Forest World

by Margarita Engle

  The Truth of Dare

  EDVER

  The one thing we’re really good at sharing

  is adventure, so we sneak out at night to peer up

  at owl eyes, and we scramble up slopes by day

  to splash in rocky pools beneath waterfalls.

  We take turns gathering bugs

  to stare at under the microscope.

  My prize is a hawk moth that looks

  exactly like a hummingbird, and Luza’s

  is a cicada with eyes the color

  of tomatoes.

  But when we play truth or dare,

  I’m not brave enough to reveal secrets,

  so I claim all the imaginary prizes

  for feats of foolishness, like jumping off

  waterfall cliffs.

  It’s kind of funny how my courage starts

  with cowardice.

  Hovering

  LUZA

  Each time I dare my brother to call our mother

  on the wall phone, I hover and listen, but she’s

  always gone,

  traveling to some distant land,

  her answering machine a long list

  of destinations spoken in English.

  “Hi, I’m doing fieldwork in Fiji, talk to you

  when I get back.

  Hey, I’m on a volcano in Japan, see you soon,

  Edvercito.

  Wow, this is my first trip to Argentina!

  Hope you’re having fun with la familia.

  Hola. Tell your sister I’m sorry for everything,

  and I promise we’ll talk, oh, and remind Yoel

  that I have big news for La Selva—all he needs to do

  is fill out those forms, they should be there by now.

  I sent them with a courier.

  Give Abuelito a hug, and kiss Jutía,

  if that funny old wiener dog is still alive.

  By the way, after a great deal of back-and-forth

  between lawyers, the bicyclist decided

  not to sue after all, as long as I agree to pay

  all the hospital bills, so listen, m’ijo, you got off easy

  this time, but he could have pressed charges.

  You would have been the least violent kid

  in juvenile hall—in other words,

  the most pummeled. (That means beat-up,

  in case you haven’t been studying

  all those vocabulary words

  I put in your backpack!)”

  So much about Edver, but NOTHING about me.

  Not one real message for my ears,

  only that quick lie about being sorry,

  and the feeble promise to talk.

  If I could turn back time, I’d be two years old,

  searching the forest again, trying to find

  my mother, who had just abandoned me,

  taking my baby brother. . . .

  I’d locate her this time, then I’d reach up

  and pummel her with my tiny

  fists.

  Forms?

  EDVER

  What does Mom mean?

  Dad won’t explain.

  He just grins and shrugs,

  as if they share a secret.

  Is this why she left him,

  because he’s so silent,

  the quietest Cuban

  who ever lived?

  “Fill out the forms.”

  That could be anything!

  Adoption, custody, foster parents,

  or who knows what other form

  of family torture?

  Luckily, Dad feels so bad about leaving me

  wondering

  that he decides to spend lots of time with me

  doing other things.

  My favorite moments are the ones

  filled with actions, instead of words.

  We walk around the forest, studying bugs,

  leaves, and seeds of all sorts, even peeking

  inside holes in wood,

  to find grubs and worms

  that can be

  identified.

  El baile de los viejitos

  LUZA

  When Dad goes back to his solitary work,

  and Edver once again feels left out, our shared

  confusion

  makes us grouchy.

  We have to get away from our thoughts,

  so Abuelo takes us down to the village,

  all three of us mounted on big Rocinante,

  while Dad goes off on his routine patrols

  riding little Platero.

  In town, we eat surprisingly well, considering

  the general scarcity of food, because all we have to do

  is stand around inside el Club de los Abuelos,

  a senior center where white-haired ladies feed us

  whatever they have—rationed rice, garden produce,

  wild fruit, and sweets, all sorts of treats

  made from homegrown sugar,

  chocolate, spices, and coffee.

  Next, we dance.

  Abuelo is the one who invites me to star

  in el Baile de los Viejitos, the Dance of Little Old Folks.

  So I twirl and leap with a cane, pretending to sway,

  lose my balance, almost fall, totter feebly,

  move as if my back hurts, my bones creak,

  my mind wavers, and still, despite all that pain,

  I feel

  so exhilarated

  that the lively dance steps

  ABSOLUTELY BURST

  from my aching body,

  while an ear-to-ear SMILE

  never leaves my brightly painted

  old lady lips!

  Funny

  EDVER

  The secret of el Baile de los Viejitos

  is making young dancers appear to be old,

  not the other way around.

  It’s a really weird kind of humor,

  the sort Abuelo loves, because instead of just

  making fun of himself, he’s also teasing us.

  He says we’ll be old someday, and then

  we’ll understand.

  I don’t really believe him, because the world

  seems like such a mess that if this were a game,

  I wouldn’t expect to survive, but it’s real life,

  so I laugh out loud

  each time my sister’s cane

  taps a loud rhythm

  that matches the size of her clunky

  thick-soled, old lady shoes!

  Boys My Age

  LUZA

  I feel like a fantastic dancer

  until other children show up,

  but this awareness of the presence

  of the grandsons of real old ladies

  suddenly makes me self-conscious

  about my white wig and flowered apron.

  Introducing my brother to school friends

  is a huge decision.

  What if he offends them with his show-off

  rich-kid shoes

  and foreign ways?

  But the girls are so excited to finally meet

  un americano who isn’t a tourist!

  Everything has to be explained to Edver,

  especially names, because islanders

  had to give up saints’ names

  during the years when religion

  was illegal, so now many parents

  are still in the habit of inventing new words

  instead of choosing old-fashioned ones

  that carry all the risks of history.

  Danía’s name is a mixture of Daniel and María.

  Yamily rhymes with the English word family,

  because all her brothers floated away to Miami.

  Dayesí—da, yes, sí—means yes, yes, yes

  in Russian, English, and Spanish.

  It’s a name that grew out of the craziness

  of never knowing whether poor little Cuba

  would end up in the shadow of one enormous


  bossy foreign nation

  or the other.

  I’m too shy to spend much time with boys,

  but a dark-eyed dreamer called Yavi

  loves to tease me,

  so he follows me around,

  pretending to be friendly,

  when really all he wants to do

  is show off his fancy clothes

  and modern gadgets, all sent to him

  by relatives in Florida.

  His name means Ya vi, “I already saw,”

  but he never says exactly what his mamá

  looked at while she attached two old words

  together, turning them into a new one.

  As soon as Yavi meets my brother, I can tell

  that they share the same sense of humor,

  filling up any awkward silences

  with fartlike noises and real burps.

  Yavi’s eyes make me nervous,

  so I rush away from him, guiding Edver

  on a tour of the ration shop, with its nearly

  empty shelves, followed by a tourist store

  overflowing with luxuries, and a restaurant

  where foreigners come to drink

  sweet mountain coffee, and eat

  rare foods that the rest of us

  can’t afford, unless we grow

  the vegetables ourselves,

  and raise the chickens,

  and gather

  wild spices.

  Connected!

  EDVER

  Staring girls with weird names

  make me feel like racing away,

  but Yavi says he owns a computer,

  and has IntERnet—global, not just

  the island’s local IntRAnet!

  So while my sister tries to show me things

  she thinks are interesting—like her school,

  a park, the post office, a church—all I can do

  is hop up and down inside my mind

  while I wait for a chance

  to run across the street

  with Yavi, and sit down

  to face familiar flares

  of dragon flames, roaring

  from ravenous mouths. . . .

  If there’s a forbidden satellite dish,

  it must be well hidden behind all those

  flowering red flame trees, yellow hibiscus,

  and purple jacaranda.

  But the connection is dial-up,

  soooooooo

  SLOOOOOW

  but still

  so amazingly

  satisfying!

  Now here I am, right back where I belong,

  inside my normal world, the cryptic one

  that’s hidden deep inside

  this computer screen.

  Nerviosa/Nervous

  LUZA

  I’ve never broken such an absolute rule.

  Everyone knows el IntERnet is peligroso,

  dangerous, forbidden, banned,

  off-limits to the general public,

  available only in certain places

  to special people.

  Rocking chairs, a lace tablecloth,

  Yavi’s dozing great-grandma, it all seems

  so ordinary, except for the way my bold brother

  taps his fingers on a magical keyboard

  to make imaginary creatures appear. . . .

  When he and Yavi finally finish

  their endless game of growling battles,

  I venture to ask the question that haunts me.

  If I spell certain words, will I see Mamá’s picture

  and be able to write a letter that will reach her,

  maybe even receive an answer, hear her voice

  on paper, print it, and hold a mystery in my hand

  forever?

  Passwords

  EDVER

  I know them all, because I’m the one

  who used to help Mom set up her pages,

  albums, profiles, and blogs, not to mention

  spending plenty of lonely hours

  spying on her, trying to see

  who she knows,

  chats with,

  flirts with,

  maybe even

  dates.

  Creeps?

  Mean men?

  Losers.

  I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Why else would she keep her private life

  so secretive lately, hiding some of it so well

  that even I can’t hack the new accounts,

  break complicated codes, and find her friends’

  unfamiliar faces?

  When I see how many followers she has now,

  I know she’s been busy tapping away at her laptop

  while sitting on beaches in Fiji, volcanoes in Japan,

  and grassy savannahs in Argentina.

  Grants, research, articles in science journals,

  all of it is right here in front of me, a detailed record

  of her movements and interests.

  Nothing at all about the son she sent away

  for a whole summer, or the daughter

  she abandoned forever.

  Luza is standing right behind me,

  looking over my shoulder. I wonder

  how she feels, seeing her absence

  from Mom’s online

  mind.

  Maybe the word genius needs

  a new definition, something

  that measures mountains of emotions,

  not just separate, tiny

  thoughts.

  Scheming

  LUZA

  Silent room.

  Sorrowful reality.

  What would Mamá say

  if we unite

  to invite her

  to visit us?

  Will she see our plea

  as an opportunity

  or a complaint?

  I need a magnet to draw her close,

  something to attract her scientific curiosity!

  When I explain my idea to Edver, he shakes

  his head slowly, then pauses, shrugs, grins,

  and says that it’s possible, maybe we could

  really lure her, but only with a wildlife

  emergency.

  Name any animal, my wily brother suggests.

  Nothing big, he adds.

  We don’t want her to see

  that our newly discovered species

  is a lie.

  Jewel beetle?

  Dragonfly?

  Golden silk orb-weaver?

  Tree frog?

  Anole lizard?

  Scorpion?

  Gradually, a lost-and-found image drifts

  back into my vision, a memory of tiger swallowtail

  butterflies, soaring between mango trees

  while we were hitchhiking,

  such a colorful cloud

  of striped wings. . . .

  Edver stands up, tells me to sit down,

  then shows me how to type NEW PAPILIO,

  making everything capitalized, a SHOUT

  for our mother’s ATTENTION.

  Papilio—the genus name of swallowtails!

  I look over my shoulder and see Edver

  smiling—he approves, so he must

  actually think this trick might work.

  Now let’s add the location, he instructs.

  La Selva. The Jungle. On la isla,

  but he warns me

  not to name Cuba,

  because that makes

  the puzzle

  too easy.

  We’ve created a challenge,

  a dilemma, a problem.

  Will she solve it?

  Does she play games?

  There are so many jungles in the world,

  so many islands, how will she know

  which place we mean?

  We haven’t used our names,

  and she won’t recognize Yavi’s

  online account.

  But Edver seems so confident.

&nb
sp; He swears he understands how her mind works.

  She’ll see NEW PAPILIO and feel driven, he promises.

  Obsessed, she’ll need to find out if this might be

  a Lazarus species, one that was extinct

  until NOW, this moment

  of magically real

  rediscovery.

  No Way

  EDVER

  It’s perfect.

  A secret.

  Right here on this familiar World Wide Web

  of words, where nothing is ever really

  private.

  Mom will know which island we mean, won’t she?

  If anyone else sees it, they’ll be confused, won’t they?

  My sister and I wait.

  Electronic silence.

  No response.

  Mom’s not reading her phone,

  all those messages, comments, posts,

  boasts, and praise from her friends

  and from strangers.

  So she must be out in another jungle

  someplace remote, with no connection.

  There aren’t too many countries

  where the Internet is still restricted,

  but there are plenty of places without

  any way to make contact.

  Too poor.

  Too isolated.

  Too small.

  Just huts.

  When the maddening screen silence continues,

  I grow restless and start to roam all over her pages,

  until I notice her status: IN A RELATIONSHIP!!!

  All caps.

  Three exclamation marks.

  Yikes, this is serious.

  So that’s it—the explanation for my surprise trip

  to Dad’s house. Mom must have sent me away

  just so she could be alone with some guy.

  Who is he, and why doesn’t she want me

  to meet him?

  Maybe he hates kids.

  Yeah, it was probably his idea

  to get rid of me for the whole summer

  or even longer.

  Creepy

  LUZA

  Mamá’s boyfriend is hideous, his face distorted,

  the grin too big, like a giant staring into a river

  where water becomes a rippling,

  racing mirror.

  Somehow, I feel like I might have seen him before.

  Maybe in an article, one of those scientific magazines

  Papi sometimes receives as gifts from traveling

  researchers?

  Edver explains that strange photos are the result

  of taking one’s own picture too close up—un selfie feo,

  an ugly self-portrait, smug, arrogant, presumido,

  stuck-up.