cameron’s ball cap is in the gutter in a little pile of leaves. I don’t pick it up.

  28

  “WHERE WERE YOU?” I ask my brother as he loads the bike, Cameron’s scratched-up helmet, and Papa’s gear into the trunk, all of it a jumble. Big Eddie doesn’t answer, just waits while I climb into the backseat. I want to ask Big Eddie how he could just leave me. How could he miss the tournament? How could he steal Mama’s car? I want to ask Cameron why she didn’t look both ways and if she’s okay. But I’m crying and I’m trying not to, and I can’t get the words out. It’s funny how you can feel so many things at once and they can all make you cry. Mad. Sad. Relieved. Worried. Cameron’s face is pale, but she’s half grinning and she keeps saying we didn’t catch any fish.

  Big Eddie starts the engine, and I take Cameron’s phone and help her call her dad. I lean between the seats and hold her phone to her ear. When she tells him she was hit by a car, I can tell he’s freaking out, and she has to calm him down.

  “I’m okay, Dad.” The way she uses the word “dad” makes my throat tickle. “It was more of a scrape than a hit. Really. The guy didn’t see me. I’m fine. Well, not my arm. But otherwise I’m okay.”

  She doesn’t look very okay to me. Her arm is already puffing up and turning a strange reddish-purple color.

  “My friend’s brother is taking me to a doctor,” she says, and I like the way she says “friend.” “Okay. I’ll have him take me there,” she says, and ends the call. “He’s going to meet us at the children’s hospital,” she tells me.

  When my brother shifts the Civic into gear, I take a deep, shuddery breath. “Mama’s so worried,” I say to him. “How could you steal her car?”

  “Let’s worry about your friend, and we can talk about it later.”

  “We didn’t win,” Cameron says. “It’s a bad-luck day.”

  “We didn’t,” I say to Cameron, and then I look at Big Eddie. “We need to talk about it now. And we need to tell Mama. She’s so worried.” I don’t add how worried I was too. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why didn’t you call?”

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. “No battery. No charger.”

  I pull out my own phone, the one from the trip that Mama let me keep, and I call her. “Where are you?” she asks. Her voice is tight, like a clothesline strung across a Colombian courtyard.

  “I’m fine. But Cameron had an accident.” I look over at her. I do not use the words “car accident.” Cameron gives me a weak thumbs-up with her good hand.

  “Oh, no,” Mama says.

  “She’s okay, but. Um… I’m with Big Eddie. And your car. We need to get her to the hospital.”

  “Let me talk to him.” Her tone is icy.

  Next I hold the phone up to Big Eddie’s ear while he drives, and Mama’s angry voice sounds tinny and distant. I don’t need to hear her to know what she’s saying.

  “I didn’t steal the car. I’m not a thief, Liz,” he says, his accent hitting the consonants hard. Then he’s quiet. He’s letting Mama yell at him, sort of like Cameron did when I yelled at her. “It was the radiator.” His voice is low. “The radiator. That’s all.”

  In the A volume of my encyclopedia, I read about the automobile engine. The radiator’s job is to get rid of all the heat of the engine. It doesn’t do anything fancy like power the wheels or put on the brakes, but if too much heat gets built up, that can be really dangerous.

  I glance at Cameron, whose eyes are closed. I’m worried that she’s in pain, but the corner of her eye is twitching like she’s listening carefully.

  “The children’s hospital.” Big Eddie nods into the phone. “Yes,” he says. “No,” he says. He puts on his turn signal. “No, you don’t need to come.”

  Above the clicking of the signal, I hear Mama’s voice but can’t make out what she’s saying.

  “I got it. And, Liz? I’m really sorry.” Big Eddie’s voice catches on the tears in his throat. “The coolant. I thought… It’s easy to get a replacement radiator. Cheap. A friend of mine said to go to the junkyard. I called this morning, and they had a good one. So I fixed it. No more leaking onto the driveway. No more stinky smells.”

  He’s silent.

  “Sometimes you need to do something as soon as you think of it,” Big Eddie says.

  As soon as you think of it. Looking out the windshield of Mama’s Honda at the Minneapolis tree-lined street in front of us, it’s hard to believe that a couple of weeks ago we were bringing an old woman to the beach in Colombia. Because we needed to. And my brother decided to do what he needed to do right when he thought of it.

  “You’re all I have left for a mother, Liz,” he says. Then his eyes flick up to the rearview mirror and he looks at me. “And you, Tito, you’re my brother.”

  The only sound in the car for a moment is the clicking of the left-turn signal.

  “But I’m not a child,” he says into the phone. “I want to help you. We’re family.”

  * * *

  The curtain around Cameron’s bed in the emergency wing swipes open. A woman with gray hair and Mickey Mouse scrubs walks in.

  “Cameron O’Hara?” she asks.

  Even covered with a heavy blanket and with one arm immobilized, Cameron manages to bow from the waist on the gurney.

  We’re at the children’s hospital. On the way in from the parking garage, we passed big posters with pictures of smiling children with no hair, sort of like the old man that hit Cameron. These are children with cancer who have had chemotherapy, the medicine that Abuela didn’t want to take. Even though it’s not the same hospital where Papa was, everything—the smell, the sounds—makes my body feel like pins and needles.

  “And who are these two?” the woman asks.

  “My friends,” Cameron says, her voice less edgy than usual. My mind flashes to the image of her lying in the street.

  “I’m Eduardo,” my brother says. “I saw the accident.”

  “I saw it too,” I add.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” the woman says, strapping a black cuff around Cameron’s good arm. “Kids on bikes that don’t look where they’re going and drivers that aren’t paying attention. We see some bad accidents here.”

  I want to tell her what happened and to explain how it wasn’t Cameron’s fault and it wasn’t the old guy’s fault and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. I wish there was a police officer so I could give my witness statement like they do on TV shows.

  Instead Big Eddie says to me, “Maybe we should go home.” He shifts from one foot to the other like he’s trying to get away right now. His hair is sticking straight up in the back. He has a black smear on his ear. Grease from some car part?

  “I don’t think we should leave Cameron yet,” I say.

  “My dad’ll be here soon,” Cameron offers. “You guys can go.”

  We settle for waiting in the corridor for her dad while the nurse takes Cameron’s temperature and listens to her heart. We lean against the wall in the hallway and see a man in navy pants and a pink polo shirt make a sharp left toward Cameron’s room.

  It’s Cameron’s dad. When he goes in to see her, we hover just outside the room. He holds his phone to his ear and with the other hand touches the scrape on her cheek. In between talking to what sounds like an insurance company, Cameron’s dad starts asking the nurse questions and then starts kissing his daughter while also yelling at her for not being careful.

  “Dad,” she interrupts. “These are my friends.”

  Big Eddie and I slink into the room. Her dad looks Big Eddie up and down, takes in his sticking-up hair and his big feet. Her dad’s eyes stop for a moment on Big Eddie’s blackened hands. I try to see what this man sees in my brother. My brother who stole Mama’s car but only to fix it. My brother who drove a strang
er’s daughter to the hospital but only to help.

  Suddenly, as if he just remembered his manners, Cameron’s dad is thanking Big Eddie and shaking his greasy hand, and then he’s using lots of curse words when we tell him about the old man and his silver car. Then he shakes my brother’s hand some more, and someone with a red clipboard brings Cameron a wheelchair just like the one Abuela rode in, even though it’s her arm that’s hurt, not her legs. After I say bye to Cameron, Big Eddie and I stand in the corridor watching her get pushed through a swinging door to get an x-ray.

  “Is she going to be okay?” I ask when we turn to leave.

  He nods. “She’s going to be fine. And, hombre, she’ll have a good story to tell.” Then he winks at me. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  My face gets hot, probably turns as red as that clipboard.

  29

  TWO RODS REST on my left shoulder. In my right hand is Eduardo Aguado León’s green tackle box. Beside me Big Eddie pulls the old red cooler on its noisy plastic wheels. Inside are two containers of live bait from the hardware store, a bag of ice, and two bottles of root beer. The night on the beach with Abuela feels like it happened a million years ago. And also like yesterday. And last Saturday, the day I didn’t win the fishing tournament and Big Eddie didn’t steal the car and Cameron did break her arm, feels like a billion years ago.

  Big Eddie was right. She’s okay. Her right arm is a mess, but she’s left-handed, so she says she doesn’t mind. She had to spend one night in the hospital for observation, and she texted me a picture of the room. It wasn’t anything like Papa’s hospital room. It had bright colors and cartoon characters painted on the walls. She sent me a tongue-sticking-out face, and I sent her a winky face.

  Big Eddie was right about the car, too. Once he replaced the radiator, it was fine. Like a lung transplant, it brought the old Honda back to life. He popped the hood and showed me and Mama the yellow cap that says “coolant.” “And there’s the engine block down there and the master cylinder. See how shiny it is? I cleaned up the engine a little.” He petted the black plastic hoses and covers and rubbed the gleaming metal knobs and pipes with the edge of his shirt like the car was his baby. “And, see, right behind the grill, that’s the new radiator tucked in there.”