Talib laughs and slaps my back. “Sure, buddy. I’ll bring flowers to your funeral. You like roses or tulips?”
He takes off toward his house, just a block away from mine, and I keep going until I see the blue paint of Abuela’s house. As I walk closer, the coyote raises his head and mumbles, “Don’t let her get me.”
I look down at his trembling body. “Don’t you mean him?”
The coyote presses into my chest, and I feel his pounding heartbeat. “No, her. Don’t let the witch get me.”
CHAPTER 7
Hey Dad,
You know, I was afraid that Abuela lived in the most boring town on the planet, but I was wrong. The woods are a minefield of hunting traps. There’s a kid at school who likes to poke his long, unclipped nails into my chest. I have a coyote sleeping under my bed who swears he was attacked by a witch. Oh, and did I mention I saw Abuela stomp off into the woods carrying a knife?
I scratch through everything I’ve written and turn to a clean page in my sketchbook.
Always Be Positive.
Always Be Happy.
Hi, Dad!
So Abuela’s town isn’t that bad. There are some pretty cool animals here. You can even see them up close! I joined the trivia club. I know, can you believe I actually joined something? You’d be proud. I’ve got two friends in the club, Talib and Maria Carmen.
By the way, the answer to your question about what type of sheep in Afghanistan is named after a famous explorer is … Marco Polo sheep! Now here’s one for you. This animal is known for howling at the moon to communicate and has even been known to adapt its habitat to cities. Think hard!
Hope you’re doing okay. Love you. Stay safe.
Nestor
I close my sketchbook, planning to mail Dad’s letter when I get home after school.
I take my fork and poke at the gray glob on my red plastic tray.
Miss Humala clears her throat and raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t look too appetizing, does it?”
I pause, my fork hovered over the cafeteria tuna surprise, which I’ve learned is the same at every school. The surprise is it’s not tuna. I’ve sat through several days of science class with Miss Humala barking orders and glaring death rays into students’ skulls. Maria Carmen and Talib said she was nice in the first few weeks of school, always stashing bags of peppermints in her desk to toss to students when they answered correctly. But about three weeks ago, the stress of attempting to teach science to incompetent twelve-year-olds must’ve gotten to her.
When I arrived in her classroom for trivia club practice, Miss Humala was sitting at her desk, a stack of papers in front of her. She hovered a red pen over one paper, a look of malicious glee in her eyes.
I’m not sure there’s anything more awkward than sitting in a teacher’s classroom by yourself.
Maybe coming to school naked; that’s a close second.
“So how are you liking your new school, Nestor?” Miss Humala asks.
Please, no small talk, I want to say. Just let me sit here not eating my tuna surprise. She doesn’t need to bother getting to know me. I’ll be gone in a few months anyway.
I stick my fork in the inedible mass on my tray. “It’s fine,” I mumble.
Miss Humala looks at me with her large brown eyes. She spins her red pen between her fingers. “You know, I’m kind of a new kid here myself. This is only my second year in New Haven.”
I nod. I’m used to teachers trying to connect. But I’ve never had a teacher who really got what it was like to move so much. So at least she’s trying.
“Why’d you move to New Haven?” I ask her.
“Um, I think I needed a fresh start.” She bites her lip and sets down her red pen. “Sometimes you just have to get away from things.”
A thud at the door keeps me from asking Miss Humala what she was running from. Maria Carmen drags Talib by the arm into the classroom and deposits him into the seat next to me. She takes the seat on my other side and flips her braids over her shoulders.
Miss Humala looks at us and claps twice. She grabs a stack of cards from a drawer in her desk. “Let’s begin, shall we? We’ve got a lot of practice ahead of us if we’re going to make it to finals. I’m optimistic about you bunch.”
“When are finals?” Talib asks.
“The end of May,” Maria Carmen responds.
I pull my sketchbook out of my backpack and flip to my Days in New Haven page. I wonder if I’ll be able to make marks all the way through May. That’s seven months away. I look at Talib and Maria Carmen. Maria Carmen twirls a braid around her finger as Talib yawns and stretches his T-shirt over his belly. I’ve made some interesting friends here.
Friends.
I shove my hands into my pockets and lower my head. I should know better than to make friends so quickly. If moving to so many schools has taught me anything, it’s that the fewer people you bring close, the fewer you have to awkwardly hug and say goodbye to. And the fewer who promise to write and then never do.
When I was in second grade, I was friends with Steven Linner. We made up a secret code that we used to write notes to each other. Then Dad announced we were moving to Fort Lewis, and Steven and I promised we’d keep writing to each other in our secret code. I went to the mailbox every day once we were in Washington, but no letter ever came. Eventually, I stopped trying to write to him.
Watching Maria Carmen and Talib, I wonder if we’ll make those same false promises in a few months.
Miss Humala stands in front of her desk and holds out the first card. “This animal is a type of worm that drinks three to four times its body weight in blood.” She clicks her large front teeth expectantly.
“What’s a leech?” Talib says as he raises his head from his desk and rubs his eyes.
“Correct!” she cries, stomping her foot on the floor.
Talib looks at me and grins. “This is better than being pudding targets in the cafeteria, right?”
“I guess. And I don’t think she would’ve taken no for an answer.” I point to Maria Carmen.
As if she heard me, she passes Talib and I each a stack of index cards and a bell. “These are your study cards. You should staple them together by animal genus. And ring your bell when you know the answer. See if you can beat me,” she says, winking.
While Miss Humala continues quizzing us, Talib and I sort our cards into groups of closely related animals.
I learn that this is the second year New Haven Middle School has had a trivia club. That Miss Humala started it when she was a new teacher last year. It was mostly eighth graders who traded in-school suspension for involvement in a club, and they answered only two questions right their first competition. The club disbanded before the end of the school year, when two of the members duct-taped bottle rockets to their opponents’ chairs and superglued the moderator’s hand to his microphone.
“This bird can sleep while it flies.” Miss Humala stretches her long neck and taps the quiz card on her desk.
I’d love to say I know this answer because I read it in a book. But you tend to remember when a bird flies over your head and you hear it snoring.
I ring the bell on my desk. “Albatross!”
We’d been stationed at Fort Lewis in Washington two months before my mom and I visited the coast. While we were there, I saw a white bird with enormous wings soaring above me, snoring and muttering to herself, “Just five more minutes, Mom.”
Miss Humala continues with her cards, and Maria Carmen beats me to a correct answer three times. I need to step up my game.
Talib leans toward me and whispers, “How’s the coyote? Your abuela excited about the new family pet?”
I wait to answer him until Maria Carmen shouts out another correct answer.
“I wrapped his leg. He’s sleeping under my bed right now.”
Talib shakes his head. “If your abuela finds it, you might be coming home to coyote stew for dinner.”
Miss Humala clears her throat, and Talib and
I straighten up. She pulls another card from the stack on her desk. Her eyebrows rise as a smile creeps across her lips.
“This mammal is known as a scaly anteater and is covered in hard, platelike scales.”
I close my eyes, searching my brain for the right answer.
Maria Carmen rings the bell on her desk. “Armadillo.”
Talib lets out a laugh and slams his hand down on the bell on his desk. “Nope. It’s a pangolin.” When Miss Humala gives him a thumbs-up, Maria Carmen glares at him and slides his bell farther from his reach.
“Excellent!” Miss Humala claps, her white-blond curly hair bouncing up and down. “You all really have a knack for this.”
Each year, the regional quiz bowl picks a focus category for sixth graders. This year it’s zoology. I feel good about my chances but don’t bother to suggest I might have an unfair advantage.
Miss Humala clears her throat and continues. “This nocturnal African animal eats ants and termites and is best known for being at the start of the dictionary.”
Before Maria Carmen, Talib, or I can answer, the door to Miss Humala’s classroom bangs open.
Brandon barges in and slumps down in a seat at the back of the classroom. He’s wearing an oversize fatigue-green jacket with patches from the Army, Air Force, and Marine Corps crudely sewn all over it.
Miss Humala purses her lips. “You’re late, Brandon. Practice starts promptly at the beginning of lunch.”
Brandon rolls his eyes and mumbles, “Whatever,” under his breath. He shoves his hands into his pockets, but not before I notice a white bandage wrapped around his index finger.
I’m going to buy that coyote some treats.
I tap Maria Carmen on the shoulder. “Are you kidding me?” I whisper. “You recruited him, too?”
Maria Carmen shakes her head. “No way. It was Miss Humala. She’s making him do it to help his grade.”
Fantastic.
I look back at Brandon. He’s wearing hunting-camo pants and twirling a rabbit’s foot key chain between his fingers.
“Shot it myself,” he sneers at me.
I roll my eyes.
Miss Humala selects another card and holds it up in front of her nose. “This primate barks and screams when angry and will even throw its own—”
A knock on the door interrupts her question. Miss Leander, our math teacher, motions Miss Humala over.
While they talk, Brandon flicks a wadded-up piece of paper at Talib.
“Look at me,” he says. “A regular Carlos Hancock.”
I throw my hands up. Brandon really doesn’t know military trivia. Carlos Hathcock was a Marine Corps sniper from the Vietnam War. Before Dad’s first deployment, I told him I was worried about his being safe. He ruffled my hair and said, “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve got a bunch of Carlos Hathcocks watching over me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, glaring at Brandon. “It’s Carlos Hathcock. Don’t you know anything?”
Brandon’s mouth drops open. He narrows his eyes at me. “What are you, some kind of military genius?”
“His dad’s in the Army,” Talib says before I can respond. “He’s in Afghanistan.”
Brandon’s top lip curls into a sneer. “You’d better hope he doesn’t get blown up over there.”
A rock drops in my gut, and my cheeks burn. I clench my fists and push up from my chair. Before I can get to Brandon, Maria Carmen jumps up.
“Here are your study cards!” she exclaims, her voice quivering with nerves.
I sit back down as she hands Brandon a stack of index cards. He shoves them into the pocket of his pants.
Maria Carmen puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a sympathetic smile as she sits back down. My fingernails are still digging into my palms, and I can’t slow down my breathing.
Miss Humala comes back to her post at the front of the classroom. I don’t hear the rest of her practice questions, my ears still burning with anger.
When lunch is over, we stay in Miss Humala’s room for science class. Maria Carmen keeps her head lowered, and I can’t look at Brandon without clenching my fists. When class is finally done, Brandon slumps out of the classroom ahead of us. Talib, Maria Carmen, and I head down the hall to our next class, and I put my hand on Maria Carmen’s arm. “Thanks,” I tell her. “I was about to punch Brandon’s nose into the back of his skull.”
Maria Carmen shrugs. “He shouldn’t have said what he did. It isn’t right.”
Tears well in her eyes, and her bottom lip quivers. She rushes away from us, down the hall, a blur of swinging black braids.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask Talib.
He looks at me and shakes his head. “It wasn’t you. Her brother was killed in Iraq two years ago.”
CHAPTER 8
DAD SAYS A GOOD PERSON doesn’t react in anger. He told me this when I was nine and fell off my skateboard, skinning both knees. I kicked my skateboard into a storm drain in front of our house on post in Kentucky and shouted a couple of words I learned from Abuelo.
I know Dad would be disappointed that I almost punched Brandon.
But now Brandon has me pushed up against the wall outside the gym, my shoulder blades digging into the hard bricks. My forearms burn as I clench my fists.
Just one punch to get his freckle- and zit-spattered skin away from my face. Dad would never know. He’s thousands of miles away.
“Stay away from my traps,” Brandon hisses, his knuckles white around the sleeves of my T-shirt.
I take a deep breath, the air burning my stretching lungs, and put my hands up in surrender.
Dad won’t know if I rearrange the line of Brandon’s nose, but I can still feel his hand on my shoulder, his calm, patient voice in my ear. The emptiness of his absence matching the fullness of the memories.
Brandon lets go and stomps away. The curious students who surrounded us meander away, occupied by the next joke or drama.
Talib and Maria Carmen rush toward me. “You okay?” Talib asks.
I brush my hands on my jeans. “Yeah. Bullies like him aren’t really anything new.”
Talib looks from Maria Carmen to me and sighs. “Well, this has been a completely awful day. Let’s go home.”
Maria Carmen nods, biting her lip.
“Through the woods,” I tell them and hike my backpack onto my shoulder.
Talib shakes his head. “You want to shove this day even farther down the toilet?”
I fix a hard look on Maria Carmen and Talib. “I don’t care what the school says. I’m getting rid of every one of Brandon’s traps.”
Maria Carmen raises her head, her voice full for the first time since she ran down the hall. “Sounds good to me.”
We head off into the woods and spread out a little on the trail. I scan each rock and search the base of every tree, looking for metal circles with sharp teeth. But I’m doing it only half-heartedly, my mind still swirling from Brandon’s black words during trivia club practice.
I catch up to Maria Carmen on the trail and clear my throat. “I’m sorry about your brother,” I tell her, my voice a whisper catching in the breeze and floating through the trees.
She lowers her head and sighs. “Thanks. I figured Talib would tell you.”
The three of us walk in silence, past tall cacti and rambling live oak branches. Cuervito soars above us but doesn’t say a single obnoxious word. Even he knows now’s not the time.
Maria Carmen breaks our silence so softly I almost don’t hear her at first. “I miss him,” she says.
Talib and I look at each other and nod. Maria Carmen picks a leaf from an oak tree and presses it between her fingers.
“He was a military policeman in Iraq. His Humvee convoy had been warned about people dangling grenades from the tops of overpasses with fishing line, waiting for the soldiers to drive under and hit them.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to hear this. I want to picture Maria Carmen at the skate park with her brother, laughi
ng and daring each other to attempt new tricks. I want to see her brother cheering and pumping his fists as Maria Carmen graduates from high school. I don’t want to hear about the dark threat that devoured him.
The same threat that stalks my dad.
But I owe it to Maria Carmen to listen.
Maria Carmen stops on the trail and brushes a tear from her eye. “They were out for a morning patrol through Baghdad. He was the top gunner in the Humvee. And he didn’t see it.”
Talib puts his hand on Maria Carmen’s shoulder. I grab her trembling hand and squeeze it. We stand together on the trail as Cuervito flies in a circle above us, a sentry to our vigil.
“He wasn’t even regular Army. Just National Guard. All he wanted was to be able to go to college.” Maria Carmen sighs and raises her head. “I miss him so much.”
Bullies and traps are forgotten. We march home in silence. Maria Carmen breaks off from our group first, and then a few minutes later, Talib heads off toward his house.
Gray clouds surround me as I enter Abuela’s house. Tossing my backpack onto the living room couch, I mutter, “Buela, I’m home.”
I hear her in the dining room, her sewing machine whirring.
“Oye, this doesn’t need sequins. Dejame en paz!”
I meander into the dining room, rubbing my thumb on the notch in the doorway that marks Dad’s height when he was my age. I figure Abuela is talking to herself again as she runs the hem of Mom’s nursing scrubs through her sewing machine set up on the table.
The day still heavy on my shoulders, I slump down into a chair and watch Abuela sew. The rhythmic whir of the machine pulls me deep into my thoughts. I have only ten marks on my Days in New Haven page, and I’ve already grown closer to Talib and Maria Carmen than I have to anyone my own age. I’ve joined a club at school, something I rarely bothered doing before since I knew I couldn’t guarantee I’d be there for the whole year.
I pull at the hem of my shirt and crumple it in my hands.
Abuela looks at me over the top of her glasses, which she always wears when she sews. “You know, that’s why I have to keep sewing your mami’s nursing scrubs,” she says, indicating my T-shirt with a flick of her chin. “You two take out your worries on your clothes.”
The Total Eclipse of Nestor Lopez Page 5