So I took on the unenviable job of trying to explain, in PG-13 language, why those conquistadores were bad news. And I get it…every story has two sides. For Hispanic Americans some Spanish explorers are heroes! They set off bravely to unknown worlds, willing to face wild dangers (such as falling off the earth—remember people weren’t totally sure the earth was actually round). But for a whole bunch of the Native American tribes—including Pueblo, Apache, Navajo, and more—these “explorers” were rated-m-for-mature-video-game levels of brutal in their treatment of the people who had long lived in the lands they were “discovering.”
So here we are in beautiful Santa Fe, where there are conquistador-themed statues, hotels, and more, and I’m thinking…how does it feel for today’s Native American men and women to see this celebration of such a dark chapter of history?
I guess what I kept telling my sisters, and I need to remember myself, is one thing: the winning team writes the history books. So remember to question everything.
Peace, Laurel
It feels so good to be off the train, breathing fresh mountain air and walking around Santa Fe. In some ways I can’t believe we’re still in America—it’s so foreign. The buildings are Spanish-looking and exotic compared to the plain wood and brick buildings at home, the people are mostly Hispanic or Native American, and almost everyone—men and women—wears tons of awesome silver and turquoise jewelry. All around, the landscape’s striped red and orange with a deep blue sky. And even the air smells different: spicy and piney and clear-smelling, somehow. So not like the thick salt and seaweed smells at home. We’re staying at a small inn, and for once I’m not feeling like Goldilocks, with everything (and everyone) either too old or too young for me. Laurel, Root, Travis, and I did a self-guided tour of the chocolate shops of the city—yes, you read that right!—while his aunts rested and Gavin and the moms and Ladybug went off to a bug museum. (Something, I might add, that I was perfectly happy to miss.)
It was kind of cool having it be the four of us….Root and Travis talked a lot about computer technology and sustainable agriculture (okay, in fairness, Travis talked a lot, and Root said “right on, man!” and “radical!” a whole bunch). And Laurel and I got to talk. It’s been weird, since the Hair Disaster night we’ve been together a ton, obviously—we’re all together every single day—but we’ve barely talked. Not about school or her fight with Mom and Mimi or any of it. Finally, though, while Root and Travis were in front of us babbling about transparent solar panels, I asked her.
“Hey, Lo-Lo? Are you…Did you…Is it definite? You know, not going back to school?” We were walking by some giant church, and Root had stopped to read the plaque.
Laurel shrugged a big, heavy shrug, and rolled her neck a few times, like she was exhausted. “I don’t know. No, I haven’t decided anything for sure. But I wasn’t just saying it! I mean, I’ve been thinking about it for a while, you know?”
I didn’t really know what to say, so I nodded.
“I guess…a lot of people talk big, about joining protests or getting arrested or whatever, but I don’t want to be one of those people! I don’t want to just talk about the change I want in the world. Sometimes I worry that people look at me and see just another white college kid who thinks she can carry a protest sign and make a difference.” She looked at me. “So I wanted to do something serious, to show that I’m not just going through the motions, but that I’m really committed. Does that make any sense?”
I looked back at her. And let me tell you, Laurel looks amazing. She’s got headbands that keep her spiky hair tamed flat, and around four different choker necklaces with different braids or pendants, and even with her sort of scary nose ring and tongue piercing, she looks good—friendly and fun, with crinkly smiley eyes and freckles and a giant toothy grin. She’s pretty too, though that’s not really what you notice first. Mostly she looks real.
But she still feels like other people see her and think she’s a fake.
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing.
“What? What’s your deal, wacko?” Laurel asked, but she started giggling. “Why are you laughing?”
So I told her all about the Reinvention Project and my list and that I’d been too embarrassed to tell her about it before because it felt so stupid compared to her wanting to change the world.
“Let me see the list,” she said, stopping and holding out her hand.
“No way! It’s too embarrassing,” I said.
“Say-Say! Don’t be such a chicken. I won’t laugh,” she said. Then she tilted her head. “Okay, I might laugh. But in a nice way.”
I stuck out my tongue. “I don’t even have it with me. Maybe later. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. About school…”
But she waved her hands like she was brushing off a fly. “I don’t feel like talking about it. I’m letting it lie. Okay? I need to think on it awhile. Tell me something else. What’s the news from home? How are Em and Vi?”
Hanging out with Laurel always leaves me thinking about something new….We’re surrounded by history and big ideas and LIFE, and I care about all of it, but at the same time I’m wondering if Em kind of likes this guy from the school play last year, and if the Moms will let me get a phone next year. Laurel pays as much attention when I’m blathering about this stuff as when we’re talking about conquistadores and Hispanic culture and the status of native tribes. I love that about her.
Anyway, we’re about to have dinner, which is apparently going to be a big Southwestern feast, and we’re celebrating Gavin’s birthday. The aunts have some sort of birthday surprise planned. Travis threw out a couple of ideas, but I sincerely hope he was joking. A gorilla jumping out of a cake? Ew. That sounds like a recipe for hair in the frosting, and there’s no call for ruining a cake like that.
Ah. Apparently they tried to do the gorilla jumping out of the cake two years ago. Miss Georgia wore the gorilla costume, and Miss Ruby wheeled in this ENORMOUS cake. But the corner of the cake table caught on the doorway and knocked the cake sideways, so Miss Georgia fell out, instead of popping out of the top. According to Travis she came out swearing like a sailor. He said he learned a bunch of new words that day.
Now I’m really nervous about dinner. Though Travis isn’t too sure if it’s going to be so wild this year. As we were walking back to the hotel, he started to look a little…not sad, but not his usual super-happy self. When I asked him what was up, he said, “Just fussing a little about Auntie G.”
I didn’t know what to say, because we hadn’t ever talked about what I overheard on the train that night. Finally I said, “Is she…okay?”
And Travis grinned a sad echo of his usual giant smile. “She’s dying. But we knew that. And this trip was planned so that she could have her last hurrah, and so far I think she’s been having it. But now she seems a little…less. Less alert, less silly, less interested in doing much other than sleeping.”
“Do you think—” I started to say, but Travis kept talking.
“She says she’s saving her energy for the Grand Canyon. And of course tonight she and Auntie Ruby have some shenanigans and tomfoolery pulled together for Dad. Not sure what it’ll be, but apparently the hotel’s providing a karaoke machine.”
I looked at him, and he looked back, and we both started laughing, kind of quiet at first, but then Travis did his TEEHEEHEEHEEHEE thing, and we were both hysterical.
Finally he wiped his eyes and started walking again. “Let’s get to it, Rae, old girl. Karaoke waits for no one!”
I didn’t get a chance to tell him how sorry I was that Miss Georgia’s sick. But hopefully he knows.
Well, that was something! Who would have thought that Miss Ruby and Miss Georgia would know all the words to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies,” let alone the choreographed dance moves.
Let me back up. I suppose without explaining, that probably sounds weird. Well, it was weird, but still. The birthday dinner was amazing, though Root spent a fair bit of time poking at the blac
k beans and tomatillos and empanadas, saying things like, “Do you suppose there’s bacon in this?” and “Does anyone else smell lard?”
But the rest of us had a serious feast. It makes me feel a little bad for the Mexican restaurant in Shipton. Apparently small oceanside towns near Boston aren’t really the last word in Mexican or Southwestern food. As Laurel said, the difference between what we were eating and the restaurant at home is like the difference between a New England clambake on the beach and a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish. Anyway, when we were all stuffed and happy, and when Gavin was drinking one of several fancy drinks with fruit and umbrellas in them while making sappy toasts to his family and to all of us, Miss Georgia and Miss Ruby disappeared. Then they came back with a massive dish that was on fire—apparently some kind of flaming fried ice cream specialty—and the karaoke machine and the giant Elvis.
GAVIN:
I am so blessed. So blessed to be surrounded by the youth of today, who will make the world better tomorrow, and my dear aunts, who have already— WHAT THE HEY???
MISS GEORGIA:
Hold ’er steady, Rube! That nearly took off my eyebrow!
MISS RUBY:
Someone hit play! We’re approaching meltdown! It’s about to be Chernobyl around here!
What followed was an Elvis version of “Happy Birthday,” sung into the karaoke machine as a duet, with lots of elbows and hissed whispers about sharing the mic. Then Gavin blew out the burning ice cream and we all ate (well, all except for Ladybug, who had a special dish of mango sorbet instead). Then “Single Ladies” happened. Apparently it was intended as a kind of surprise birthday encore, and it was pretty fabulous, though at the end one of the fringed sleeves of Miss Ruby’s outfit landed in Root’s leftover ice cream. Still, I was impressed. We all cheered and whooped and hollered. Then Laurel got up and sang Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee,” and Travis sang some kind of country-western-rap thing that was pretty impressive. They tried to get me up there to sing, but there was no way. I’m not up for that Olympic level of embarrassment. Now Ladybug’s in bed, and Travis and I are going outside to try to see some meteor shower that always happens this time of year. We’ll see.
For the record, if that sounds kind of romantic and ooooooh-maybe-it’s-a-date, NO. No it is not. I really like Travis, and he’s pretty much the first boy who’s a friend. But there’s no butterfly-ish feeling in my stomach, no nervous sweaty hands, no nothing. So now I know…this is what it feels like not to have a crush on a boy. Good to realize.
I don’t…I’m not sure where to start. Miss Georgia’s been taken to the hospital.
Gavin and Miss Ruby went with her. Gavin tried to get Miss Ruby to stay behind with Travis, and Miss Ruby nearly stomped right over him and climbed into the ambulance. Then the driver tried to tell her to follow in the police car, and she told him to shut his mouth because he’d have to knock her out or handcuff her to get her gone. Really, in those words.
And the worst part is that we nearly weren’t back for it. The meteor shower was amazing, not that it matters now, but we must have seen twenty shooting stars, and we kept sitting out there, talking and talking (yes, mostly Travis but me too), about everything…about our parents and our friends and what we want to do when we grow up and space and the planet and…seriously, everything. And it was after midnight when we finally realized we were freezing and so tired, and started walking back to the hotel. There were tons of lights and sirens, and we were still half a block away when we started to run. My first thought was that my moms had called the cops when I hadn’t come home, but I realized that was stupid, they would have come looking for us first, and we were in the park around the corner. My next thought was Ladybug and allergies, which is when I really started to run.
It sounds horrible…it IS horrible…but I actually had a moment of such relief when I saw Ladybug in Mom’s arms and the stretcher with Miss Georgia. I think I am not a good person.
While I was staring at Ladybug, Travis gave a kind of croak and ran over to Miss Georgia.
She took his hand and held tight. “Travis-man, don’t you start. This might be a fire drill, right? And we’ve practiced for these fire drills. You know what to do.”
Travis nodded, and he wasn’t crying or anything, but it’s the only time I’ve seen his face without even the tiniest bit of a smile.
“You sure? You don’t look like you know your own name. And that’s not going to work, right?” Miss Georgia said, not letting go, even while they were wheeling her toward the ambulance and trying to get an oxygen mask on her. She batted it away with her other hand, looking annoyed. “For Lord’s sake, let me talk to my boy. I’m not dying this minute.”
“I’m sure. You don’t have to worry,” Travis said. He kept walking alongside her, and finally managed a half smile. “My name is Travis Walker Alexander. I’m not going to forget it, and I’m not going to forget our plan. But how about you get yourself fixed up and come right on back, and we can save that plan for later, all right?”
Miss Georgia let go of his hand as they loaded her in. “I’ll see what I can do. But, Trav?”
He ran up to the ambulance and stuck his head in. I couldn’t hear what she said, but his half smile fell right off. But he nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I know.” Then he paused. “I love you, Auntie G. Love you so much.”
Then they slammed the doors and took off, sirens blaring.
Now Travis is alone in the room he shares with his dad, and Mom and Mimi are trying to get Ladybug back to sleep. I wish I knew what was happening. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe if I don’t know, I can pretend for a few more minutes that everything is still as awesome as it was under the shooting stars.
Mom and I just left the hospital, where Travis and Gavin and Miss Ruby are taking turns clustering around Miss Georgia’s bed, and we stood around the waiting room, awkward and fidgeting and useless. It sounds like I’m complaining, but I’m not, not really. I wanted to go to the hospital, actually, and made Mom take me while Mimi took Ladybug off to some playground. But once we got there, I realized there is literally not one single thing I can do to help. Still, Travis and I went down to the cafeteria for a bit, and at least I got to see him. He seemed…okay. Ish. I mean, he seemed worried, sure, but still himself. Luckily, he can still talk as much as ever. I wasn’t sure what the heck to say, or if I should ask questions, or what, but he chatted on, like usual.
“So what’s going on?” I asked finally. “Do the doctors…I mean, is there any…news?”
Travis shook his head. “She’s failing. That’s what the doctors are saying.”
We both sat there, staring at the ugly plastic cafeteria table.
“I hate that!” he said suddenly.
“What?” I looked around.
“That word. ‘Failing.’ Like, you know, she’s flunking kidneys or liver or something, and if she’d only tried harder, she could get a passing grade. Like, gee, is there some extra-credit work a ninety-year-old can do? Can she retake a midterm or go back to her twenties and drink more milk?”
I was kind of confused, but I tried to keep up. “I’m sure they don’t mean it’s her fault,” I said. “It’s just the word they use.”
“I know,” Travis said, his voice quiet again. “But I don’t like it. Sounds like she should work harder, when one thing about Auntie G is that she always—ALWAYS—worked as hard as she could. That’s probably half the problem. She’s like a car with a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-mile warranty that’s already gone to two hundred thousand.”
I nodded. It was a little hard to follow what with him going from failed midterms to car warranties, but I figured it was better to agree with him. Then he leaned back and changed the subject.
“So that meteor shower was pretty awesome, didn’t you think?” he asked after a minute. “I mean, the Texas sky can get pretty, but that was something else. You seen anything like that before?”
I shook my head. “Not even close! I’ve only seen three shooting stars in my entire l
ife, and I’ve spent, like, hours staring up at the sky. My friend Em has shooting star luck. She always sees them. She’s made around a hundred wishes.”
Travis did his TEEHEE laugh, but it was kind of tired-sounding. “Girl, you know they’re not stars, right? We’re talking about astral debris, up there. You know…sky garbage! You’re wishing on sky garbage.”
“Shut up, dream killer,” I said, and pretended to look mad, shoving him a little, to make him laugh some more. “I don’t need that kind of negativity.”
He TEEHEEHEEed a little louder, which made me laugh too. Then he crumpled up a napkin and arced it toward the nearby garbage can. “Make a wish!” he said. “Go on! Magic garbage flying by!”
“You’d need to light it on fire for it to work,” I said.
Then his laughter ended kind of fast, and he gave a big sigh. “You know, Rae, I’ll tell you a secret. I know there’s nothing magic about those meteors. And all that superstition about wishing on a shooting star is a load of manure. But when we got back to the hotel, and all those red lights were flashing…well.”
He stopped then, but I nodded. I knew what he meant. Because for that second when I had thought it was Ladybug, I’d had an immediate feeling that if I had just paid more attention, wished on every star and eyelash and birthday candle, I might have been able to stop it.
“I’ll look for another one tonight and make a wish, just in case. Can’t hurt, right?” I said.
He shrugged, looking lost. “I suppose. Can’t hurt.”
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