Us, in Progress

by Lulu Delacre

  By the middle of May the burn had finally healed. I was left with a wrinkled, raised white scar at the root of the mottled skin climbing up my arm. The good thing was that I could still play the piano, and I practiced my recital piece over and over. I had first learned it in Puerto Rico, and it brought back fond memories of evenings playing to a background chorus of coquí tree frogs.

  For the end-of-the-year recital, I wore my lavender dress and glittery sandals. I was the last performer, and I walked onto the stage to a packed school auditorium. I smiled at Karen, who was sitting next to Brígida, Ani, and my parents in the front row. I played my piece without any mistakes. Applause filled the room with my final notes, and I stood to bow, feeling giddy with joy. At the reception that followed the recital, Karen spotted me and walked over, trailed by Brígida. Ani ran ahead of both of them and gave me a big hug.

  “I’m going to get some cake now!” Ani announced.

  “That was beautiful, Luci,” Karen said, taking my left hand in hers. “You were so lucky that nothing really bad happened to your hand in that grease fire.”

  Brígida stood next to us, staring at me, at my hand, at Karen.

  “At least you can play the piano, because no one will ever marry you with that scar. “¿Verdad, Karen?” Brígida grinned. Her icy-cold words felt like tiny daggers draining all the joy out of me.

  I looked at her, desperately searching for the right comeback. I wanted to say something to make all the hurt go away. But instead it sank deeper and deeper into me. The pause grew longer, and I felt frozen in time, permanently speechless. Reading the feelings on my face, Brígida grinned wider.

  “You’re such a bully!” Karen snapped, showing the anger I couldn’t.

  All the color drained form Brígida’s face, and she rushed to our parents, who were with Ani at the refreshments table.

  “Luci’s friend insulted me!” she screamed. Then she started retelling what had happened, making herself the victim.

  “Calm, down, Brígida,” Papi said. “Let’s not blow things out of proportion.”

  “We don’t want to make a scene,” whispered Mami. “Let’s go.”

  The drive back was a silent one. Karen’s words rang in my mind. Was she right? I thought about our long talks on the school bus. I remembered the time that Karen’s mother explained to me how a bully works: If you take an isolated incident, it’s not too bad, but bullies hurt you time and again over a long period through many of these seemingly insignificant incidents. Yeah, there were scores of little things I had tried to erase from my memory, from the slippers to the chickpea jingle. I glanced at my hand and gently touched my scar. I liked boys, but I wasn’t planning to marry anytime soon. Would the scar go away by then? Would boys care? Did it even matter? Bully, a word that doesn’t even exist in Spanish. I had looked it up. And if it’s true, if Brígida is a bully, what do I do? She’s still my sister. Mami always says that family comes first and you are loyal to your family no matter what. I suddenly felt the urge to play the piano to let the music blow away the whirlwind of my thoughts.

  All summer I hung around with Karen, practiced piano, and played with Ani. Brígida was her usual self. She had this thing against me that I tried to ignore. I thought maybe one day she would change on her own. Or a time would come when I would have the courage to talk back, to make her see how hurtful she could be. What I didn’t expect was that the change would come through Ani.

  Ani was turning six, and she had asked for cake or ice cream cones to celebrate. So Mami and I came up with an idea of a three-tier yellow birthday cake with chocolate filling and frosting decorated with an empty sugar cone. We’d fill the cone with ice cream at the last minute. I knew Ani would love it. We spent the afternoon baking the cake while she played at the neighbor’s house, and by the time she returned, it was finished and hidden away.

  “Where’s my cake?” Ani asked as soon as she came in the door, cheeks flushed pink.

  “Es postre,” Mami declared. “It’s for dessert.”

  “I want to see it,” Ani pleaded, cocking her head to one side.

  “You’ll have it soon enough,” I told Ani. “Dinner is almost ready, right, Mami?”

  Since Ani couldn’t wait, we had dinner early. Brígida chatted with Papi. Mami and I busied ourselves frying tostones, serving seconds, and eating with relish. Right before dessert Karen stopped by and Mami invited her to stay. Brígida looked super annoyed.

  “Today is my birthday, Karen!” Ani exclaimed, jumping out of her chair. “I’m six!”

  “¡Feliz cumpleaños!” Karen congratulated Ani. She handed my little sister a birthday card. Ani opened it, and out came Karen’s voice singing our birthday song: “Feliz, feliz en tu día, amiguita que Dios te bendiga . . .”

  I ran to the piano and started playing the melody so all would join me in a second rendition of the song. Pinto wagged his tail wildly beside me. Mami rushed in with the birthday cake decorated with the filled ice cream cone, complete with sprinkles and a cherry on top, surrounded by six pink candles flickering brightly.

  Ani’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the cake. She brought her dimpled hands to her face and started clapping in total delight. The cake in front of her, her little fingers eager to dip into the frosting, her lips pursed to blow out the candles after making her secret wish: it was all beautiful to me. Mami gave the first piece to my little sister, adding the one and only ice cream cone on top, sprinkles, cherry, and all. Ani almost disappeared behind the tower of scrumptious sweets. Halfway through her cake she asked for milk.

  “Brígida, por favor,” Mami said. “Get her some milk.”

  Brígida left. When she returned, she placed a small glass of milk before Ani.

  “Don’t stuff yourself,” Brígida told Ani. “You’ll get even fatter.”

  “Why do you always call me fat?” Ani asked in a little voice.

  In that instant Ani’s question made everything clear. Something blurry came into sharp focus, and the arsenal of words that had been frozen within me began to thaw.

  “Don’t pick on Ani. She’s beautiful,” I said, looking at Brígida in the eye. “And she’s our sister. You don’t have the right to say mean things just because you’re the firstborn. Mami? Papi?”

  Karen looked at me and smiled with pride.

  “Luci tiene razón,” said Papi.

  “I agree,” said Mami. “Luci is right.”

  Brígida was stone-faced.

  Ani sprung up and gave me a chocolatey kiss.

  CUBANO TWO

  Tal para cual

  In a public middle school in Raleigh, North Carolina, the media specialist has left two kids alone in a windowless room. It’s heating up to be a steamy summer day. Not that the kids can tell. The room is dimly lit except for a spot of light shining on a red sofa and a checkered rug. A few cameras mounted on tripods point to the sofa, where a tiny media player lies. Standing on different colored squares of the rug, the students—sometimes described as the Monster and the Rascal—don’t know they’ve both been chosen to be the new hosts of the morning news show. (Sorry, nothing sinister here.) They’re eighth graders, boys, and Cubanos. Their ethnicity has nothing to do with their personalities. Or maybe it does. The Monster, who came into the studio first, speaks up.

  “What are you doing here? You bony, Dumbo-eared newbie to my school who looks like a squirrel monkey looking for his mama.”

  “Tell you what, you whale-like knuckle-dragging ape with a flabby belly spilling over shorts that want to be pants but are not. I’m the new news host. I’m the new, the new, the new news host. Tum, pakatum, pakatum, pantum.”

  “Say what? I am the new host. You just fresh-from-the-island kid singing cumbia instead of salsa? What do you know about my school in my America?”

  “Your America? We all live in América. Sudamérica, Norteamérica, Cuba—ay, yes, Cuba’s in Norteamérica. Cradle of the queen of your salsa. ¡Rica azúcaaa’!”

  “My abuela is Pedro Pan. She
was sent away from Cuba to the land of the free and she’s worked hard, really hard to be someone. And I was born here. What do you say to that, fresh-from-the-island kid?”

  “Your abuel-A is Pedro Pan? No, no, no, your abuela is Pe-TRA Pan, Petra Pan for a layedeee: pedropan-petrapan-pa-ca-tan-tan-tan.”

  “Abuela says that your Cuba was run by a thief. A thief who stole from his countrymen. We are exiles; you’re just an immigrant.”

  “Exile, immigrant—just labels, chiquitico. Just labels. They kick you out, you leave. You’re gone ’cause of politics, or you leave ’cause there’s nothing to eat. Same old, same old. Now we’re both in a great land. The land of the brave, the brave and free, to be the best, the best that we can be.”

  “Abuela says you newly arrived have no idea how to be the best at anything. You just know how to resolver, patch things up until the next crisis.”

  “Oye, chiquitico, lemme ask you somethin’. Can you think for yourself? ’Cause it sure sounds like you use your abuela’s brain to think and talk, if you know what I mean.”

  “Uhh . . .”

  “And another thing. Why you suppose we’re both here? Maybe we’re iguales? Equally good to be the new, the new, the new news hosts. Aha! Sí, sí. The new, the new news hosts.”

  “Equally good?”

  “Never occurred to you, huh? Tum, pakatum, pakatum, pantum.”

  “Is that the Pichy Boys you’re humming? Give me the player. Here! Hear—your—cumbia.”

  “I knew you’d come around. We both have the música inside. Stand next to me, join the vacilón! Right foot front and right foot back and kick and sidestep and swirl them hips, and front and back and back and front and add sazón, sazón, sazón.”

  “Tum, pakatum, pakatum, pantum.”

  “Tum, pakatum, pakatum, pantum.”

  Ten minutes later the media specialist returns to find Rodolfo, the Monster, and Pablito, the Rascal, dancing side by side—each doing his own thing—to the music emanating from the earbuds they share. Now things are heating up indeed. You can feel the heat both outside and when you come back in. . . .

  PEACEMAKER

  Las aguas siempre vuelven a su cauce.

  He could still hear them, even with earphones on and behind the closed doors of his dark room. Wilfred could hear Mom and Papi at it, while he tried to think of the next move in his chess video game. Bright sunlight outlined the window’s closed blinds, and he felt the mood inside his home as oppressive as the summer heat of New Orleans. Yes, they were fighting again, like almost every time they were together. He knew what he had to do. And he was delaying it as long as he could. But in the small silences between loud voices he could hear the faint sobbing of his younger sister, Blanca. For her, once more.

  He remembered the first time he did it, two years ago. He had just turned eleven. He and Blanca had been playing a board game on the front veranda with Abuelo asleep at the far end, an empty beer bottle on his lap. Theirs was a house Wilfred’s grandparents had bought a long time ago because Abu Celeste, his grandmother, said it reminded her of her native Nicaragua. When Abuelo could no longer pay its mortgage, Papi took it over even though he’d never liked the house. A pink house with tall arched windows that opened onto a veranda lined with white rocking chairs. Wilfred and Blanca were sitting under the window that had been left cracked open, when they heard Papi’s screams. “It’s always the same!” Papi thundered. “Too many opinions in this house! Too many people living in it! What do you want? Talk to me!” Each string of words boomed louder than the last one, until it seemed like the old window panes would shatter under the pressure of the sound waves.

  Blanca’s lower lip began to quiver, and she started to sob. Blanca made her five-year-old body tiny and crawled under one of the four rocking chairs. She pressed the sides of her head with her hands until the tips of her ears turned red and the back of her hands white. Wilfred tried coaxing Blanca out from under the chair with the promise of candy, of playing her favorite game, of pushing her on the swing, but she wouldn’t budge. Because he didn’t know what else to do, Wilfred knelt and kissed his sister on the head. And as Blanca lifted her gaze up to him, she whimpered, “Make them stop, Wilfred. Make them stop.”

  Wilfred held his breath. He rose and walked toward Abuelo to ask for help. Wilfred shook Abuelo until the bottle fell to the floor of the veranda and rolled out onto the lawn. Abuelo grunted from deep within his slumber and shooed Wilfred away like a pesky fly. Wilfred saw that he had no choice. He adjusted his eyeglasses and walked inside. That was the first of many more times. And each time he would end up doing the same thing. Taking messages from Papi to Mom, from Mom to Papi. With each trip, Wilfred would change hurtful words for softer ones, until things quieted down and the calm he and Blanca craved returned for a bit.

  Wilfred closed his laptop and went out into the hall. In the room across from his, he saw Abu Celeste holding on to her knotted wooden cane, praying in front of the Purísima’s altar. Blanca sniffled by her side. Abuelo had carved Abu Celeste an intricate maple pedestal for the statue of Nicaragua’s beloved Virgin Mary. It now sat atop their dresser, with the painted plaster statue surrounded by votives, silk flowers, and candy. Wilfred looked at the altar and wondered how many other beautiful things Abuelo would have created if he hadn’t started drinking years ago. Abu Celeste crossed herself and took the last piece of gofio from the altar to hand to Blanca. Blanca loved Abu Celeste’s special corn-and-sugar candy, but she shook her head no.

  Wilfred sighed. He climbed down the stairs and went into the kitchen to broker the peace once more.

  By the end of the summer, the fights were much more frequent than the bits of calm in between. Most of the time Wilfred couldn’t tell why the fights happened. But he knew that they were getting to be too much to bear, and he looked forward to the start of school. The year before, in seventh grade, he had joined the chess club. He liked it much more than group sports. Practice was held after school, with tournaments on Saturdays. This year, with the captain of the team now in high school, Wilfred thought he had a shot at being elected captain. But two weeks into the school year he learned that chess club had been canceled, even with ten kids signed up. The club’s sponsor had fallen ill and no replacement had been found.

  One September afternoon he arrived home to find Titi Claudia and Tío Gonzalo visiting. Titi Claudia was in the kitchen with Mom, who was off from work at the hospital. They were unloading groceries in a flurry of activity. Papi had not arrived yet.

  “¡Hola, Wilfred!” Titi Claudia greeted Wilfred with a bear hug.

  “Tell him, Claudia,” Mom prompted as she started marinating some chicken.

  “Want to hear the news?” Titi Claudia teased with hands on her hips.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your titi now has her own pastry shop!” Titi Claudia giggled, clapping furiously. “I’m taking over the famous French bakery on Ursulines Avenue. The owner is retiring. My dream! Right in the French Quarter!”

  “Oh,” Wilfred said.

  “Wilfred!” Titi Claudia exclaimed, shaking Wilfred by both shoulders. “Aren’t you excited? I’ll be able to make croissants, French baguettes, little sweet cakes, all the things you like so much!”

  Titi Claudia went on to say that the bakery was in really good shape. She was thinking of giving it a fresh coat of paint and maybe changing its name. Or maybe not.

  “I’d love for you to come on Saturdays and Sundays to help. You could learn a thing or two at the shop!” she said to Wilfred.

  As Titi Claudia talked, she paired each sentence with hand flourishes here and there, like she always did. Wilfred stared at her and thought about how much lighter the house felt when she was around.

  “Go, go, change,” coaxed Titi Claudia. “We’re going to celebrate at dinner with a feast!” she added, arching her painted eyebrows.

  Dinner was delicious. After clearing the table, they all gathered in the living room to see the pictures of the bakery. Titi Claudi
a had brought swatches of the paint she was considering for the shop’s walls, and Blanca amused herself arranging them by hue. Tío Gonzalo shared projections of possible future earnings. Papi gave his younger brother advice on hiring and managing personnel. Abu Celeste talked recipes with Titi Claudia, who seemed to like the idea of expanding the French offerings to include some traditional pastries from Latin America.

  “¡Ay! How about buñuelos?” Abu Celeste asked from her comfortable chair, her withered hands resting on top of her cane.

  “Sí, sí, why not?” Titi Claudia said. “Syrupy fritters could be a big success!”

  “Pan dulce and gofio,” Abu Celeste added. “For the Purísima celebration and Christmas!”

  “Abu Celeste’s gofio is the best!” exclaimed Blanca, picking up all the paint swatches from the coffee table and throwing them high in the air.

  “Oh, I’ll make another batch this December,” added Abu Celeste with a chuckle. “I promised the celebration committee at church that I would bring the candy again. It will be great to all go as a family!”

  “Oh, no, no,” interrupted Papi, lifting his head from Tío Gonzalo’s documents. “Don’t count on me for the Purísima. I hate having to be nice to people I don’t care about.”

  “Wilfredo, por favor,” pleaded Mom. “The whole family has to go.”

  “You, don’t tell me what to do!” barked Papi.

  “Wilfredo, this is important to Abu Celeste,” Mom said in a measured voice. Wilfred noticed Abu Celeste tightening her grip on her cane.

  “Well, I’m not saying she can’t go,” noted Papi as he rose from the sofa and went to the windows. “But I’m not going. And that’s that!” He began to close all the shutters.

  Abuelo went to serve himself a shot of rum, mumbling to himself.