NOTES: Lure Grace back by threatening to give away her records? Something else important to her? (Also, just an observation, but a chocolate flood doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.)
In John Hughes films, I always pay particular attention to peoples’ rooms—how absolutely everything speaks to their characters. The pink messiness and overstuffed throw pillows in Sixteen Candles. The mishmashed patterns of Ferris Bueller’s rug and quilt. The sad thing is, if my life were a movie, my room would say more about MomandDad than me.
Early last March, Mom painted every wall in our house white—to sterilize it, I guess. To give me a fresh start, even though I didn’t want one. I want black sheets over mirrors that no longer reflect Grace—a complete state of mourning—because isn’t that what this is? In some ways, doesn’t it feel like she’s died?
Through my viewfinder, I pan around my room. Even the bedding and the carpet are like snow, which totally sucks. If Grace were here, she’d suggest a cure for all this white: an emergency tie-dye dance. In Cass’s garage is a relic from her parents’ hippie days—a massive tie-dyed flag strung up in the rafters. As a result, when the lights flicker on, the whole room illuminates in psychedelic colors. Grace always cranked up her music ultraloud, so we just had to dance, hips shimmying and hands high in the air. She was always doing this—pulling me out of my comfort zone, giving me experiences, pushing me to be a better filmmaker. “Linny,” she’d say, “no one ever made a good movie by sitting on her ass. Live. You have to live.”
Am I living now, Grace? Huh? All this researching reappearances, eating silent dinners with MomandDad, volunteering at an old-people’s home, spending evenings hand-feeding a box turtle. (Side note: I know that none of this is Hector’s fault, and I do not resent him. After Grace left, I moved his terrarium onto my dresser and take him on walks whenever I can. He is especially fond of kale.)
The back of my closet is the only place MomandDad left unsterilized—the only place where I can watch footage of Grace without them freaking out. Before breakfast, I grab my laptop and tunnel into its cocoon of throw pillows—no pashmina here, just printed fabrics that Grandpa brought back from his final trip to Nigeria. Snatching a fistful of M&M’S from the pocket of my winter jacket (a natural hiding place since the coat rarely leaves the closet), I log on to my computer, click on the file marked “The Left-Behinds Inspiration,” and start sifting through shots. Grace fills the screen—gap-toothed smile, rock star hair, her voice low and rambling through the speakers. I love her this way: happy, bouncing, here.
It’s becoming increasingly obvious that I lived a bold, colorful life because Grace did. I was brave because she was brave. Now, at home, I’m trending toward turtle: head firmly in shell. (No offense, Hector.) Cass once said, “It must be so hard that your sister is always in the spotlight,” but that couldn’t be further from the truth. When Grace took center stage, she towed me along with her.
From underneath one of the pillows, I pull out my Journal of Lost and Found and open it to the first page. Taped to the creamy white paper is the note Grace left on my desk the day she disappeared. She hasn’t written me since. Would it kill her to send a note that says: Hey Linny, how’s it going? Or, By the way I’m in Utah and here’s my phone number? Would it have killed her to tell me that she was planning on leaving in the first place?
At first I’d hoped that Grace was running toward something instead of just plain running away. Music festivals were my first inclination, so I stapled a map of America to the back of my journal, marked red dots in places I thought she would go: a dot over Indio, California, for Coachella, for example; another one for the Savannah Music Festival in Georgia. Then I posted pictures of her online, asking festival-goers: have you seen this girl? A lot of people said they had (one claimed she was onstage banging a tambourine with Middlehouse), but no one could prove it.
Are you still running, Grace? Because I’m still chasing you, and my legs are about to give out.
I don’t realize until it’s too late that I’m crushing the M&M’S in my hand.
Another chocolate disaster.
For breakfast, MomandDad make pancakes from a box, because serious discussions demand heavy carbohydrates and maple syrup. Dad slides a copy of the Miami Daily across the table and taps the front page. Just below the June 8 date stamp is a black-and-white image of 1950s Álvaro—sharp suit, sharp smile—beneath a still shot of a video. The newer image shows Álvaro iron eyed, his hands suspended in midair, right before the bang.
Mom sets a pancake stack and some blueberries on the table. “You washed your hands, right? I saw you petting that turtle. Did you know reptiles frequently carry salmonella?”
“Mm, fascinating,” I say, grabbing the paper and squinting at the caption: A YouTube video uploaded last night by Cassandra49213 shows Álvaro Herrera alive.
Holy bananas. Cass? Cass filmed this? I text her under the table: Explain????????
A few seconds later, she responds: you’re so uptight lately
Me: I’m not being uptight. Just, take it down, okay?
Her: no, you’re not the only one who gets to be Camera Girl
A whirlpool of frustration begins twisting my intestines into a Gordian knot. Now that everyone knows Álvaro’s at Silver Springs, will I even get the chance to speak with him? Plus, what happened yesterday seemed so . . . personal. A few days after Grace left, I sort of did the same thing—threw stuff at the walls, gripped my hands into fists—and I wouldn’t want images of that splashed across the internet.
The funny thing is, when I glance at the newspaper picture again, the first person I notice isn’t Álvaro. I notice the boy with the puzzle face. He’s slightly out of focus, but it’s like he’s looking right at me. As I start tracing his blurred outline with my finger, I remember what MomandDad told me a few summers ago when I began showing a tangible interest in boys: “They’re a distraction, Linny. You can’t list ‘hanging out with boys’ on your college application under ‘extracurricular activities.’”
Dad’s chewing methodically, dissecting the situation. “Maybe you can incorporate some of these experiences at Silver Springs into your admissions essay.”
I shove half a pancake into my mouth. The incapacity to speak is helpful, given this is sure to be another lightning round of Let’s Prod Linny about Princeton.
Patting her lips with a napkin, Mom says, “Have you finished your rough draft yet, sweetheart? You can’t expect to write these things overnight.” Dad nods in solidarity. Or perhaps their identicalness is such that Mom’s thoughts automatically control Dad’s movements.
I point to my mouth to indicate I’m still chewing.
Mom gives me her X-ray eyes, like she’s not looking at me but administering a pelvic scan.
I say through a mouthful of pancake, “We’ll taa-lk about this laa-ter,” although I have no intention of discussing it at all. I snatch a few berries for Hector, then the newspaper from Mom as she begins wiping away a syrupy smudge from the front page.
At Silver Springs, there are three reporters in the parking lot, and I practically have to wedge my way through them to enter the lobby. One shouts in my ear, “Just one question, one question: has Álvaro gone crazy?” which prompts my first ever “talk to the hand” gesture.
That’s it. I have to get some answers from Álvaro, just in case these people force him to skedaddle. Dashing upstairs like my curls are on fire, I start with the first hallway and work my way in a circular pattern. Every door boasts a construction paper sign with the resident’s name written in swirly ink. Halfway down the third hallway, I see: MR. HERRERA.
Here goes nothing.
I knock, and his gargled voice answers, “Come in, come in.”
Inside is like the aftermath of The Perfect Storm. Stacks of books and piles of paper are everywhere. His twin bed and armchair are submerged beneath the chaos. I can barely see his typewriter, which sits on a tiny desk. Although his bathroom has one of those fancy walk-in tu
bs they advertise on TV, it would be a Herculean feat to access it. How’d he manage to clog up the room so quickly?
In the dead center of the space, immersed in his cave of paper, is Álvaro. He’s in silk pajamas, reclining in a chair, his legs propped on the collected works of Philip Roth. The room is filling with smoke and the sound of a Spanish guitar thrumming on the radio. It’s the kind of song Grace would love.
He fumbles deep in his shirt pocket and fishes out a matchbox with an “Aha!” As he lights another cigarillo, smoke claws up his face. “Would you care for one?”
I wade toward him, careful not to disturb any piles. “No thanks, I don’t smoke. . . . Should you really be doing that in here?” I have a vision of him improperly extinguishing the cigarillo, the room going up in a sudden blaze.
He considers the question by massaging the cut on his forehead. “You know the saying, ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away,’ yes? Well, these are my apples.” He’s so nonchalant that I wonder if he’s aware that news of his reappearance is spreading like a virus, that I’m partly responsible. He says, “Remind me of your name, niña.”
“Linny.” I gently stack the papers on the armchair and sort of wiggle in. “Can I ask you something?”
The left corner of Álvaro’s mouth twitches upward, revealing teeth shaped like Chiclets. “It seems you will anyway, no?”
“No. Well, yes. I mean. . . . I need to know why you came back.”
“¿Necesitas? This is a need? You will die without it?”
What, is he making fun of me? “Not die, exactly. But it’s really important.”
He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Came back? Why do you say ‘came back’? Where did you think I went?”
Well, this is fun. “I was hoping that you’d tell me.”
Álvaro puffs once more on his cigarillo. “Do you like movies, mi amor?”
Maybe getting answers won’t be as easy as I’d thought. “Yeah, I do, but what does that have to do with—”
“Everything!” he shouts. “Love! Romance! Memories! They are never better than in the movies. It has everything to do with everything. You know this, yes?”
“Um, yes,” I say, for lack of anything better. “So, where did you go?”
He reclines thoughtfully and places both hands behind his head, the dangerously low V-neck popping farther and farther open, until I can see his belly button. It’s hairy, too. The ewwww in my mind extends fifteen syllables.
“How do you like this place?” he finally says.
“What place?”
He motions his arm around. “This place.”
“Oh, Silver Springs? Um, it’s okay.”
With both distaste and genuine surprise, he says, “There are so many old people here.”
I’m about to get us back on track when the smoke alarm begins to beep. And when I say beep, I actually mean: simulate a Godzilla death cry. At first Álvaro’s eyes widen, and I think I’m in for a repeat of the cafeteria scene. But then he shouts “Bah!” up at the ceiling and lifts himself from the chair. “I thought I took care of that, but I guess not! Now, escort me to la cantina.”
Is that it? Our conversation’s done?
I help him up and start clearing a pathway through the papers.
That’s when I open the door and see the puzzle boy clearly for the first time. It’s hard not to, considering he’s hovering statue-still roughly two feet from my face. Under the fluorescent lights, his hair is flopping everywhere. He looks Hispanic—or maybe multiracial like me—and his eyes are so gray, they’re almost metallic. His arm is extended in midair, ready to knock on the just-opened door. He sucks in a breath.
I can’t understand why, but just for an instant, he looks at me like we have the same secret.
THE LEFT-BEHINDS (SCENE 4)
BOOKS & BOOKS—EARLY AFTERNOON
LINNY (twelve) wanders through the bookstore, checking around each corner.
LINNY
(peppy)
Marco!
GRACE
(from afar)
Polo!
LINNY
Marco?
GRACE
(closer)
Polo!
In the next nook, there is GRACE (fourteen), back resting uncomfortably against a bookcase. Fuzzy yellow feathers are poking out from the sleeves of her dress. She is reading an oversize book called Alaska, Atlantis, and Beyond.
GRACE
What took you so long? I’ve been waiting forever.
LINNY plops down beside her. We see a page of the book: a brightly colored illustration of an early plane, flying over glaciers.
LINNY
Where’s that?
GRACE
Somewhere we’re going.
GRACE smiles, then:
GRACE (continued)
Just don’t tell Mom and Dad.
LINNY rests her head on GRACE’s shoulder.
LINNY
It’ll be our secret.
8.
Sebastian
“Readers, please forgive the pun—but the mechanism behind the sun’s magnetism is hotly debated.” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 203
I don’t even get to knock. The door swings open, and there’s Álvaro and the girl from the cafeteria. The girl whose friend filmed everything. All my words get stuck. Hell, even my arm gets stuck. I watch it linger in midair and try to recall it silently, like, WTF, arm, get back here this instant! ¡Rapido! It reminds me of a journal article I read about split-brain syndrome, where people sometimes lose control of half of their limbs.
The girl stares at me. Her lips are O shaped, like she’s sucking on something. My eyes pinball from her to Álvaro.
Mostly to her.
One of her hands is on Álvaro’s shoulder. The other grips the bottom of her C’est la Vie tank top. I try not to focus on two things in particular: 1) the slight see-through-ness of her shirt, and 2) the shirt’s annoyingly accurate translation.
Why is she here? Why is she here now?
AN OBSERVATION ON MAGNESTISM:
People are either attracted to or repelled by each other at random.
I take in everything about this girl. Freckles. Brown skin. Mass of braided hair. How she smells of sweat and honeysuckle and strawberries all at once.
She’s derailed me. Killed my words.
If only I could summon superpowers: telepathy like Professor X in X-Men. Then I could infiltrate this girl’s brain space. Tell her she can’t be here. Not for this.
But I can’t summon shit, because telepathy doesn’t really exist (yet) . . . and because this girl is mind-blowingly hot.
Two thoughts:
What’s with the alarm?
Why, of all days, did I wear this goddamn periodic table T-shirt?
Álvaro’s looking at me like I’m an alien, and I think I might vomit or cry or laugh about the stupid, stupid luck of it all. None of the steps in my plan included a girl crashing into my orbit like intergalactic space junk, opening a door that Álvaro Herrera was supposed to open. She is directly in the spot where I should be standing.
My fight-or-flight response kicks in. I turn and speed-walk away, barely making it to the stairs before Álvaro’s voice echoes down the hallway. “Weird kid. Do you know him?”
Weird kid. Awesome first impression.
That night, Ana paces around the living room, on the phone with my mom. “Lo sé, lo sé. Just give him some time, Luna. He’ll come around.” Pause. “I know, but he doesn’t want to come home right now—he wants to be in Miami, with his father. . . . It’s hard, sí. I know it’s hard, but he’s going off to college in the fall. You won’t be able to control him then, either.”
Hurting my mom is the last thing I want. But I need to do this without her.
To distract myself, I cook arroz con pollo using Ana’s recipe. I burn the chicken. And the rice. (Apparently you’re supposed to cook them together.)
Ana insists I’m getting better. “It a
lways tastes good when you make it yourself,” she says after hanging up the phone, sitting down at the table.
I take a bite then immediately spit it into a napkin. “Let’s agree to disagree.”
“Well, I like it.” She spoons some rice into her mouth and smiles. Then coughs. Spits it out, too. “Okay, I have mac and cheese in the freezer.”
I can’t do anything right.
Over Dinner Plan B, I ask, “How’s my mom?”
“She’s”—struggling with her words—“coming to terms with the fact that you’re making your own decision.”
“Oh.”
“You both will be just fine.” Ana pats my hand with hers. “Speaking of . . . How’s it going at Silver Springs? Have you talked to Álvaro yet, by any chance?”
“Nope.”
“I’m just . . . I’m just worried that you’re getting your hopes up too much, you know? Real-life reunions aren’t like Disney movies, and you look so upset and—”
“There’s this girl,” I explode.
“Oh,” Ana says, and then: “Oh, oh! Ooo! A girl! Tell me, tell me.” She’s even shimmying her shoulders.
“Not like that. Definitely not like that. Whenever I try to talk to Álvaro, she’s there, like a curse hanging over me or something.”
“¡Ay, dios mio!, Sebastian, and you don’t think that’s a sign?”
“Yes. I do. A sign that my life is going to shit. That random things happen for no reason at all.”
She swats her hand at me, waving away the air. “Don’t be so dramatic. What does she look like?”
“She’s . . .” Hot. Damn it, she is so hot. And also cute. A formidable combination. “It doesn’t matter what she looks like.”
Ana raises her eyebrows in my direction. “Sure it doesn’t.”
If Birds Fly Back Page 5