Allie, First at Last

by Angela Cervantes

  I move an image of Bisabuelo in his army uniform to the first slide. He was seventeen years old in this photo. Did he know then how much his life would change? That he’d be a great American hero? Or how much his great-grandchildren would love him? Of course, he couldn’t have known, but I like thinking about it anyway. Maybe someday, some future child will be looking at my picture and they’ll tell their friends, “This is my great-grandmother, Alyssa Velasco. She was a great photographer who won a contest when she was only ten years old.”

  By the time I’ve added a few more photos and text, I’m worn out. I crawl to my bed and get under the covers with my clothes still on when I hear Adriana arrive home. When she reaches the top of the stairs, I call out to her.

  She pokes her head in my bedroom with Secret in her arms, “What’s up, hermanita?”

  “I want to show you my photo essay for the contest.”

  “Yay!” she says. I jump down from my bed to grab my laptop off the floor. Adriana sits down on the bed, and I hand it to her.

  “How was the movie? Did you go see the scary one about the kids in that Egyptian tomb?”

  “No, we should have, but we went to go see something else. It was dumb.” She frowns. “But we had fun.”

  Adriana is suddenly quiet and starts clicking through my presentation. I watch her brown eyes move across each image. Secret paws at the screen, and she pulls him onto her lap to pet. While she views my presentation, I admire how pretty she looks. She has her long hair pinned up into a bun at the top of her head. She’s wearing dark blue jeans and a loose white blouse under a pink jacket that I love because it has lots of zippers.

  “This is a good start, Allie,” she finally says. My heart jumps in my chest. “But are you going to add some original photos?”

  I nod. “I’m going to take a picture of Bisa with his Medal of Honor for the ending. Is that good?”

  “That’d be cool, but what about a photo of him with his family? Or with his buddies at the GI Forum? This presentation is really heavy on the war. Bisa went to war to ensure his family could have a good life. That’s what makes him a trailblazer to me.”

  I bite down on my lower lip. A boring family picture doesn’t sound like any way to win a contest. A photo of him with his WWII Medal of Honor will inspire people and win me the first-place prize. I know it.

  “Just think about it,” Adriana says. “I’m sure whatever you come up with will be great.” She gets up from my bed and hands the laptop back to me.

  “Adriana, is that why you’re going to Harvard, to be a trailblazer too?”

  She winces, and my heart feels like a piñata getting a good whack.

  “Harvard is too far away,” I say. I can feel tears starting, which I hate because I don’t want to look like a baby, but I can’t stop.

  “Don’t cry. C’mon, hermanita.” Adriana sits next to me again and pulls me close to her. I lay my head against her shoulder. She smells citrusy sweet like grapefruit sprinkled with sugar. She squeezes me tight. “Will you hear me out a little bit?”

  I nod.

  “The easy thing would be to go to school here, stay at home with all of you … that would be so nice. But I’ve been offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Harvard, Allie. No one in our family has ever been accepted to an Ivy League school. And no matter how scared I am, I have to go for it because I’m doing this for you and all the kids at the center to show them they can do it too.”

  “But you don’t have to do it for me,” I whine. “I want you to stay.”

  “Oh, Allie.” Adriana sighs. “What if Bisabuelo had never gone to war? He did it so that his future family could follow their dreams. Passing on Harvard because I’m afraid or because it’d be easier to stay home would be wasting everything he sacrificed. You understand, right?”

  I don’t want to admit it, but I do understand. It’s like today with the piñata. After several children failed to bust the piñata, one of Victor’s little sisters took the stick and bashed a colossal hole into it, sending candy and coins everywhere. She thought it was unfair that by the time she pulled her blindfold off, half the candy was grabbed up by the other kids. Victor and I tried to cheer her up by naming her the great Piñata Buster. “Look at how happy you made the other kids,” Victor said to her. “You breaking the piñata made it possible for other kids to have candy.” It didn’t help. She only stopped pouting when I brought her a bag of leftover candy.

  “I understand …” I say finally. “You and Bisa are piñata busters. True trailblazers.”

  “Piñata buster or not, I wouldn’t feel right leaving home if you weren’t on my side on this. You’re my sister, and we’ll always be tight no matter where we both go, okay?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I mutter.

  “It may not seem like it right now, but I have this feeling that you will travel the world. You’ll learn new languages and explore new cultures. I know it, Allie.”

  I finally smile. “That’d be cool, I guess.”

  Truth is, I would love to travel the world and take photographs. Maybe someday I could work for a magazine and go to Guatemala and take pictures of the real volcán de Fuego. I could visit the towns in North Africa and Italy where my bisabuelo served during the war. I could interview Junko Tabei and take her picture with that crazy pickax.

  “Can I ask you a favor, Adriana? It’s about Victor.”

  “Victor Garcia, the tutor?”

  “Yes, he’s applied to Bishop Crest Middle but hasn’t heard back yet. Do you think you could write a letter of recommendation for him? He’s not from here and doesn’t have the connections most Sendak kids have. A recommendation from you would really help. Please.”

  “Of course. Victor’s a great kid. I had no idea he was applying to Bishop. I’ll write a letter tomorrow. No problem.”

  “Victor will be the first in his family to graduate from high school someday, but first he needs to get into Bishop Crest. If he could get in, then he’d just have to find the money …” I trail off, thinking. “Maybe if I win the contest I can give him the two-hundred-dollar prize money. That would help a little, right?”

  “You would give up the prize money for him? You must really like him. Is he your crush? Wooo wooo wooo!” Adriana makes playful sirens sounds. It’s the sound we both make when we know people have crushes.

  My face feels hot. “I don’t care about the prize money. I want to be the first Velasco to win this contest, and I want the trophy for our shelf. That’d be nice. I’m tired of being the only one without something.”

  Adriana kisses my head. “I know that bothers you, but you know what, Allie? The real rewards you can’t put on a shelf. Remember?”

  “Bisa always tells me that, but—”

  “No buts, it’s true in more ways than you even know right now.” She turns off the light as she leaves. “Good night, Allie. Tomorrow is another day full of opportunities for epic greatness.”

  My room is dark, but I feel a warm golden light twinkling inside me. I hope she’s right. So far, this school year has been a bust. I could use a day of epic greatness.

  I know it’s a long shot, but on Monday morning, I go ahead and pull out two different colored socks from my sock drawer to wear with two different colored pairs of Keds. This used to be Sara and my April Fool’s Day tradition. We came up with it in third grade. We’d both wear mismatched socks and shoes all day. For a second, I worry that if she isn’t wearing mismatched socks and shoes, I’ll look like a dork. I shake off that thought. It’s our tradition, and I can do it if I want.

  When I get downstairs for a quick bowl of cereal, Ava and Aiden are already diving into cornflakes. They look innocent, but I know better. I grab the box of cereal from the counter and inspect it carefully to make sure that the sugary cornflakes haven’t been replaced with Secret’s cat food. I shift the box left to right and back and forth to spot any fake spiders or roaches thrown in there.

  “What are you doing?” Aiden shakes his head.


  I shrug. “Just checking.”

  “For what? A little toy prize at the bottom? Aren’t you a little old for that?”

  Ava snorts.

  “It’s April Fool’s Day,” I say, and glare at him. I sniff the box some more. “I’m not falling for any of your tricks.”

  “The cereal is fine. Look, we’re eating it.” Ava shovels a big scoop in her mouth.

  I go ahead and pour a bowl of cereal. I taste a cornflake. It’s good. I grab the carton of milk and pour. Aiden bursts into howling laughter, and Ava giggles like an evil demon child.

  “Augh!” I shriek. I’ve just poured orange juice over my cereal. “You switched it!”

  “April Fool’s!” they both shout.

  All I can do is call them creeps and put the cereal out for Secret, but even he snubs it and struts off. I can’t believe I fell for the old switch-the-milk trick. I should know better. I pour myself another bowl, and this time, I grab a pitcher out of the fridge. I check it. It’s milk.

  When Mom and Dad come into the kitchen, I want to warn them, but Aiden gives me one of those big brother don’t-you-dare looks and I shut up.

  Mom grabs the milk carton, ready to pour some into her coffee. Aiden and Ava exchange deliriously happy smiles. Sickos.

  “You kids are being awfully quiet this morning,” she says. She is two seconds from pouring orange juice into her coffee, when Dad jumps in, like the good firefighter he is, to save the day. He takes it from her.

  “Better check that first, sweetie. Don’t forget it’s April Fool’s Day.” He eyes the inside of the carton. “Just as I suspected …” He pours a glass of orange juice. “Nice try, Aiden.”

  Mom shakes her head. “You almost got me.” She pours milk into her coffee. “Please be careful with the pranks today, kids. Especially you, Aiden …”

  Aiden lets out an exasperated protest.

  “Don’t act innocent, Aiden. I don’t want to be called into the principal’s office for any antics that go wrong, okay?”

  “It would be very uncool for your mom, best news anchor for the fourth year in a row, to be called into the office today,” Dad says, holding the trophy over his head.

  “You won again!” Ava squeals. We all rush and give her a group hug.

  “Okay, I won’t do anything nutso today,” Aiden says, dropping a handful of very realistic rubbery spiders and roaches onto the kitchen counter.

  “I cannot make that same promise!” Ava says, dangling a Ziploc bag full of Oreos filled with toothpaste. She’ll offer them to the boys in her class. Even with their mouths full of thick, minty paste, they’ll still adore her.

  “Please try to be nice to the boys in your class,” Dad says.

  “No promises on April Fool’s Day!” Ava giggles. “It’s my April Rules Day.”

  Sendak Elementary is famous for its April Fool’s Day. Everyone, even the cafeteria cooks and the librarian, get into the act—but the teachers are the worst! It’s the one day that teachers get payback for all the whining their students have done all year. I’ve survived all their best pranks by learning not to trust anything they say on April 1.

  Last year, our teacher gave us a word search in English class. He said that if the entire class completed it in fifteen minutes, he’d let everyone out of school a full hour early. He handed out a sheet of paper with vocabulary words that didn’t exist anywhere in the word search. All of us were sweating it out, while the timer ticked away. Our teacher read the paper and sipped coffee while we suffered.

  For that reason, I don’t trust any teachers on April Fool’s Day. The end-of-the-year field trip isn’t canceled. There isn’t a math test today that’s worth 99 percent of our grade. Pizza made with worm toppings is not today’s lunch special. It’s all one big April Fool’s prank.

  So when Mrs. Wendy announced that we’re going to present our contest entries in front of the class for helpful feedback, I wasn’t falling for it. There’s no way I’m ready. And what does she mean by helpful feedback? It’s April Fool’s Day. If she doesn’t like what she hears, will she pelt us with worm toppings?

  I look around the class. Is anyone going to take her up on her offer? Sara looks back at her guitar. Grace walks up to the front of the classroom. “I’m submitting a poem in honor of my mom, a true trailblazer,” she says. “She is raising me all by herself this year, and I admire her for starting her own business.”

  Grace’s poem is long and rhyming. When she’s done, everyone claps as she takes her seat.

  “Positive feedback for Grace?” Mrs. Wendy calls out. I raise my hand.

  “It rhymed well,” I start. “And it really shows that you love your mom.”

  Grace turns in her seat and smiles at me. Haley raises her hand next. She always has to copy whatever I do. She’s been that way since second grade. Isn’t it enough that she copied my best friend? You’ve won, Hayley. You can stop already.

  “I liked it, but it seemed too long,” she says. “Mrs. Wendy, isn’t there a rule that poems can only be twenty lines?”

  “Good feedback. It seemed a bit long to me as well. If you go over twenty lines you’ll be disqualified. Please double-check.” Grace looks down at her paper and starts to count.

  “Anyone else?”

  Several hands go up including Sara’s, but Mrs. Wendy picks Ethan. He doesn’t have his photo presentation ready, but he puts up one single photo of Principal Vihn.

  When he’s done talking about how Principal Vihn emigrated from Vietnam to America when he was just a baby, Ethan shrugs. “I’m going to add more to it.”

  “It’s due tomorrow. You need to get to it,” says Mrs. Wendy.

  No one else has any more tips for him, so she calls on Sara. Sara jumps up, grabs her guitar, and takes a seat in the front of the classroom. She’s wearing matching shoes. A pang of hurt shoots through me. Did she forget about our tradition? Or maybe she doesn’t care anymore. Maybe there is no hope that we’ll ever be best friends again. I don’t know why I’m shocked. I just am. I kept hoping she would wear mismatched socks and shoes … especially after she reminded me of April Fool’s Day. I wonder if I can call Dad and have him bring me another pair at lunch?

  “My song is titled, ‘American Dream.’ It is dedicated to Rocky Velasco, World War II veteran and Medal of Honor recipient,” Sara says. “I wrote this song corrido-style, which is a Mexican folk style of music. For the contest, it can’t be any longer than three minutes. Hope you like it.

  “Gather around young and old,

  I have a story that must be told.

  About a young soldier who went off to war

  To add his muscle to the fight,

  Knowing he may never see his family again,

  He battles forward with all his might.

  “The great soldier won’t say he’s a hero,

  Though he fought for the land of the free.

  His sacrifice was for everyone,

  Especially for you and me,

  Especially for you and me.

  “Leaving his mother and brother behind,

  He knows that duty calls.

  Fighting far away in Europe,

  The American dream must never fall.

  In the battle, the young soldier learns

  To never stop to cry.

  He must move on without his fallen brothers,

  Though the pain will never die.

  “The great soldier won’t say he’s a hero,

  Though he fought for the land of the free.

  His sacrifice was for everyone,

  Especially for you and me,

  Especially for you and me.”

  As soon as she finishes, everyone claps. Mrs. Wendy gives Sara a standing ovation from her desk.

  Really? Is this some kind of April Fool’s joke? I have to admit it has a nice melody, but standing-ovation worthy? I look over at Victor. He’s clapping too.

  Of course, Hayley is the first to raise her hand. “I think it’s awesome. I’m sure it w
ill win.”

  A few more kids gush about how the song made them tap their feet, or how the words made them feel grateful … blah blah blah. I’m staring down at my cell phone looking for a photo I can present, when Mrs. Wendy calls my name.

  “Alyssa? What did you think? After all, it’s a song dedicated to your great-grandfather.”

  Yep. I’m perfectly aware that Sara has chosen to write a poem about my bisabuelo for the Trailblazer contest. Been there. Still dealing with it.

  “It would be helpful,” Sara says sweetly.

  All of sudden, I feel everyone’s eyes on me. While everyone waits for my response, Sara bends down to fold her jeans up at her ankles to show her socks. One is lavender, and the other is a bright pink-and-orange-striped sock. She’s wearing mismatched socks! She didn’t forget! She smiles at me. Now I don’t feel like such a dork with my mismatched socks and shoes. I smile back.

  “I think it’s good,” I say finally. Sara takes her seat but glances over at me one more time. Is this a sign that we’ll be best friends again?

  “Good, Alyssa. Would you like to present your project?”

  Augh! If I don’t stand up with something, I’ll look like a scaredy-cat. Still, I have nothing. I grab my cell phone and shuffle up to the front of the class.

  My throat feels dry, and my palms are getting moist. It’s April Fool’s Day, I think. I have an idea. No introduction. I go straight into it.

  “Violets are orange and red,

  Roses are gray and cool,

  I’m not done with my project yet,

  So Happy April Fool’s!”

  I’m still thinking about Sara wearing mismatched socks when something strange and awesome happens at lunchtime—and I don’t mean the April Fool’s lunch special of French bread pizza with worm toppings, which is really chopped pepperoni and onions. I sit down at the usual table and Sara sits down next to me.

  “Worm toppings! Yum!” she says, and nudges me playfully with her elbow. Usually, Victor sits next to me, but I am so happy, I don’t say anything.

  “Did you get some sour lemonade?” I ask her.