by Diana Lopez
It makes total sense to me, and I couldn’t be happier. Finally, I’m learning Spanish that I can use!
“Primas!” we hear, and when we turn around, there’s Kimberly walking into the bedroom. She’s in sixth grade, middle school like Paloma, but they aren’t at the same school. Kimberly’s always building something, so I can’t wait to ask about her latest project. Last year, she made a lot of birdhouses.
Before I can say anything, Kimberly holds up her thumb. It’s wrapped in a bandage. “I accidentally hit it with a hammer when I was helping my dad build a fence,” she explains.
“Ouch,” Paloma says, and then, “Are Uncle Freddy and Tía Nena here, too?”
I startle. “They’re coming?” I don’t mean to sound freaked out, but they’re Claudia’s parents. She’s the last person I want to see today.
“No,” Kimberly says. “They aren’t coming after all.”
“Why not?” Paloma asks. “The reason we’re having a fish fry is because Uncle Freddy and my dad went fishing on the new boat.”
“It’s not new,” I say. “It’s previously owned and the seats are cracked.” I expect them to laugh, but they don’t. They just keep talking.
“I heard that Tía Nena is allergic to seafood,” Kimberly says.
“No way!” Paloma laughs. “Uncle Freddy bought a boat and his wife can’t even eat what he catches?”
“That’s so funny,” I say, but no one pays attention. They don’t even glance in my direction.
“As soon as Tía Nena touches, smells, or eats seafood,” Kimberly explains, “her hands swell up and her fingers get purple because her rings cut off her circulation.”
“Ow! That must hurt,” I say, but again, they have forgotten about me. They just go on and on about Tía Nena’s allergies. I’m invisible!
One minute, Mirasol is being nice to me, and the next minute, she’s throwing me out of her room. Then Paloma’s giving me all her attention, but as soon as Kimberly arrives, she ignores me. I know it’s because I’m younger, but age shouldn’t matter. I’m only a couple of years behind. It shouldn’t make a difference.
That’s another reason friends are better than cousins. A friend listens to you all the time, not only when it’s convenient or when no one else is around.
Soon, we hear our parents calling for dinner. We head to the kitchen, and my prima Josie is there helping out. She’s Kimberly’s sister and taller than everyone, even my uncles. Because she’s so tall, she had to be the last dama during the procession at Mirasol’s quinceañera. She stoops as she walks, but she still stands out. She hates being tall as much as I hate having a streak of white hair. I guess everybody has something to be embarrassed about.
The kitchen island has Mom’s coleslaw and watermelon. There are also hush puppies, french fries, and the golden fillets of fish that my uncles caught after they went fishing in the new, but really used, boat and discovered that if Tía Nena eats seafood, her hands will swell, her hair will fall out, and her skin will get red splotches. Poor Tía Nena!
Wait a minute! Her bad luck is really my good luck because I don’t have to see Claudia today. Woo-hoo! I think.
We serve ourselves and squeeze around the table, our elbows bumping as we eat. The fish has tiny bones, but it’s delicious. When we’re done, Abuela takes out the banana pudding, and we stuff our faces again. Then we all sit around, half-asleep from so much food.
When Uncle Joe starts to snore, Aunt Sandra slaps his shoulder.
“Hey, vato barrato,” she says, “help me clean up.”
I glance at Paloma when I hear “vato barrato.” She winks back.
“¡A la chambirdies!” I say.
Everyone gives me a puzzled look and Paloma shakes her head as if to say “not now.” I guess I still don’t understand what it means, but if I say it for different situations, I’ll eventually get it right. Then I’ll be bilingual just like everybody else.
It’s Monday, time for school again. There’s Claudia, sitting in my chair and eating my breakfast again, this time a pumpkin empanada from the bag of pan dulce my dad bought. Without looking, I know it’s the last empanada because that’s my favorite, and Claudia likes to eat the last of everything. Sure enough, I peek in the bag and all that’s left are two conchas, puffy breads with pink or white powdered sugar. They’re called conchas because they look like shells. I grab one, take a bite, and chew. It tastes okay, but I’d rather have the empanada.
Claudia’s backpack is hanging from the chair. She reaches into it and pulls out a skein of yarn. “I bought green since it’s your favorite color.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice.” But it’s not nice because she bought the wrong kind of green. Instead of green like cute frogs or emeralds, Claudia’s yarn is green like seaweed.
“On Mondays, we meet for Needle Beetles,” she says. “I’m going to learn how to knit, and next month, kickball starts. I can’t wait.”
“It’s nice to see you getting so involved,” Mom tells my prima. Then she turns to me. “And you, Lucky Luna? You haven’t mentioned any clubs this year.”
I shrug because I haven’t joined anything yet. Last year, I was in Newsletter with Mabel, but it felt like another writing class. Then I joined Pet Pals, thinking I could take care of a rabbit and show my parents how responsible I am. But we don’t have any rabbits at our school. We have fish, lizards, snakes, turtles, and hamsters, and the only thing Pet Pals did was clean their tanks and cages once a week.
“Well?” Mom asks.
“I’m still figuring it out,” I say. “Maybe there’s a club for hats or a cooking class.”
She smiles. “A cooking class sounds like fun. Let me know what you need.” She’s acting like I already signed up, but I just said the first thing that came to mind. Then again, if I take a cooking class, I can learn how to make empanadas and blueberry muffins and pancakes so I can have the breakfast I want instead of the leftovers Claudia leaves behind.
Then it’s time for school. I remember my hair and sigh about not having a hat. Three weeks to go. That’s almost as long as the entire life span of a mosquito or fly—which means … if I were a mosquito or fly, I’d have to go my entire life without hats!
Stop obsessing, I tell myself, so on the way to the bus, I ask Claudia about her mom’s allergies. “Is it true that the last time she ate fish, her throat closed up and you had to call the ambulance so they could save her life?”
“No,” she says. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Paloma told me. Or maybe it was Mirasol or Kimberly. I can’t remember.”
“Oh? When did you talk to them?”
“Saturday. At the fish fry.”
“You went?”
“Yes, they invited me. They always invite me places.”
“Me too,” she says. “I get invited everywhere, all the time. But the reason we didn’t go to the fish fry is because my mom doesn’t like seafood. She’s not allergic. She just doesn’t like how it tastes.”
“Then why did your dad buy a boat?”
“Because he likes fishing and because there’s lots of other things to do on a boat. You can go for a ride to see the city and all the mansions along Ocean Drive. You can enjoy the peace and quiet while you rock with the little waves and eat fried chicken from KFC.”
“You mean the fried chicken your mom threw at the boat along with the mashed potatoes and coleslaw?”
“She didn’t—” Claudia shakes her head. “Oh, never mind. If I say something, you’ll just make it bigger than it really is.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I won’t!” I can’t believe she thinks I’d exaggerate or lie.
Just then, we spot the bus down the street and run to the corner. Luckily, we don’t miss it, but it’s unlucky, too, because now I have to go to school, hatless, when I’d rather stay at home, where I can at least look at my favorite sombreros.
When we step onto the bus, a boy says, “There
was an old lady who lived in a shoe.” I give him the stink-eye. Then a girl pinches her nose, and Claudia gives her the stink-eye. My stink-eye and hers are enough to shut them up, but just to make sure they don’t start up again, I take a few more seconds to glare. I’m not shy. I make eye contact, and if my eyes were jellyfish, they’d be stinging every bully.
I sit beside Mabel. She asks if I’m okay, and I tell her that I can’t wait to wear hats again.
We ride in silence for a while. Then I say, “Did you join any clubs? Besides Newsletter, I mean.”
“Not yet. Why? Want to join something together?”
“That would be great,” I say. “But we can’t join Needle Beetles because Claudia’s already in that club.”
Mabel raises her eyebrows. I can tell she doesn’t like how I avoid Claudia, but she doesn’t say anything about it. “Well, we can’t join anything that meets on Tuesdays because that’s when I have Newsletter, but any other day of the week is fine.” We fist-bump, our way of shaking hands when we make a deal. “Speaking of which,” she adds, “I’m in charge of the Spotlight column this year.” Last year, the Spotlight column had articles about new teachers, school programs, and remodeling projects at our school. It’s the only column that’s interesting, so I’m glad that Mabel’s in charge. “I’m going to interview Claudia during recess,” Mabel says, “so I can write a profile since she just joined our school. It’ll have her picture and a paragraph.”
I can’t believe she’s writing about Claudia. Maybe she hasn’t thought it through. “Can’t you write about someone else? Claudia’s not that interesting.”
“I thought you’d be happy. I’m just trying to make your cousin feel welcome.”
“She feels welcome,” I say. I can tell she’s not going to change her mind, so I make a suggestion. “Why don’t I help you come up with some questions?” I hold my fist close to her mouth, pretending it’s a microphone. “Hello, Claudia, when do you plan to return to Sacred Heart?’”
Mabel brushes my hand away. “She’s not going back. Just accept it. Besides, I have to do the interview alone. You’ll distract us.”
“No, I won’t. Promise.”
“Luna, I’ve known you since first grade.” That’s her way of saying that no matter how much I promise, I won’t be able to stop myself from getting in the way.
“Fine,” I say. “But you better write a true profile. You better show Claudia the way she really is.”
“I will because I have to be objective. That’s an important part of being a good journalist.”
When we get to school, Mabel and I check the club board. Some clubs last all year long, but others are only for a month. It depends on the topic. I scan the sheets—no hats, no rabbits, no cooking, no luck. There’s a board game group, but it’s on the same day as Mabel’s Newsletter. There’s Ping-Pong, but Mabel’s not interested.
“What’re you doing?” John-John asks, squeezing between Mabel and me.
“Looking for a club,” Mabel answers. “Luna and I want to join the same thing but we’re not having any luck.”
“You should join my club,” John-John tells me. “I’m in Community Gardeners. Next week, we’re planting tomatoes and cabbages.”
“And flowers?” I ask.
“Probably some flowers, but you can’t eat those. I joined because we’ll have to grow our own food when the zombie apocalypse comes.”
“We’ll need flowers, too,” I say, “for hope.”
“That’s right,” Mabel adds. “I just heard about a girl whose plane fell apart in the middle of the sky, and she fell to the ground, still strapped in her seat. No one else survived, not even her mother. Can you imagine wandering through the Amazon jungle with nothing to eat and only one shoe? All those bugs biting you, day and night? And without your glasses when you really need them to see? She wandered around for ten days before someone found her. And what kept her alive? Hope. I saw it on an episode of Mysteries at the Museum.”
John-John thinks about it. “I guess we’ll need hope, too. We don’t want to lose the will to survive. We might just give ourselves to the zombies if that happens.”
He makes a good point. “Gardens it is,” I decide.
I find the sign-up sheet. There are a few openings left. I write my name and grab a flyer that lists the supplies. Maybe I can plant carrots, too, for when I finally get a rabbit.
The bell rings, so we hurry to class. “Good morning,” Mr. Cruz says when we walk in.
I decide to try out my Spanish. “Buenos días, Señor Cruz. ¿Cómo te va todo?”
He smiles. “Muy bien. Muy bien.” That means “very well, very well.” I don’t know why he says it twice.
It’s another boring day in class. In language arts, we get a new spelling list with words that end in “i-b-l-e” like “gullible,” “horrible,” “permissible,” and “invisible.” I know what some, but not all, of the words mean. Believe it or not, English is sometimes a foreign language, too. Luckily, Mr. Cruz lets us use a dictionary so we can write sentences that make sense. I write:
Nothing is more horrible than going to school with your prima.
My mother is gullible because she believes the lies my prima tells about me.
I wish it were permissible to scream at my prima when she gets on my nerves.
I also wish I were invisible when people make jokes about my white streak of hair.
When we’re done, Mr. Cruz invites us to share. I don’t volunteer. Neither does Claudia, but after a few students read their sentences, she raises her hand.
“There’s a lot of other words that end in ‘i-b-l-e.’ Like ‘sensible,’ ‘incontrovertible,’ and ‘feasible.’ We should add them to the list.”
“I think we have enough words for this week,” Mr. Cruz says, “but you just gave me a great idea.” He turns to the whole class. “If anyone would like to earn some extra credit, see if you can find at least three other words that end in ‘i-b-l-e.’ Remember, don’t use words that your classmates have already found. We’ll keep a list on the board for everyone to see.” He grabs a blue marker and writes Claudia’s words, which probably means she’s getting extra credit without even trying.
I look around, and I can’t believe it! Claudia has just created more work, but instead of being mad, my fellow students seem happy. They want to find more words. They think it’s a competition. Well, I’ll show them, I think.
I raise my hand, and Mr. Cruz calls on me. “Can I add my three words right now?” He offers the marker, so I go to the board. I write “unforgettible,” “predictible,” and “disposible.”
I turn around and glance at Claudia. She has a smirk on her face, probably because she’s jealous, but then Mr. Cruz says, “I applaud your effort, Luna, but these words are misspelled. They don’t end in ‘i-b-l-e.’ They end in ‘a-b-l-e.’”
He starts erasing them. No wonder Claudia gave me that look. She wasn’t jealous. She was gloating. She knew I was wrong. Now the whole world is going to know, too, including my parents, aunts, uncles, and primas.
“I didn’t know how to spell those words, either,” Mabel says when I sit down.
“Me neither,” John-John adds.
I don’t believe them. They’re just trying to make me feel better when the only thing that works is drinking water. I grab my bottle and take a sip. It’s nice and cool. It washes away my frustration, just like Abuela promised.
Next is science. Since it’s hurricane season, we’re studying the weather. Mr. Cruz shows us the website for the National Hurricane Center and hands out maps with a grid of dotted lines. There’s a tropical disturbance at 23° north and 75° west. It’s way over there on the other side of Florida, so I don’t know why we need to care. Plus, it’s a tropical disturbance, which is not as bad as a tropical storm, which is not as bad as a hurricane.
Mr. Cruz explains how hurricanes form. He’s got a slideshow with diagrams, and he’s using a lot of words about weather. When he gets to “atmospheric press
ure,” Claudia raises her hand again. “Last year at Sacred Heart,” she says, “we learned to make a barometer using plastic wrap, a can, and a straw.”
“That sounds like an interesting project,” Mr. Cruz says. Then, to the class, “Would anyone else like to learn how to make a barometer?”
“For extra credit?” someone asks.
Mr. Cruz agrees to the extra credit, and about ten hands go up, including John-John’s! Mabel almost raises her hand, but then she stops herself because if I’m not going to make a barometer, she isn’t, either.
Claudia just created another assignment, but instead of rolling their eyes, the students thank her. It seems like they’ve even forgotten about her giant nose. What is wrong with them? Am I in a parallel universe? That happens on Star Trek sometimes.
Otra vez, I grab my water bottle. I nearly drink the whole thing.
Later we head out for recess, and I tug Mr. Cruz’s sleeve. “Can I run to the restroom?” I ask. “It’s an emergency.”
“You’ve been going to the restroom a lot lately. Are you sick? Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “I just have to go.”
He has a worried look on his face but nods anyway, so I run down that hall as fast as I can.
When I finally get outside for recess, Mabel and Claudia are sitting on a bench. Mabel has a notebook, and she’s writing notes. I know she wants to be a journalist when she grows up, but that doesn’t mean she should interview Claudia. Journalists interview famous people, so she should focus on the famous people of our school like the principal, the smartest student in each grade, and anybody who wins an award. Claudia’s only been here a week. She hasn’t won anything yet and probably never will.
I search for John-John and find him on the basketball court. It has six hoops, and groups of kids are trying to make baskets. He’s with Josh, Tamara, and Luke.
“Can I join?”
Instead of answering, Luke throws me the ball, and I try a layup. It hits the bottom edge of the backboard. We take turns. Tamara makes a free throw, no problem. Josh’s ball circles the rim, keeping us in suspense but falling out at the last moment. Luke tries a three-pointer and misses, but John-John gets the rebound and scores. Then it’s my turn again. I shoot, granny-style, and the ball flies over the backboard, rolling on the grass beyond.