The sight of Dad up there alongside those other tuxedos, looking completely unworried, is seriously the scariest thing I’ve seen since our plane landed, and there’s been a lot of competition for that distinction. What I suddenly understand, seeing Dad now, is that he is crazy. He’s gone off the deep end. La Lava has driven him insane, or maybe it’s the curse of the volcano, but anyway, I can tell he’s crazy because he doesn’t look the least bit concerned. He looks as if everything’s fine. As if no one’s in danger. Kind of the way Mom always looks nowadays. If Dad were himself right now, he’d be up there looking furious, plotting an attack on whoever was trying to harm us.
Right then, Roo kicks me hard under the table. I mean, hard. I’m about to yelp when I realize she was just helping Kyle get my attention. They’re both looking at me, eyebrows raised with the silent question: So, is Vivi on board?
I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything except shrug at them. I … don’t know. I glance over at Vivi’s strong back.
Okay then.
Plan B, right?
But we have no Plan B. Why didn’t we assume that Vivi wouldn’t help us (or, that I might fail to give her the letter)? We are such idiots.
Desperate, I try to think. Maybe, if we moved fast enough, the three of us could stampede up onto the stage. I look over at the staircases on either side and notice what I could have sworn weren’t there a minute ago—pairs of large, looming men guarding the steps. So. I guess Kyle was right about the whole high-security thing.
We have no way, absolutely no way, of getting up on that stage.
The realization sinks through me, from the top of my head down to the soles of my feet, making me crumple into myself, unable to look at Kyle or Roo.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Patricia Chevalier says into the microphone, her sophisticated voice booming out over everyone. I squint, once again trying and failing to catch a glimpse of her shoes. “Welcome to the annual Gold Circle Investors’ Gala at La Lava Resort and Spa. Please help me welcome this year’s Geniuses!”
After a huge round of applause fades out, Patricia Chevalier begins going down the line, introducing the men one by one. All of them look exactly the same to me, with big, round, rich-guy faces, except for Dad. Patricia Chevalier speaks in English, and her words are translated into Spanish and French and what looks like Japanese or maybe Chinese (I’m embarrassed to admit I can’t tell the difference) on these digital red translator screens running along the bottom of the stage. The introductions blur together—president of this, president of that, CEO, CFO, chairperson, architect, all the way here from London, New York City, Tokyo, Paris, instrumental in development, marketing, advising, blah, blah, blah.
And then Dr. James Wade, hailing from Denver, Colorado—MPhil Cambridge, PhD Yale, a list of all the universities where he’s taught, all the research grants he’s won, all the awards, all the articles by and about him. And to be honest it gets a little boring, but then at the end she finally mentions that among his fans he’s known as the Bird Guy, which, if you ask me and Roo, is one of the coolest things about Dad’s work.
After lots more clapping and me shrinking further into myself and refusing to look at Kyle and Roo and trying to think if there’s any way we can maybe sneak up onto the balcony to get everyone’s attention from there or climb up on our table or something, Patricia Chevalier starts talking about “all the environmental awards La Lava Resort and Spa has received in the last twelve months alone” and “how very proud we are to have been ranked the World’s Greenest Spa each of the past two years since the spa was founded.” She goes on and on about “the emphasis we place on being in harmony with the volcano and the rain forest ecosystem,” maintaining La Lava as an “environmentally sound, low-impact place, even imitating the exact foliage of the rain forest on our grounds” and “using the volcano’s natural energy to power the spa, which is essential to making this an entirely organic institution.” She talks about the yoga classes that “channel the ancient energy of the volcano.” It all culminates in “the capstone of the La Lava experience,” “our supreme achievement”—the “miraculous and priceless skin treatment” developed “by our brilliant resident biochemists over the course of the last nine months, and recently trademarked.” This substance “restores our clients to their most perfect natural state” due to the “incredible antiaging properties of our intricate formula, created entirely from all-natural and locally-sourced ingredients,” which has been “proven to not only reduce the signs of aging but to in fact reverse the aging process” in a way that has been “described as groundbreaking by experts and mind-blowing by our clients.” She mentions all the ecologists brought in for “multiple, in-depth consultations.” She thanks “in particular Dr. Wade, for contributing so much to the ornithological mission of the spa.” She tells us “it is both an honor and a responsibility to be the best on the planet, setting the golden standard for ethics in rain forest development.”
Then! She mentions the Lava-Throated Volcano trogon, which, “having been confirmed extinct four years ago,” is “one of the great tragedies of this region.” She informs us that “La Lava is committed to making sure such an extinction never again occurs in the area. What happened to the Lava-Throated Volcano trogon must not be repeated. Even as we expand and flourish, we vow to treasure and protect delicate habitats.”
I’m still not totally clear on the exact definition of irony—we just started to learn about that in English class at the end of the school year—but I’m pretty positive this is it.
And then it hits me: Patricia Chevalier definitely knows. She knows everything about our plan. She has the letter. She’s wearing tan shoes (I try yet again to spot them beneath her dress). Because why else would she be going on so much about LTVTs? We failed—I failed.
My head feels painfully heavy. I put my elbows on the table and let my forehead droop down into my hands. After a long moment, I gather my courage to look up at Kyle and Roo.
But they aren’t paying the least bit of attention to me. Their faces are bright as they gaze hard at the side of the stage, where there’s some kind of shuffle going on, some kind of fight or heated conversation—a regal woman in green speaking sharply to the bodyguards protecting the steps. From up on the stage, Patricia Chevalier shoots the men a let-her-through-you-stupid-fools glare, and the bodyguards part to let the movie star pass between them.
As Vivi strides onto the stage, radiant and green like a jungle goddess, murmurs of delighted surprise pass through the crowd, followed by applause way, way louder than any Patricia Chevalier received—applause plus screams of excitement, whistles, and hoots and howls. Who knew such an elegant crowd could make such a ruckus?
But that ruckus doesn’t even come close to the ruckus inside my own body as Vivi grabs the microphone, as she steps forward and I spot a flash of tan (Oh my god! I was right! I was right! I knew Vivi wouldn’t wear those silly stilettos!), as Patricia Chevalier (after looking out uneasily toward the back of the dining area, almost as though seeking instructions from someone) wilts aside and fades back into the shadows behind the line of seated men.
“Hola y hello, damas y caballeros, ladies and gentlemen,” Vivi says in her low, rich voice, the words ringing out loud and forceful through the microphone.
“¡Hola! Hello!” the audience shouts back. They all love her so much! They’re all hanging on her every word—but no one’s hanging on her every word as much as I am. I’m dying to know what she’s going to say, what she’s going to do, if she’s on our side or if she’s not. I can hardly breathe in the long seconds while she gazes powerfully out over the crowd, waiting for the applause to fade.
“I would like to invite some very special guests up—” Before she can finish her sentence, her words are overwhelmed by applause. Vivi spreads her gazillion-dollar smile over all of us and puts one hand up to quiet the crowd. “Some very special guests up to the stage. Please help me warmly welcome Madeline Flynn Wade!”
From the stage,
Vivi’s gaze is fixed on me, so now the entire audience is staring at our table. In a matter of seconds, I notice that (a) Mom’s Yoga Smile is stretched to the point of breaking as she looks back and forth between me and Vivi, shocked, (b) Ken/Neth is grinning the world’s goofiest grin right at me, (c) Señor V is winking gently at me, (d) Señora V is giving me a thumbs-up, a gesture that looks kind of bizarre coming from her veiled form, (e) Kyle is glancing at me with a sharp, confident nod, as though he knew all along I would get Vivi on board, and (f) Roo is already standing up. I feel dizzy.
When the applause quiets a tad, Vivi continues: “Madeline Flynn Wade, along with her sister, Ruby Flynn Wade … the daughters, I might add, of Dr. James Wade.”
More applause, more eyes boring into us. Amid the massive clapping, I’m struck by two thoughts: (1) The time has come. Now’s the exact moment when we have to leave our table and rush up to the stage before anything else happens. Before we miss our chance. (2) I can’t do it. I’m too scared. Filled with dread. I don’t want to go up there. I don’t want to stand in front of all these people, exposed. And who knows, who knows, what La Lava will do to us. It’s all happening too quickly. I’m too terrified, too self-conscious, too unbrave.
“And, finally,” Vivi announces, “Kyle Nelson Villalobos!”
I grab Roo’s hand and mouth at her “I CAN’T!” but she’s already stepping away from our table, heading toward the stage, her fingers slipping out of mine. She looks back at me and mutters, “Whatever, dude, relax.” I’m sitting there frozen, watching Roo go, when suddenly I feel something: the warm, solid sensation of Kyle’s hand in mine, squeezing, pulling me up. My terror loosens its grip a little. My heart is still doing acrobatics, mainly panic-related but now also partly Kyle-related. And I can’t believe my mind is actually able to have the thought, Gosh, I hope my hand doesn’t feel clammy to him, and also the thought, His hand is super clammy, but I really don’t mind.
And then here we are, walking through applause so deafening it seems like an actual substance, like walking through water or something, and all those eyes too, hundreds and hundreds of eyes—you can practically feel them touching you.
Pressing on toward the stage, toward Vivi (smiling her gorgeous, ferocious smile at us), toward Dad (the happy-peaceful-calm expression quickly draining from his face), I take a deep breath and try to get brave. I think about Miss Perfect, about her bloodred eggs out there alone in the jungle, about me and Mom and Dad and Roo sitting around the table together at home, in Denver, laughing about something. I think about the jungle, how green and amazing it is, all its weird flowers and animals, and the chameleon Kyle showed me (was that really today? because it feels like ages ago).
Roo is the first one to reach the stage, the first one to prance between the bodyguards and up the steps, followed by Kyle, who turns back to smile at me as he goes—is it just me, or was that a nervous quiver I spotted on his lip before he dashed up the steps?
And I—I follow.
Roo skips over to Vivi and tugs on the movie star’s hand. Vivi bows as though Roo is the Queen of England, and the audience laughs. The three of us line up like a row of ducklings beside Vivi. It seems the applause is getting louder by the second, making my ears ring.
“It is with great excitement,” Vivi says, “that I turn the stage over to my young friend Madeline Flynn Wade and her amigos, who have something very important to tell you.”
And I’m going: Wow. I can’t believe Vivi just called me her friend. Wow. I can’t believe we’re really on the stage at La Lava and the crowd is going wild and Vivi is smiling at me. So many impossible things all at once.
Vivi steps backward and hands the microphone to me.
“You,” she whispers, very close to my ear, “are an extremely odd child. But,” she adds, “I like you.”
Then she strides away and I’m left there with the hot-potato microphone, which I quickly pass off to Kyle.
And now. It’s just us. Me and my little sister and a barely teenage boy, looking out over the vast expectant crowd, the clapping finally quieting down as everyone awaits whatever it is that Vivi’s baby-faced friends have to tell them. I glance back at Dad, hoping for something—I don’t know, a thumbs-up or something, anything to make this stage feel less terrifying. But he’s staring at us with a furious, stunned look on his face, slowly shaking his head in this way that makes me feel extra terrified.
Kyle takes a step forward. Raises the microphone to his mouth. And doesn’t speak.
My stomach plummets as I remember his quivering lip. Kyle with stage fright! Who could have guessed? And—what now?
An awkward silence falls, everyone waiting for Kyle to say something. As the seconds pass I begin to hear the buzz of the audience’s impatience.
I stand there blushing and blinking in the stage lights, unsure what to do with my hands, unsure how to help Kyle, and meanwhile Roo bends over and starts fussing with the strap of her patent leather shoe, and I tap her back in a way that means Seriously? You’re worrying about your shoe right now? Get a grip!
“THE LAVA-THROATED VOLCANO TROGON,” Kyle suddenly booms, his voice way too loud in the microphone, “IS NOT EXTINCT.”
The hum of the expectant crowd drops and suddenly it’s dead silent. My relief that Kyle has finally spoken is followed immediately by a shiver passing down my spine: He said the bird’s name aloud! And doesn’t a fourteen-year-old still count as a child? Won’t the volcano goddess react? I look out at the volcano. It’s glowing bright red against the purple evening sky. Right then an orange flare swells upward. My stomach clutches, flips.
“FOR GENERATIONS,” Kyle continues, “THE BIRD HAS BEEN RUMORED TO POSSESS THE POWER TO RESTORE LOST YOUTH.”
Part of me is freaking out about the volcano, wondering if it’s acting up because Kyle uttered the name, or because the last LTVT is approaching death, or both. And the other part of me is gazing at Kyle, feeling amazed that he can stand there looking so strong and certain even in his absurd suit, and I’m thinking the audience must be feeling amazed by him too, when I notice that Roo is still fussing with her feet, wedging her right foot to remove her left shoe.
“Stop drawing attention to yourself!” I hiss almost silently at her.
She rolls her eyes at me like I’m stupid and continues to wiggle her foot out of its shoe.
“THIS IS WHY LA LAVA HAS BEEN PRETENDING THE BIRD IS EXTINCT, AS IT WAS OFFICIALLY DECLARED FOUR YEARS AGO, WHEN IN FACT THE SPA HAS BEEN MURDERING THE LAST REMAINING MEMBERS OF THIS LAZARUS SPECIES IN ORDER TO MAKE ITS TREMENDOUSLY LUCRATIVE SKIN PRODUCT.”
I wait for it, the gasp of horror from the audience, the noise of outrage, but the crowd remains dead silent. Roo’s left shoe pops off her foot and a small spray of yellow toe-flowers lands on the stage. She bends down to work on removing her right shoe.
“Roo, what are you doing?” I mutter under my breath. Does she really want the whole world to see her personal fungus?
“IN ADDITION, LA LAVA HAS CO-OPTED” (co-opted—what exactly does that mean again?) “THE SKILL, EXPERTISE, AND TALENT OF THE BIRD GUY, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS DR. JAMES WADE, IMPRISONING HIM AND FORCING HIM TO ENTRAP THESE EXTRAORDINARILY RARE CREATURES, THREATENING TO HARM HIS WIFE AND HIS DAUGHTERS, THESE TWO YOUNG CHILDREN YOU SEE BEFORE YOU” (I pretend Kyle didn’t just call me a young child) “IF HE DOES NOT COMPLY.”
I glance back to check on Dad’s reaction to this … and discover that Dad is no longer on the stage! The five chairs are empty, and Patricia Chevalier is nowhere to be seen. How could all that have happened without me noticing?
Roo kicks off her right shoe and a second bunch of toe-flowers showers the stage. Then she starts pulling her dress up.
“I KNOW THIS ALL SOUNDS IMPROBABLE, VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO BELIEVE,” Kyle continues, and right then the thought hits me: Hey, wait a sec, why isn’t anyone from La Lava trying to stop Kyle? Isn’t it sort of impossible that La Lava isn’t doing anything about this situation? I start counting the
seconds until someone comes to grab the mike away from him.
Roo’s fighting against her layers of taffeta in an attempt to get at Miss Perfect. She glances over at me like Hello, want to help? and I feel bad I wasn’t already on it, so I kneel down beside Roo and reach for Miss Perfect’s pouch and work to tug it open.
“SURELY ALL OF YOU ARE SITTING OUT THERE DEMANDING PROOF FOR THESE OUTRAGEOUS CLAIMS. SURELY YOU NEED TO BE CONVINCED THAT THE LAVA-THROATED VOLCANO TROGON IS NOT YET EXTINCT. WELL …”
Kyle’s Well … is hanging in the air above us when Miss Perfect’s body drops out of the pouch and falls onto the stage with a flat thud.
She lies there, shrunken, limp, dull, like any old brown bird. Like any old dead brown bird. And Roo crouches over her.
Horror swells inside me, along with that saliva-rush feeling that comes right before you throw up. I look up at the volcano, which continues to radiate red and orange. What revenge will the volcano goddess take now that her bird is dead?
“WE HAVE JUST SUCH PROOF!” Kyle announces victoriously. Since he’s facing the crowd, he doesn’t yet know that Miss Perfect is dead.
This is the moment, the exact moment, when she should be soaring over the tables.
“JUST SUCH PROOF!” Kyle repeats the cue before turning around to see what’s causing the delay. And his face falls.
So. This is it.
Roo gathers up her yellow toe-flowers and starts sprinkling them over Miss Perfect. I’m stunned, extremely stunned, that Roo can move this quickly onto the funeral stage of things.
The silence of the crowd takes on its own weight. I can feel it pressing down on us, on me and Kyle and Roo and Miss Perfect, or rather on Miss Perfect’s body, as Roo runs a toe-flower along the bird’s beak. I look up at the fiery tip of the volcano and wonder what the heck we should do now and how many seconds we have before the crowd starts booing and before La Lava separates Kyle from the microphone and before the volcano does whatever it’s going to do.
Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green Page 22