Lucky Luna

by Diana Lopez

  “Right, but—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure our primas know what’s really going on so you can have more people on your side.”

  With that, she hangs up, and before I can take a breath, my computer chimes again. It’s Celeste and Estrella. They’re sisters, so both are on the screen at the same time.

  When I answer, Celeste starts talking without bothering to say hello. “Is it true that Paloma told you ‘cama’ means ‘casserole’?”

  Then Estrella jumps in. “That’s not what she said, Celeste. She told Luna that it means ‘camo’ like ‘camouflage.’”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t ‘casserole’ or ‘cantaloupe’?”

  “Camo!”

  “Or Camry, like the car?”

  “Camo as in camouflage. Pay attention.”

  They go back and forth like this. I don’t even know why they called if they’re not going to let me talk.

  Finally, I wave my arms and say, “Primas! I’m right here!”

  “Don’t worry,” Celeste tells me. “This prima war is not your fault. You were just trying to learn something, and since Paloma’s older, she thought she could take advantage of you. Well, no one takes advantage of my little prima.”

  “That’s right,” Estrella adds with a firm nod, and with that, they hang up.

  I can’t believe everybody’s mad at everybody else. Sure, my primas get on my nerves, but the last thing I want is for us to fight. I’m ready to pull out my hair because of how stressed I feel—okay, maybe not all my hair but at least the white streak.

  I grab the starfish instead. I squeeze and squeeze, but instead of feeling more relaxed, my arm’s getting sore.

  Just then, Alex walks in. He takes a few steps toward my hatcase and then glances at me because my hats are off-limits to him. Today, though, I’m too upset about other things to care. When he realizes I won’t stop him, he grabs my white cowboy hat, the one I wore to Mirasol’s quinceañera. He puts it on and laughs because it’s too big and covers half his face.

  “Here,” I say, grabbing a baseball cap. It’s still too big but a Velcro strap lets me adjust the size. He is too cute. “I love you,” I say.

  “Me too,” he answers.

  “You love yourself?”

  “Me love you,” he says.

  He gives me a big hug, and then he runs off, still wearing my cap.

  That’s it. A little love from my brother makes me realize what I have to do—spread love instead of gossip. I go back to my computer and Skype Paloma. She doesn’t answer. I call a second time. She still doesn’t answer. I try a third time, and Mirasol picks up.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Mirasol says. Paloma’s standing behind her, glaring. “You’ve got half our primas yelling at her for something she didn’t do.”

  “I did not tell you that ‘cama’ means ‘llama’!” Paloma shouts over her sister’s shoulder.

  “I know,” I say. “I don’t even know where all those weird definitions came from.” Then I tell her the whole story. How I used the phrases she taught me in class and how Claudia told Marina that I made a fool out of myself and how Marina turned it into this giant fight when I don’t want to fight at all.

  She’s still behind Mirasol. “You really didn’t say I taught you fake words?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She crosses her arms and glares again.

  “I was mad for about five minutes when I found out you taught me slang, because if I wrote those phrases on a test, I would probably get an F.”

  “But you said you wanted to learn everyday words. I was just showing you how people talk when they’re not taking tests, like in real conversations.”

  “She’s got a point,” Mirasol says. She isn’t looking in the camera. She’s flipping through a magazine. She’s not really interested in what we’re saying, but she stays there like a guard dog.

  “I know,” I say to Paloma. “That’s why I’m not mad at you. I’m really mad at Claudia, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I’m sorry about this whole mess, even though I didn’t start it and even though I didn’t call a bunch of primas and tell them to take sides. Do you forgive me?”

  She sighs, but then she uncrosses her arms and leans over Mirasol’s shoulder. “I forgive you.”

  “Great. Are you friends now?” Mirasol asks. “Because I’m tired of babysitting.”

  “You aren’t babysitting,” Paloma says.

  Mirasol grabs her magazine and stands up. “Well, that’s what it feels like.” She blows me a kiss and heads out.

  Paloma takes the chair and says, “If you really want to learn Spanish, Luna, you should join the mariachi group. It’s open to ages ten and up.”

  “But if I can’t speak Spanish, how will I ever sing it?”

  “It’s actually easier to sing. Most opera singers do entire performances in languages they don’t speak. The melody helps you remember the words. That’s why we sing the alphabet instead of speaking it.”

  I’d never thought about that before, but it makes sense.

  “Just think about it,” Paloma says. “You can take beginner classes. That’s what I did. They’re at the Antonio Garcia Arts Center on Agnes Street.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

  “I have a performance next week. You should come. I’ll introduce you to everybody. They’re very nice. Invite the other primas so we can all be friends again. Except … maybe not Claudia. Mirasol’s mad at her because Claudia found out that she was driving her friend’s car. My sis turns fifteen and thinks she can do everything, even drive. I don’t know how Claudia found out, but she did and she tattled and now Mirasol is grounded.”

  We talk a little more before hanging up. Then I call Marina, Estrella, and Celeste. I tell them that Paloma and I made up and that it was all a misunderstanding. She didn’t mean to embarrass me, and she did give me the correct definition for “cama.”

  My cousins say that if I forgive Paloma, then they forgive her, too. Marina’s not going to unfriend her, Celeste isn’t going to break the Snapchat streak, and Estrella’s not going to take back the cell phone cover.

  So all the Ramos primas are friends again. Well, almost all, because some of us are still mad at Claudia.

  When I see Claudia the next morning, she’s at the table, but instead of eating, she’s knitting. I don’t talk to her and she doesn’t talk to me. She’s probably still mad about the flies, and I’m definitely mad about the gossip.

  Mom notices, so she tries to start a conversation. “What are you making, Claudia?”

  Claudia glances at me and says, “It’s a surprise.” She holds up her knitting project. “I had to start over because I want it to be perfect.” Sure enough, the blob is gone. She’s got a circle now. It’s the size of a coaster.

  “You should join the knitting club with Claudia,” Mom tells me. “You need some extracurricular activities, and it’ll give you a chance to be with your prima.”

  Spending more time with Claudia is the last thing I need, so I say, “I signed up for Community Gardeners.” I reach in my backpack and hand over the supply list. “And Paloma says I should join the mariachi group, too. She invited me to one of her performances so I could meet everyone.”

  I glance at Claudia, and she glances back but quickly turns away. I can tell she’s jealous because Paloma invited me and not her, but Claudia doesn’t say anything. She just keeps knitting.

  When Claudia and I walk to the bus stop, we don’t talk, and when we get on the bus, we still don’t talk. If only the other kids could be quiet, too, but they can’t. They say “Cruella de Vil” again, and a few kids hold their noses.

  I settle into my seat. “I’m getting tired of this,” I tell Mabel. “They’re still making jokes about Claudia’s nose and my hair. I have two and a half weeks before I can wear hats again. I wish I never locked my cousin in the bathroom. Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “I tried,” she says, and sighs. “But you wer
e being stubborn.”

  I glance back at Claudia. She does not look happy, either. I’m sure she’s tired of the jokes, too. Instead of hiding behind a book, she’s hiding behind her knitting, and her needles lightly tap as she works on that green circle.

  “Aren’t they getting bored?” I say about the kids who keep teasing. “Can’t they talk about something else?”

  “Why don’t we talk about something else?” Mabel suggests.

  “You mean ignore them?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes when I want to ignore something, I daydream. I think about something nice like riding a horse on the beach.” She closes her eyes. “We’re running and his hooves kick up the sand. All I can hear is the wind.” She smiles, and then she just sits there, lost in her daydream.

  I snap a few times. “Earth to Mabel. Come back to reality.”

  She opens her eyes. “Now you try it. Tune out these kids. See if you can escape by pretending you’re riding a horse on the beach.”

  It’s a silly idea, but I decide to try. Who knows? Maybe daydreaming is better than drinking lots of water and squeezing starfish.

  I close my eyes. I’m on Padre Island, early in the morning before lots of people have arrived. I’m on a horse. It’s brown with a black mane, and it smells like a dog that hasn’t taken a bath for a very long time. I’m wearing boots and a cowboy hat because this is Texas and that’s what you wear when you ride horses. I say “Giddyup.” The horse takes a few steps. I say “Giddyup!” again, this time louder. The horse speeds up. Soon, we’re running, faster and faster, and Mabel’s right—I can feel the wind in my face. Instead of jokes, I hear waves. I’m strong, free, and happy, but then my cowboy hat flies off and seagulls start chasing me, dipping down as if to peck me. They’re going “Caw, caw, caw,” but all I hear is “Ha, ha, ha”—like they’re laughing—laughing at my hair!

  I open my eyes.

  “See?” Mabel says. “Don’t you feel better?”

  I nod, but I’m squeezing the starfish. When I get to school, I rush to the water fountain and drink enough to fill two bottles. I don’t care how many times I go to the restroom.

  And Claudia doesn’t care how much she knits. Before class starts, she sits in her desk, her needles going tap, tap, tap. She knits during recess, too, and after she finishes lunch, she knits again. Then school’s over, and she knits on the bus ride home. Every time kids pinch their noses, say it stinks, or make up silly rhymes, Claudia gives them an angry look and starts knitting. I can tell she’s getting tired when she rests her hands, but then she opens and closes her fists as if to stretch her fingers, and after that, starts knitting again. I don’t know what she’s making, but little by little, the green circle is growing. Soon it’s the size of a small plate.

  After watching my prima knit for two more days, I ask my dad a question. “Why does Claudia knit when kids make fun of her nose?”

  “Why are they making fun of her nose?” he asks.

  “Because it’s big.”

  “It is?”

  “Dad, it enormous!”

  “Hmmm … I never noticed, but you know me. I wouldn’t notice a carousel if it were spinning in our front yard.” He laughs at himself.

  “So why does Claudia knit all the time?” I ask again.

  “It’s probably a coping mechanism.”

  “Coping mechanism? What’s that?”

  “Something you do when you’re feeling stressed out. It’s supposed to help you relax. Like taking a long walk or petting a dog.”

  “Dogs bark a lot,” I say. “It’s probably more relaxing to pet a rabbit.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “We all have different ways of dealing with stress. For example, your mom likes to shop with her sisters and I like to watch Star Trek reruns.”

  I nod because Abuela and Mom’s advice makes perfect sense now. They were giving me coping mechanisms when they told me to drink water or squeeze a spongy starfish. Mabel’s daydream was a coping mechanism, too. I guess I could also try shopping, watching reruns, knitting, and anything else that will help me forget my problems, and if I wait long enough, like two and a half more weeks when I can wear hats again, then maybe my problems will finally go away.

  It’s Friday morning and Claudia’s here for breakfast. With a mouth full of waffles, she asks me, “Did you do your homework?”

  “Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “All of it?” She glances at my mom as she says this.

  I hate to lie but I also hate to admit that I didn’t do all my homework, because after eating dinner, playing LEGOs with Alex, watching “Funny Bunny” videos on YouTube, and cutting out pictures from old magazines, I ran out of time.

  “The math problems and the spelling words,” Claudia adds because I haven’t answered.

  “Lucky Luna,” Mom says, “did you do your math problems? I didn’t see you do any math.”

  “No, but I copied my spelling words three times. It took forever, so I didn’t have a chance to do anything else.”

  That should settle it, but Claudia wants me to get in trouble. “How about Spanish? Did you practice Spanish? You don’t want to get another F, do you?”

  “We didn’t have Spanish homework,” I say.

  “But maybe your parents can give you extra lessons,” she suggests. “That way, you can learn more words with the correct definitions.” She turns to my mom. “Did you know that Luna thought ‘cama’ meant ‘canal’?”

  Mom raises an eyebrow, questioning me.

  “I know what it really means,” I say. “It means ‘bed.’”

  Mom sighs with relief. “That’s right, mija. But maybe we can practice Spanish this weekend. I need to improve, too, so maybe your dad can help us both.”

  Claudia smiles. I can tell she’s happy about giving me work over the weekend, so while we’re waiting for the bus, I say, “You are not my teacher. Stop making extra homework assignments.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “You are not helping. You are stressing me out. I already have a bunch of homework and chores without your extra ideas. Last night I had to do spelling, math, and reading.” Since that doesn’t seem like a long list, I add a few more tasks. “I also had to wash dishes, fold towels, dust the living room furniture, and give Alex a bath. I don’t have time for anything else. I’m already exhausted. Look at how exhausted I am.” I yawn to make my point. I didn’t really do all these things last night, but it’s not a lie because I’ll probably do them over the weekend.

  “That is a fake yawn.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is, Luna. I can tell the difference between a fake yawn and a real one.”

  I glare at her. If she’s going to get on my nerves, then I’m going to get on hers. “You think you know everything,” I say, “but I know a few things, too, like why our primas ignore you sometimes.”

  “No, they don’t. I got to stand in the quinceañera, remember?”

  “Only because you’re one month older and Mirasol didn’t want it to look like she was picking favorites.”

  “You’re not her favorite.”

  “How many times has she painted your nails?”

  She looks at her fingernails. They aren’t painted. They don’t even have a clear coat.

  “Just admit it,” I say. “When you talk to our primas, it’s because you call them, not because they call you.”

  She gets a hurt look on her face, and she doesn’t have a comeback, probably for the first time in her entire life. That means I hit a sore spot. I meant to, but instead of feeling happy about getting revenge, I feel miserable. I thought my punch would be like a hard pat, not like a bone-crushing blow to the ribs. Claudia’s still silent, which makes me think about my silence when kids make old-person jokes about my hair.

  We get on the bus, and I sit beside Mabel and glance back to make sure Claudia isn’t crying about being ignored by our primas. But she isn’t. She isn’t crying, and she isn’t in her regula
r seat. She’s behind Janie and Carly, my mortal enemies! I thought they were her mortal enemies, too, but I guess not. She’s talking to them, all friendly. They’re laughing about something. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re probably laughing about me.

  I can’t believe I felt sorry for my prima and almost apologized. She might be my cousin, but she is not my friend.

  Mabel is my friend. She’s the best friend in the whole, wide world. As soon as we get to school, she grabs my hand and pulls me to the building.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the club board.”

  I learn why she’s excited when we get there. The Woodlawn newsletter is ready. Mabel checks to see if the new edition is posted on the bulletin board. It is, and she points to her name because she’s listed as one of the reporters. Instead of reading it in the hallway, we hurry to class.

  “Let’s see if Mr. Cruz has copies,” she says. But we don’t have to ask because he’s handing them out as we enter.

  We get to our desks and start reading. There’s a “study tip” section about reading aloud, a “kudos” section about Dylan Moore, who won the spelling bee, a “club corner” section with updates from different clubs, and a “save the date” section with announcements about Family Night and the Woodlawn Talent Show. But Mabel’s not interested in any of that. She wants me to read the “spotlight” section because it has a picture of Claudia and the paragraph that Mabel wrote.

  Woodlawn Elementary welcomes fifth grader Claudia Salazar. She spent first through fourth grades at Sacred Heart Catholic School but switched to our campus because of our wonderful after-school activities. So far, she has joined Needle Beetles, and she plans to join a few more clubs next month. Her hobbies are playing the ukulele and reading. Her favorite color is blue. Claudia is very friendly, and we are lucky to have her in our school.

  Since when is Claudia’s favorite color blue? If she likes blue so much, then why is she knitting something green? That’s my favorite color—except that I like green like parrot feathers, not green like moldy cheese. Plus, Mabel wrote nothing about Claudia showing off and tattling every chance she gets. And there’s nothing about Claudia acting like a teacher’s pet by volunteering to pass out worksheets or being bossy by telling everyone what they should or shouldn’t eat for lunch. And there’s absolutely nothing about Claudia’s giant nose, not even in the picture. It was probably photoshopped so her nose would seem normal.