Ask My Mood Ring How I Feel

by Diana Lopez

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Dad said. He was holding Jimmy’s hand, trying to keep him from grabbing the items. Jimmy kept saying, “Gimme! Gimme!”

  “Do you want to jump in a castle?” Carmen asked him.

  “Gimme castle!” he said.

  Carmen took his hand. “Let me take care of Jimmy for a change.” We nodded as she led him out. She’d been taking care of him all week. Maybe Mom and Dad told her to, or maybe she was being nice. After all, she had been helping me with math, and little by little, I was starting to understand.

  When they were gone, Dad said, “Here’s your backpack.” He handed it to me. It stored my camera, a bottle of water, and the rest of Mom’s bikini tops. I had brought them for good luck. I pulled out the hot pink one, remembering how Mom had left a bikini top at el cuarto de milagros. That seemed like years ago. Since then, she’d had surgery and several weeks of radiation therapy. She had a couple of more weeks to go. Then we’d have to wait six months before the doctor ran tests to see if the cancer had disappeared. I knew those were going to be the toughest six months, and that every day, we’d silently ask ourselves, “Is Mom going to be okay?” So here I stood between the Wall of Hope and the Memory Wall, glad that Mom was still with us but also afraid that next year, things might be different.

  “Do you really believe in promesas?” I asked Dad. “Do you think miracles happen if we keep our promises?”

  He put his arm around me and took a deep breath. After a long moment, he said, “I don’t know, mija. Sometimes, I think promesas aren’t for the sick person. We do them for ourselves, so we can feel like we’re helping in some way. But in the end, it’s not in our hands.”

  That wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. I wanted Dad to be as confident about promesas as he was when we visited the valley. I wanted certainty, an answer as straightforward as the answers Carmen got when she counted things.

  Dad reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and tacked it onto the Wall of Hope.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The receipt from last week’s visit to Chuck E. Cheese.” He laughed to himself. “I could hardly hear a word your mother said, and I spent most of the time chasing Jimmy. The pizza was cold, and the soda was warm. It wasn’t like our first date at all, but we had fun. As much fun as we had the first time we went to the movies.”

  Dad didn’t know Mom’s future, but he knew her present and her past. He was going to celebrate and hope and be grateful, and so was I. So I placed the bikini top on a table and left it in the Tribute Tent.

  When we stepped back outside, we saw Jimmy and Carmen. “Look who I found,” she said.

  The Robins were beside her. Roberto carried the banner, rolled up for now. Patty was kneeling as she put hot pink shoelaces in her tennis shoes. She must have found them at one of the booths. Shawntae had pink tennis shoes instead of pumps, and when she caught me staring at her feet, she shook a charm bracelet in my face. All the charms were pumps, each a different color. Iliana was there too, arm in arm with her brothers. They wore their football jerseys with pink bandanas tied over the sleeves.

  I could only sigh. They were so cute. Maybe someday they’d see me as more than “another little sister.”

  “We decided to register so we can run,” they said. “See you guys later. We’re going to warm up.”

  I watched them disappear into the crowd. Was it acceptable to put your friend’s older brothers on your Boyfriend Wish List?

  “Where’s your mom?” Patty asked.

  “Near the stage,” I said. “Let’s go find her.”

  We headed to the stage and found her talking to a few other women.

  “Meet my new friends,” she said as she introduced us to fellow cancer patients who planned to cheer for the people walking in their honor. We talked to them for a while. They were going through a hard time too, and it was nice to know that Mom wasn’t alone.

  “Time to make your way to the starting line,” the emcee said.

  “We better hurry,” I told the Robins. “The race starts in fifteen minutes.”

  Before I left, Mom grabbed my hand. “I wish I could walk with you, mija, but I get so weak.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  She pulled me toward her and kissed my cheek. “I’m very proud of you. I’ll be thinking about you the whole time you’re out there.”

  “And I’ll be thinking of you,” I said as I gave her a hug.

  At the flagpoles, an army color guard hoisted the Texas and United States flags. Then the soldiers did a short routine, twirling their rifles in unison before marching out. Roberto and Patty rolled open the banner, each holding an end, and we gathered behind it.

  “Let’s race for Lisa!” I yelled, and everyone cheered.

  All of a sudden, thousands of people packed themselves behind the starting line. The starter stood on a platform and spoke into a microphone, his voice booming through huge speakers.

  “Are you ready?!”

  The crowd roared with excitement.

  “Then get set!” The runners positioned themselves. “Go!” We heard the loud pop of the starting gun and the crowd lurched forward, some running, some walking, but all going in the same direction.

  The race was amazing. Music bands were positioned at different points along the route. We heard Scottish bagpipes, a drumming circle, a children’s choir, jazz and rock bands, mariachis, and country and western groups. There were dancers too—cloggers, tap dancers, belly dancers, and young men doing something called capoeira, which looked like a combination of martial arts and break dancing. We saw air force recruits marching in full dress uniform, and the Spurs Silver Dancers doing routines with their pom-poms. A whole group of health professionals from the Cancer Therapy and Research Center walked in pink scrubs, followed by groups of firemen and police officers. And others had banners, too. Some were from companies—Saks Fifth Avenue, Teachers Federal Credit Union, Trinity Baptist Church, and my dad’s company, USAA—and others from private groups like mine.

  At one point, we had to cross a bridge that went over the railroad tracks. I stopped a moment to take a few pictures and found myself in the middle of a huge river flowing with pink, each person like a drop of water. I looked at all the faces passing by, and even though they were strangers, I saw traces of my mother, my sister, and my friends because I felt related to everyone. After all, we were like a team, an army, fighting for those we loved.

  It took us an hour to walk the 5K. When we crossed the finish line, Mom, Dad, and Jimmy cheered.

  “Come on,” Mom and Dad told us. “We want to show you something.”

  The Robins and I followed them to a huge sign shaped like the graduated cylinders we used in science class, only instead of milliliters, the sign measured the number of sponsors who had donated to this year’s Race for the Cure. It was called “The Top Ten Fund-Raising Teams.”

  “Erica, look!” Iliana said, all excited as she pointed to our team, Race for Lisa, which was number eight on the list. I had collected 526 names!

  “I told you! I told you!” Shawntae said. She started jumping like a jackpot winner. “I’m a psychic! I’m a psychic!” she kept saying.

  “What are you talking about?” Patty said. “Did you dream about this sign last night?”

  “No,” Shawntae replied. “But don’t you get it? Don’t you get it?”

  We all looked at one another. “Get what?” Roberto finally asked.

  “The dream I had about Erica’s mother winning the lottery. It wasn’t about the lottery at all, at least not literally.” Shawntae put her hands on my shoulders and faced me. “My dream was telling me that you’d collect five hundred names. The lottery was a symbol. It wasn’t about money. It was about sponsors. Don’t you see? I am a psychic after all!”

  The old me would have pointed out all the details that did not quite match and insisted that Shawntae was over-interpreting things, but the new me looked at my family, my friends, and all
the people still crossing the finish line, many smiling even though they wore shirts that said, “In loving memory of,” and others, so many others, with shirts that said, “I’m a survivor.” And then I looked at my mom and dad. I had always thought they were the strongest people in the world. I thought Dad could toss cars as easily as footballs. I thought everyone did what Mom said, not just me, Carmen, and Jimmy, but the neighbors, the teachers, the president of the United States. I thought my parents had the answers to everything, like the meaning of every word, the solution to every problem, and how to answer the big questions like why is there good and evil or why do some people, good people, get sick. I could never imagine my parents being babies once or toddlers or teenagers, going through everything I was going through. In my mind, they had always been adults, and they would always be there to help me. But then I saw Mom sick and Dad all nervous. Suddenly, they needed me. They weren’t weak, exactly, but they weren’t as strong as I thought. So I had to be strong. Even though I was still a kid, I had to do grown-up things like help around the house and keep everybody calm. But I couldn’t do it alone.

  I glanced at my ring, expecting it to be pink even though it wasn’t a color on the mood ring color chart. Then I looked away from it. I didn’t need my mood ring to tell me how I felt. I could see my feelings in the faces around me. When I was sad, they were too, and when I was happy, so were they. I still didn’t believe that Shawntae was a psychic and even though I had fulfilled my promesa, I couldn’t be 100 percent sure that Mom would be cured, but after today, I most definitely believed in the people who loved me and that the real miracles happened when we worked together.

  Roberto and Patty lifted the banner. “Race for Lisa!” they cheered. Carmen and I joined in: “Race for Lisa!” Then Iliana and her brothers shouted, and finally my parents. Soon, lots of people, including some we’d never met, were chanting, “Race for Lisa! Race for Lisa!” as we celebrated our five hundred names in pink.

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Readers,

  I have known about promesas and the story of the pilot who crashed his plane for as long as I can remember. My family has visited the church with the Virgen de San Juan many times, and though I don’t make formal promesas, I like to leave candles and prayers in honor of whoever is struggling at the time.

  Several years ago, my aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer. Luckily, the doctors discovered it in its early stages, and my aunt has been in remission for over a decade. To celebrate her recovery, my cousin invited all her relatives and friends to participate in the Komen Race for the Cure, and I signed up, happy to support my aunt in any way I could.

  The first time I participated, I was amazed by the thousands of people who had gathered at the Alamodome, and when I saw them singing, praying, and celebrating their loved ones, I remembered the valley and the cuarto de milagros. How I loved reading the letters that people left at the shrine, just as I enjoyed hearing their stories at the Alamodome. This is what inspired me to write Erica’s story.

  I’ve seen the power of promesas firsthand. When my father learned he needed cardiac bypass surgery, my mother promised to say the rosary every day for two years, and when my uncle learned he had prostate cancer, he promised to visit the shrine in the valley once a month for a year. My aunt didn’t make a promesa, but her prayers and her gratitude as we gathered to walk in her honor taught me, just as they taught Erica, that the most powerful medicines are hope and the love of family and friends.

  Yours,

  Diana López

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to my agent, Stefanie von Borstel; my editor, Connie Hsu; and the whole team at Little, Brown. I am so lucky to have your enthusiasm and expertise on my side. Thanks also to Christine Granados and Carmen Edington, who helped me get those first chapters in tip-top shape, and to my Daedalus friends, whose writing advice continues to guide me even when I am alone with the keyboard. Finally, I couldn’t do this without the encouragement of my colleagues and students at UHV and the support of my family and friends, most especially Gene.

  Also by Diana López:

  Confetti Girl

  Praise for

  Ask My Mood Ring How I Feel

  “A funny and heartfelt story.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “López skillfully balances emotional moments with humorous ones, offering an honest portrait of a family under strain. Chia’s clever, cheeky voice and a strong cast contribute to an inspiring story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The many characters in Chia’s life are individually and lovingly drawn.… Readers will feel like Chia’s family and friends could do anything as long as they stick together—and they may be right.”

  —Booklist

  “Chia’s voice shines.… A fast-moving, absorbing read about how one person’s illness can affect the whole family in many different ways.”

  —School Library Journal

  “An honest, sometimes uncomfortable, but always hopeful look at how cancer affects family.… Erica’s story is full of the healing power of love.”

  —Guadalupe Garcia McCall, author of Summer of the Mariposas and Pura Belpré Award winner Under the Mesquite

  “[This is a] story of struggle, of surviving, and what is oftentimes a difficult healing, but a healing nevertheless.”

  —René Saldaña Jr., author of A Good Long Way

  APOLONIA “LINA” FLORES IS…

  A BEST FRIEND

  (EVEN THOUGH VANESSA’S NOW BOY CRAZY)

  A SCIENCE LOVER

  (ALTHOUGH HER DAD THINKS SHE LIKES ENGLISH JUST BECAUSE HE LIKES ENGLISH)

  A POBRECITA

  (“POOR BABY,” WHAT VANESSA’S MOM HAS CALLED HER EVER SINCE LINA’S MOM DIED)

  A SOCK ENTHUSIAST

  (OR SOCKIO-PHILE?)

  IN LOVE WITH LUÍS

  (SHHH, DON’T TELL HIM!)

  Read more about Lina’s crazy, colorful life in Diana López’s Confetti Girl, available now however books are sold.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek!

  27-Pound Egg

  Some people collect coins or stamps, but I collect socks. I have a dresser with drawers labeled DAILY SOCKS, LONELY SOCKS, HOLEY SOCKS, and SOCK HEAVEN.

  The daily drawer helps me get dressed every morning. When I’m bored, I reorganize it. I group the socks by color. Then I group them by style—dressy, casual, or athletic. Then by length—ankle, crew, or knee-high.

  The lonely sock drawer is for those who have lost their partners. Most of the partners disappear in the washing machine or dryer. I can’t explain it. Somewhere between the tossing and soaking and wringing, one gets lost. I don’t know where it goes. Maybe aliens abduct it.

  Holey socks aren’t for angels. They actually have holes, so I don’t wear them anymore. Sometimes, these socks become puppets and sometimes they go to sock heaven where they can rest in peace with the socks I’ve outgrown.

  But mostly, I use the holey socks for experiments. People who think socks are just for feet have no imagination. For example, you can cover your ears with socks. Ankle socks make good earmuffs. Knee-highs are great for people who want to be rabbits or donkeys for Halloween. Then there’s the sock rock. I’ve got a pile of these in a shoe box by my bed. I roll the sock and make a ball by folding the open end over the roll. Socks are also great as coasters, bookmarks, wallets, and dusters. There’s no end to what they can do.

  I admit that spending so much energy on socks is weird and a little immature, but it’s hard to be normal when you live in a house with no TV. The reason I don’t have a TV is because my dad’s a high-school English teacher, which means he’d rather read. And because he’s always reading, I got stuck with a stupid name, Apolonia Flores. The Flores part isn’t so bad since it means “flowers” in Spanish. But Apolonia?

  “What kind of name is that?” I ask my dad.

  “It�
�s the girl form of Apollo,” he says. “He was the god of the sun. Get it? It’s my way of calling you a sunflower.”

  “I’d rather be called Sun Flores. That’s close enough, don’t you think?”

  But my dad doesn’t hear me.

  “According to the Greeks,” he says, “the sun was the golden wheel of a chariot that Apollo drove across the sky. He was also the god of music, poetry, medicine, and fortune-telling.”

  Whenever my dad speaks, I can’t help thinking that he looks like the teachers on Disney Channel specials—graying hair, lean body, wire-rimmed glasses. He always acts the part, even at home. It makes asking questions dangerous because something that takes most fathers five minutes to explain, takes mine an hour.

  Thank goodness my name is too long, even for my father. Everybody calls me Lina instead. My dad says Lina sounds a lot like Leda, a girlfriend of Zeus, king of the gods. He disguised himself as a swan when he visited her, so now I’m named after someone who dated a bird.

  Having an English teacher for a dad also means that instead of a dining room, we have a library, and instead of bedrooms, we have libraries, and we can probably call the kitchen a library too—even the pantry!—because next to my Pop-Tarts and Dad’s chicharrones are books.

  And they aren’t in any order! The school librarian has the Dewey Decimal system, which makes finding books easy. But at my house, Dad’s got Be Your Own Handyman next to 100 Favorite Love Poems and Birds of North America next to Tex-Mex Cooking. So if I’m looking for a book on cats, I’ve got to read every title. This can take hours because Dad doesn’t have a pattern when he stacks the books. Some titles read top to bottom while others read bottom up, and the titles of horizontal books are upside down as often as they’re right side up.