Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green

by Helen Phillips

  “Yeah, exactly!” Roo says. “This is gonna scare away all those La Lava tourists forever! The volcano did what she had to do.”

  I open my poetry notebook and stare at a blank page, wondering if a volcano can really be a “she.”

  “But it doesn’t matter for the Selva Lodge,” Roo explains. “Señor V and Señora V know the volcano’s not gonna blow, at least not yet, and the kind of people who stay at the Selva Lodge aren’t the kind of people who are scared of a sorta-active volcano.”

  She may actually be right about that.

  Then she gives a cheerful little sigh. “I can’t wait.” She pretends she’s just whispering to herself, but I know she wants me to ask her, What can’t you wait for?, and so I do.

  “For the next time we come here,” she says.

  “Who says we’re coming back?” I ask calmly, as though I’m not suddenly filled with delight.

  “Oh, we’ll be back here, you bet,” Roo informs me.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Roo looks at me like I’m an idiot. “It’s our favorite place, Mad.”

  I go back to staring at the blank page, trying to think about poetry rather than about Roo being so very positive we’ll return to the Selva Lodge someday.

  “Hey, sista,” Roo whispers.

  “Roo. I’m writing a poem.” I hardly ever have to remind her to shut her trap when I’m trying to write.

  “Sorry,” she says, “but I’m just wondering if you want to know what Kyle said to you in the golf cart yesterday.”

  “What? When?” I say, faking innocence, though of course I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  “You know what I mean,” Roo says, seeing right through me, as usual. “He said, ‘You look like a tree frog in that dress.’ Isn’t that funny?”

  And that’s when the little ache in my heart grows and hurts with happiness. There’s nothing in the whole universe I’d rather have Kyle say about me. I’m filled with longing but happiness. Here’s how it goes: longing, happiness, longing, happiness, longing, happiness, longing, et cetera.

  “That,” Roo says, “is seriously the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on your face.”

  I blush and try to change the subject but I can’t think of another subject right now. And then Roo lets out a small squeal of dismay.

  “Oh no!” she says, staring down at her feet in their green flip-flops. “Oh no, no, no.”

  “What’s wrong?” I say, panicking.

  “Look!” she says, wiggling her toes.

  “What?”

  “No! Toe! Flowers!” she says.

  Oh yeah. I look at her small, unflowery feet.

  “Hmm,” I say. “I guess your feet are finally just nice and clean and nonfungusy.”

  “No,” Roo corrects. “It’s because I used up all my magic.”

  She turns to look out the window.

  “Oh well,” she whispers. “It was worth it.”

  So here we are, Roo and I, side by side, while far below the jungle sparkles and hisses, and it seems possible, maybe even likely, that somewhere down there two shimmering birds are circling a nest where a beak is beginning to twitch inside an egg as bright as blood.

  I remember being very upset when I first learned about extinction as a child. How awful that an entire species can vanish from the face of the earth! Scientists disagree on exactly how many species die out every year; whatever the true number, each extinction is deeply disturbing, because it can never be undone. Extinctions have always been a part of life on earth, but that only makes each remaining species more precious. Many biologists believe that present-day extinctions are often caused by human activities that destroy the habitats of our fellow species.

  In the early 2000s, my dad (not an ornithologist but a great lover of nature) showed me an article about a recent sighting of the ivory-billed woodpecker, often called the Lord God Bird for its spectacular appearance. Declared extinct by the International Union for Conservation of Nature in the 1990s, it had supposedly been sighted in Arkansas, causing a flurry of excitement in the ornithological community and inspiring a great search effort throughout the southeastern United States. Unfortunately, no one has found any definitive proof that the Lord God Bird still exists.

  Even so, this story stuck with me, a tiny bright spot amid the disturbing news about the earth’s decreasing biodiversity. It seemed as magical to me as the sighting of a unicorn or a dragon. For years I knew I wanted to write a book about the thrilling possibility that a species believed extinct might in fact still survive.

  There are some wonderful examples of these so-called Lazarus species. (Lazarus, in the Bible, was raised from the dead.) The Bermuda petrel, a bird believed extinct for 330 years, was found alive on some of Bermuda’s small, remote islands. The Lord Howe Island stick insect, believed extinct since 1930, was rediscovered beneath a shrub on an isolated sea stack in the Pacific Ocean. The monito del monte, a marsupial believed extinct for eleven million years, was revealed in a thicket of Chilean bamboo. These are just a few examples from the intriguing list of thirteen Lazarus species on the Mother Nature Network website (mnn.com).

  In Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green, my fascination with Lazarus species meets my love of Costa Rica, where I lived for two summers during high school and college, learning Spanish and volunteering. Coming from beautiful but dry Colorado, I found the landscape, the climate, and the variety of plant and animal life extraordinary. Tiny Costa Rica is home to an estimated 5 percent of the world’s total species. Like Mad, at times I felt I was exploring a new planet.

  The book takes place in an unspecified Central American country, but the setting is largely based on my visits to the rain forests of Costa Rica. The Lava-Throated Volcano trogon is a made-up bird, but there are a number of trogon species in Costa Rica (including the famous, and near-threatened, Resplendent Quetzal). More than eight hundred Costa Rican bird species have been identified, nineteen of which are considered endangered. The country also has seven endemic species (endemic species are those that only live within a very particular geographic region).

  When developing the “villain” of the book, the fictional La Lava Resort and Spa, I had in mind the ways multinational corporations can take advantage of a country’s natural resources. La Lava pretends to be protecting the environment when it is actually exploiting and harming the local ecosystem. That said, a place like La Lava, if run properly and ethically, can be an excellent way for a region to improve its economy in a sustainable fashion. Done right, ecotourism can help protect endangered species and the environment.

  This book also draws on my experiences growing up with three siblings in the foothills west of Denver. My parents brought (dragged?) us on hikes and backcountry ski trips (or, as my younger sister, Alice, called them, “uphill skis”) every weekend. During the summer we’d backpack and raft the canyons and rivers of Colorado and Utah. The wilderness always felt near at hand. TV time was limited, but we kids could read as many books as we wanted. Adventures, both physical and imaginative, were encouraged. Alice, upon whom the character of Roo is based, was my feisty sidekick. Or maybe I was her bookish sidekick.

  Most importantly, this is a book about sisterhood, and about the things we do to keep our families together. It is a book about kids being brave, going on adventures, looking out for one another, and caring for a creature not because it can be used for something, but because its very existence is precious. These traits—bravery, adventurousness, compassion—serve us well as we venture forth to face the challenges of our increasingly complex world.

  Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green passed through more than eight drafts on its way to becoming this book. My enormous gratitude goes to everyone who kept pushing the manuscript on. My agent, Faye Bender, gave me pivotal advice, editing and otherwise, at every turn. My editor at Delacorte Press, Krista Marino, helped the book become ever more fully itself; I stand in awe of her insights and her page-by-page precision. Lauren Flower encouraged me to a
ctually write the middle-grade book I’d been thinking of writing, and shepherded it along once it finally existed.

  Special thanks goes to those who sacrificed entire park walks, beach days, and lunch breaks to endless discussion of the plot: Sarah Brown, Jonas Oransky, Genevieve Randa, Maisie Tivnan, and my mother-in-law, Gail Thompson, a downright plot doctor. Big thanks to Kendyl Salcito, whose expertise in globalization-related eco-harm helped shape the author’s note, and to Tess Wheelwright, generous reader and Spanish whiz.

  As ever, I am grateful to the good people of the Brooklyn College MFA program, most especially Amelia Kahaney, who was always ready to talk shop; Jenny Offill, a splendid author and friend; and Ellen Tremper, who applied her eagle eye to the manuscript.

  My father, Paul Phillips, gave me the idea for the Lava-Throat’s youth serum, among many other contributions, not least the deep love of the natural world he instilled in his kids. My mother, Susan Zimmermann, author of Mosaic of Thought and Seven Keys to Comprehension, has based her career on her commitment to helping children become passionate readers; she taught me to value literature for young people before I could even read. There are no words to express my gratitude for my husband, Adam Thompson—not only was he willing to read draft after draft and talk about this book for years on end, but every day he creates the simultaneous peace and energy in our home that makes it all possible. I thank my siblings Katherine and Mark Phillips for teaching me what it means to be a sister. Finally, I thank my sister Alice Light, a brilliant and bighearted reader, and, moreover, my own true Roo.

  HELEN PHILLIPS grew up in the foothills west of Denver with her three siblings. When she was eleven, she lost her hair due to the autoimmune condition alopecia, which was pretty hard at the time, but now she thinks there are some major advantages to not having hair (no shampoo in the eyes, for one). Soon after she lost her hair, she (like Mad) made a New Year’s resolution to write a poem a day, a practice she continued for more than eight years.

  Helen graduated from Yale University and receieved a master of fine arts in fiction from Brooklyn College. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, artist Adam Douglas Thompson, and their daughter. Visit her at helencphillips.com.