“We have to stop by Bisabuelo’s,” Adriana says. “He needs help with his computer again.”
“Old people and computers should never mix,” Aiden says.
Adriana and Ava giggle. I can’t even muster a smirk, and Adriana notices. I just want my pillow right now.
“You okay, hermanita? Rough day?”
I nod.
She smiles at me through the rearview mirror.
Adriana is usually my go-to person to talk about things like this, but I haven’t because I’m embarrassed about it. What kind of dork loses her best friend during the last year at elementary school? Adriana’s been best friends with Michelle Logan since they were in diapers.
If I don’t fix things with Sara this year, what will happen next year at middle school? I’ll have to start all over again at Bishop Crest Middle and find a new best friend.
I don’t want to start over.
I gaze out the window at our neighborhood. Sara and I used to ride our bikes all the time on this street. Both of us would help Bisa in his garden and talk about going to Bishop Crest and being sixth graders. We talked about all the cool new kids we’d meet and how we could try out a new hairstyle for middle school. Now that she’s hanging out with Hayley, she’s already dressing differently. No comfy Keds. Now she wears ballet flats. And her hair is always worn down long like Hayley’s. No more ponytails. She didn’t wait for me.
My head is still pounding when we arrive at Great-Gramp’s house. He lives alone in a small home that he bought before I was even born. Bisabuelo always says that when he was house-shopping he had only three rules: he didn’t want any stairs to climb, he wanted a big backyard for Fourth of July barbeques, and it had to be close enough for his great-grandchildren to walk over and visit whenever we wanted. I’m there almost every day.
As soon as we arrive, Ava jumps out and snuggles up to Bisabuelo, who’s sitting on the front porch swing. She leaves no room for me. Adriana and Aiden greet him with a kiss and go inside to check on his computer. I take a seat on the porch steps.
“Bisabuelo, Allie is in a grumpy mood,” Ava says. “She didn’t even talk to me once in the car.” I glare at her. With all her texting, I’m sure she could care less.
“¿Qué tienes, Allie? What’s wrong, mija?” my bisabuelo asks. His voice is raspy and soft today. I wonder if he’s coming down with a bad cold again. A few days before Christmas, Dad had to take him to the hospital for pneumonia. We were all scared, but Great-Gramps was home with us by Christmas Eve to enjoy our traditional tamales and hot chocolate.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“See what I mean?” Ava whines. “It’s so hard being Miss Grumpy’s little sister.”
I ignore her.
“Come here, mija. What’s going on?”
I stand to face him. “I have a headache,” I mumble.
“Do you want some aspirin, mija? A cup of tea?”
“No, it’s just dumb school,” I say, and shrug, but I feel the tears coming. I wish I could make them stop, but it’s too late. Bisabuelo sees them and holds my hands.
“Tell me what’s wrong, mija. It’s okay to get it off your chest.”
“Sara doesn’t talk to me anymore.”
“Sweet Sarita?”
“She’s not so sweet,” Ava quips. It’s the first time I agree with Ava, but honestly I don’t want to agree with her on this. I want Sara to be sweet again and to be my BFF.
“She’s hardly talked to me since this semester started up, and it’s getting worse. She hangs out with Hayley Ryan, who is bossy.” I can’t hold anything back now. It’s like an emotion avalanche. “And now Sara wants to write a song about you for a contest. She just wants the prize money so she and Hayley can go on a shopping spree and buy stupid matching shirts. She could care less about anything else. So when she calls to ask if she can write a song about you, you have to tell her no. You’re my great-gramps.”
Bisabuelo studies me with his brown eyes.
“And you call me a drama queen?” Ava scoffs. She slides off the porch swing. “I’m going to see if one of my commercials comes on.”
When Ava is gone, Bisabuelo speaks. “You know who you just reminded me of, Allie?”
I draw a blank and honestly I don’t want to think right now. My head hurts too much.
“Who do I always say you remind me of?”
I know who he’s talking about. He’s told me a hundred times. “Your mom?”
“Every day, you’re a little more like her, you know?”
“Was she crazy too?”
Bisabuelo chuckles. “You’re not crazy, mija. Not only do you have her eyes and mannerisms, but you have her fighting spirit.”
“I don’t know what to do about Sara, Bisabuelo. I want us to be friends again, but she won’t even give me a chance.”
“Come sit here with me.” Great-Gramps pats a space for me on the swing. I settle in next to him. “Don’t you think if you talked with her you could save your friendship? You’ve been friends since you were babies. Just call her, invite her over, and ask her what happened. These things are done best face-to-face and not by text, or email, or whatever you kids do on those phones.”
“I’m scared she won’t want to talk.”
“The trick is you have to be willing to listen, mija. You have to tell her how you feel and then listen to her. No interrupting. No thinking about what you’re going to say next. Just listen. Try to understand how she feels. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, then at least you’ve tried and you can move on and start making a new best friend.”
“But I don’t want a new best friend.”
“More reason to talk and listen to Sara.”
His words are sinking in when Adriana barges out of the house.
“Bisabuelo, I cannot believe all the emails you have from people who have seen the documentary and want to visit you. Have you responded at all? Please tell me you have.”
Great-Gramps shrugs. “I meant to respond, but then I couldn’t remember my password, mija.”
“What’s this about fan mail?” Ava pops her head out of the door.
“Aiden’s set up a new password for you, Bisabuelo,” Adriana says, ignoring Ava. “I can help you respond. Let’s do it today. I insist.”
“Bisa, please tell Adriana that I can help too.” Ava clasps her hands like she’s praying. “I’m really good at responding to fan mail. Please,” Ava begs. I can’t help but smile. It’s fun to watch Ava squirm.
“Okay, both of you will help me. I’ll be right in. Let me finish my conversation with Allie,” says Bisabuelo.
“I love fan mail!” Ava jumps and squeals.
“Relax, Miss Drama. It’s not your fan mail,” says Adriana, and she pulls Ava inside by her stubby ponytail.
“So I can do a photo essay about you for the contest?” I ask. “The theme is a true trailblazer.”
Great-Gramps rubs his chin. “A trailblazer, eh?”
“Yes, you went to war and won the Medal of Honor.”
“Well, I can think of other people more worthy, but if it’s what you want, mija,” he says. I give him the tightest hug I can muster. “And if Sarita calls to ask me about the contest … what should I do? Do you really want me to tell your ex–best friend no?”
I swallow hard. “I guess not, but what if her project is better than mine?”
“How could it be? She won’t have what I’m about to give you.” Bisabuelo stands up and walks toward the door. “Come with me.”
In Bisabuelo’s bedroom, there are a dozen family portraits on his wall. There are photos of family I’ve never met because they died before I was born and yet their faces are familiar. They look like my dad, Adriana, Aiden, and Ava. I get a closer look at my grandma Esperanza and Grandpa Andres and wonder what they were like. In most of the pictures, they pose with grandchildren on their laps and look happy. Sometimes, my dad talks about them and tells funny stories until he’s in tears. I guess that’s how I’d feel if my p
arents died. I’d be sad, but I’d try to remember the funny and happy things too.
Bisabuelo pulls out a thick leather-bound scrapbook from under his bed. It’s bloated and heavy with pages. He hands it to me. I’m pretty sure it weighs more than Ava and me put together. To get a better grip, I drop down on the edge of his bed.
“Here is my photo gallery.” He flips through it until he’s at the last few pages. “I have a few sheets left for some final memories.”
I gulp hard. I don’t like the way he said “final memories.” I turn some pages back and see a clipped-out news article about the day my grandpa Andres was inaugurated as mayor of a small city just outside of Kansas City. I wasn’t even born then. A couple pages before, there are pictures of Bisabuelo with a few of his veteran friends carrying the American flag for a parade. I flip a few more pages, and there are black-and-white photos of my bisabuelo in Italy, where he served in the war.
“These are great, Bisa,” I say. “These are really going to help me win.”
There are pictures of him digging foxholes and pictures of him posing with other soldiers. Bisa was so young. There are even a few of him with some pretty Italian women, but the one that catches my eye is the photo of him with President Truman receiving his Congressional Medal of Honor. These are the photos I need for the contest. When people see these pictures of my war hero Bisabuelo, they will be begging me to take first prize.
I move on to photographs of Ava in the school musical this past fall. She was the first fourth grader to land the lead role in a Sendak school musical. Usually it goes to a fifth grader, but Ava won the role fair and square. At first, some fifth graders and parents complained, but her performance silenced them. Our principal, Mr. Vihn, said that “Ava Velasco sings and dances like she was born on Broadway.” As much as she can be a brat, I’m really proud of Ava.
I turn another page, and there’s me posing with my volcano a few days before the science fair. That first-place trophy should have been mine. I should be home polishing it right now.
“You should take this photo out. I didn’t win the science fair,” I mumble. “No trophy. No first place. Nada. It makes me sad.”
“Let me show you something.” Bisabuelo flips the pages to a tattered black-and-white photo of a young woman with a baby on her lap and a boy about Aiden’s age standing next to her. It takes a while, but I recognize that the boy is Bisabuelo. “This is my mother, Adela Salazar, the day of my father’s funeral.”
For as long as I remember, my bisabuelo has always told me that I remind him of her, but I have never seen this picture of her until now. In it, she has on a black dress. I search her delicate, heart-shaped face and see the resemblance. It is like an older version of me. Her midnight-dark hair is pulled back, which gives extra focus on her wide, serious gaze.
“She never won a trophy in her life, but she made a difference in this world. You know, I almost didn’t get to go to school when I was your age.”
“Why not?”
“It was a different time back then, mija. I was poor and didn’t speak any English, but my mom had dreams for my brother and me. She tried to enroll me at school, but every school turned us away. Finally, we got to this one school almost a whole town away from where we lived. And again, we were refused at the front door. The school headmaster didn’t even let us enter the school. Can you imagine that? They wouldn’t even let us inside.
“The principal pretended that she didn’t understand my mom’s poor English and told her to try another school, but we had already tried everywhere else. This school was our last chance. I had never seen my mom so dejected. I thought she was going to give up. So I turned to leave. But my mom stopped me. She grabbed my baby brother from me, faced the lady again, and said a few more things. This time the woman understood my mother’s English. The next thing I knew, the lady enrolled me right there on the spot. I started school that day.”
“What did your mom say to her?”
“She offered to mend all the woman’s clothes and make her some new dresses. That’s what did it. So every day, after my mom left her sewing job, she worked on new dresses for the principal while I learned English. That’s how I got my education, but there were no photography contests for me. And I think I could have been a great photographer like Robert Capa.”
“Who?”
“One of the best photojournalists in history, mija.”
“Did he win any awards?”
“Awards or not, the point is he was a great photographer, Allie.”
I gaze over the photo some more. I wonder if Robert Capa took pictures like this one. Maybe taking a picture of a poor Mexican family wouldn’t have interested him, but I can’t take my eye off the photo. Bisabuelo says that I’m like his mom, but would I be brave enough to stand up to a school principal? Would I ever be clever enough to find a way for a child to go to school? That sounds more like Adriana.
All I know is that I want to win like Gwendolyn with the Pulitzer or Junko taking her pickax to the top of a mountain. And like my great-gramps’s mom, Adela Salazar, I have to be brave. I will do whatever it takes to win this contest and live up to my family’s accomplishments.
I close the scrapbook. “Thank you, Bisabuelo. This is seriously going to help me win.”
“It’s yours to use.” He pats me on the arm before turning to leave the room. “Now, I have to do some work. Your sister insists that I write emails.”
“What do those people write you about?”
He pauses at the doorway. “They mostly want to thank me for being a good soldier. Sometimes they invite me to their homes for dinner because they want to talk about the war.”
“You don’t mind that?”
“It’s tough sometimes for me to talk about it. There are things I don’t want to dredge up, but it’s important for people to connect and talk things over.”
“That’s why you like to go to the veterans’ center? You like to talk to the other soldiers?”
“Sí, mija. These young vets have been through a lot. I like to listen to them, let them know there is life after war. They’re not alone.”
He leaves the room, and I pick up the phone next to his bed. I should call Sara like he said … but I’m not ready. Instead, I take the scrapbook with me to the living room where Ava is lounging in my bisabuelo’s La-Z-Boy chair, watching TV.
This scrapbook is everything I need for the contest. How can I not win with all these cool black-and-white photos of my bisa in Italy?
“Allie! You missed my commercial. It came on after the talk show ended. Maybe it’ll air again.”
“Oh, I really hope so,” I say with just an ounce of sarcasm.
“Grumpy-butt.”
I make myself comfortable on the couch and spread the scrapbook across my lap. Ava joins me. “What are you doing?”
“Going through Bisa’s scrapbook.”
“For your contest?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Just watch TV. I bet one of your commercials is about to come on.”
She turns away, suspiciously silent. Even though I’m trying to ignore her, I can see she’s thinking really hard by the way she squints her eyes and bites her lower lip. Suddenly, she turns back to me with a big smile. “Guess who wrote a poem for you?” she says. “I did! It’s about you. Want to hear it?”
“Go for it.”
“There was a girl named Allie
Who complained that she lost her friend,
So she became grumpy,
Her day was all dumpy,
And she wished she’d never left her bed.”
I shake my head, stunned. How did she make that up so fast?
“You’re welcome.” She giggles, and faces the TV again just in time to catch a Sifuentes Auto Mart commercial.
The phone rings. I pick it up.
“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Rocky Velasco, please?” I recognize the voice right away.
“Sara?”
“Oh, hey, Allie. You
’re at your great-gramp’s house, huh?”
“Yep, he’s helping me with my project.” I take the phone with its long extension into the other room for some privacy. This is my chance to talk to Sara.
“Oh, that’s why I was calling. I want to ask your great-gramps if I could interview him for my song. Is he there?”
“Yes, he’s here, but he’s really busy right now. Can you wait a few minutes? I wanted to ask you something anyway.”
“Um, okay,” Sara says, sounding unsure.
I take a deep breath and try to remember what my great-gramps said about listening. More listening. Less talking. Isn’t that what he said?
“Sara, why don’t you talk to me anymore?”
“I talk to you … I just spoke to you today,” she says.
“Hardly,” I answer back, with more snap than I intended. “Is it because of Hayley? I know she’s the one that put you up to writing a song about my bisabuelo for the contest. You only spoke to me to ask about my bisabuelo because Hayley wants you to steal my idea.” My heart is pumping fast.
“Hayley didn’t know you wanted to enter a project about your bisabuelo. I didn’t know either. We were talking about the contest at lunch, and I thought your bisabuelo would be the perfect subject because he’s a war hero.”
“But you and I used to sit together at lunch and talk. Now it’s you and Hayley all the time.” I don’t mean to whine, but it pours out of me. I’m ready to complain some more about how she never invites me to her house anymore and even though I’ve invited her several times she always says she’s busy with something, but before I start up again, I rewind what she just said.
“Wait a minute …” I say. “Did you say it was your idea? Wasn’t it Hayley’s?”
“It was my idea, Allie. I think I could win writing a song about him. I mean, like I said, he’s a famous war hero.”
“But he’s my trailblazer.”
“So what?” she says. I can feel her shrug though the phone, and it burns me. “Like Hayley said, there’s no rule about submitting a project on the same person.”
“You only want to use him to win the two hundred dollars,” I snap. “I heard you and Hayley talking about a shopping spree.”
Allie, First at Last Page 5