The days and weeks went by like the golden-red leaves swirling from the trees. I was still catching up on Utah History and Gov and Civ—everything here was so different from Argentina—but at least I didn’t struggle in math anymore. Now when someone in the class needed help with a particularly hard problem, Mr. Taylor asked me to help out.
The band practices were going well too. Our social media views had skyrocketed, and Donovan had started to make the list of books we would order if we won the Battle of the Bands.
“When we win,” I corrected him every time.
When I started singing with Los Galácticos, time sped up. Maybe it wasn’t that time had stopped for me because I was in the Northern Hemisphere. It had stopped because, without friends, I had put myself on pause. Now every day was filled with activities. And I missed Violeta and Lela, but better yet, I had so many things to tell them when we talked on the phone. I talked to Lela almost every day, and I even managed to introduce her to Estrellita one night when Donovan was over.
* * *
On Halloween, the band and I dressed up as aliens. We had matching green T-shirts and headbands with googly eyes. I loved sharing a secret only the four of us knew.
As the weather got colder, a little dread starting sneaking into my chest.
Mami still hadn’t heard back from the college about extending her contract. She was contracted through the summer, but after that, it was a mystery. The thought of leaving Red Ledges filled me with panic.
If we had to go back to Argentina in August, would I have to do seventh grade a third time?
It would be like being stuck in time, constantly starting over, never finishing anything, leaving parts of me behind open-ended, getting tangled like the fringe of the new scarf Lela had sent me. An even more nightmarish version of that Groundhog Day movie.
One afternoon after school, I was doing homework in the kitchen while Papi cooked a batch of lasagnas. Some families around the neighborhood had hired him to deliver meals a few times a week, and the spinach lasagnas had been his most popular dish so far. By the time the boys and I arrived home from school, Papi had been cooking all day.
I noticed Mateo pacing around the kitchen, looking at Papi and then at me like he was bursting to say something and not knowing how to start.
Finally, when I had to delete the second paragraph of my essay because I kept repeating the same thought, I asked, “Do you need anything, Mati?”
His cheeks went bright red. Was he embarrassed? Papi put the last two trays of lasagna in the oven and turned around to listen to Mateo too.
My brother grinned sheepishly, his pink tongue showing through the gap of his missing teeth. He’d lost about four by now.
“What is it?” Papi asked, drying his hands with his apron.
Mati clasped his hands and gave a big sigh. “Okay, so the teacher said she sent a note, but you haven’t answered. You haven’t seen it?”
Papi’s eyes went wide, and then he slapped his hand on his forehead. “Ay! I saw it, but I didn’t read it. And then the alarm for the white sauce went off and I forgot. That was yesterday.”
He looked at me, asking for permission to use the computer.
I slid the laptop in his direction, careful that it didn’t get dirty with tomato sauce.
Papi checked the email, and then he narrowed his eyes and looked at my brother, who was shrinking and shrinking by the second, hunching his shoulders like he wanted to disappear.
“What happened?” I asked.
By then, Francisco had joined us, his hands full of LEGO pieces. He’d been making a little town for weeks with boxes of LEGO Donovan had brought.
Finally, Papi looked up, and now he was the one who huffed. “Tell me, Mati, why is the teacher asking me to bring a ‘traditional Mexican dish’ for the Winter Festival next week?”
Mati clenched his teeth in the fakest smile I’d ever seen. “Well, she asked for volunteers for food, and I said I’d bring something from where I’m from.”
“And why is she asking me for something Mexican?”
Mateo bit his lip. “Well, that’s because when she asked me where I was from, I said Mexico.”
“Why?” I asked in surprise.
Papi looked at my brother, giving him the time to come up with an answer.
And then Francisco spoke for him, as if he knew exactly what Mateo’s thought process had been. “He said that because it’s the easiest, okay?” His voice was shaky, and his eyes teary. “I get tired of correcting everyone that I’m not from Mexico too. I’m from Argentina. No one believes me because they don’t know where our accents are from. Neither one of us plays soccer like Messi. Mateo’s skin is too dark and his eyebrows are too thick, like that painter Frida’s. Right, Mati?”
Francisco put an arm over Mati’s shoulder, their eyes shiny with tears. “What’s so wrong about going along with what people already think?” Mateo asked.
Papi got on his knees, and my youngest brother went to his arm and hid his face in Papi’s shoulder. But I could tell he was crying.
“Ay, Mati, Mati …” Papi said. “I love Mexico. I love Spain. But when people call me Spanish? I correct them because even though I speak Spanish and some of my ancestors were from Spain, I’m not from there. I was born and raised in Argentina.”
Mateo shook his head. “You don’t understand, Papi. It’s hard to explain to people. Mimilia was born here. She has an American passport, and she hates it here—”
“I don’t hate it,” I said. “Anymore …”
The words had come out without thinking, but they were the truth. My brothers and my dad stared at me.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “I actually like it here now that I finally have friends and I don’t feel like a failure because I understand what people are saying.”
“Do you love it though?” Francisco asked, challenging me with a tilt of his pointy chin.
“I’m learning to.” I wasn’t even lying. “It’s not home … yet. But maybe we don’t have to decide now what our ultimate home is, you know?”
Papi winked at me, and then he ruffled Mateo’s hair. “No need to look embarrassed, Matu.”
Mateo’s eyes were downcast. “But when my teacher finds out I’m not from Mexico, she’s going to think I’ve been lying for months. I corrected her twice. She just … kept forgetting.”
Francisco shrugged. “I mean, when some kids asked me if I’d ever met Messi, I said yes, because remember that one time we went to that restaurant in Mendoza and he’d just left? So his air was still around. It’s not exactly a lie, is it?”
We all laughed at that.
“Still, lying, by saying a lie or staying quiet, isn’t right.” Papi opened a cabinet and brought out his giant recipe book. The one with handwritten notes from generations ago, photocopied pages, yellowing magazine clippings. Like Celestina’s binder of letters, except this was his collection of the foods that had fed and comforted our family since time immemorial.
“I’ll go to your school tomorrow and explain to the teacher. And then I’ll offer to bring a Mexican dish and an Argentine one. Do you want to choose?” he asked, offering my brother the sacred recipe book he never allowed us to touch.
A wistful expression passed on Francisco’s face, and noticing it, Papi said, “What about you choose something too, Francis?”
Francisco nodded, grateful.
My two brothers hugged Papi and then sat at the table, poring over the recipes, arguing in hushed tones about the pros and cons of alfajores de maicena. Cornstarch cookies filled with dulce de leche were delicious, but they were too time-consuming and messy to make.
Papi looked at me and asked, “Do you want me to make something for your friends too? I mean, since I’m cooking already.”
I shrugged. “Sure. Anything you want. My friends already love your cooking.”
I told him about the lunch potlucks we had at school every day.
He laughed. “You know, we might all come from diffe
rent places, have different skin color and political ideologies, but the way to bridge differences hasn’t changed that much in the history of the world.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, scratching my head with my pencil.
“When languages fail or divide, people come together thanks to food and music.”
I thought about one of Celestina’s letters from her journey almost a hundred years ago, and then looked at us these last few months. Papi was right.
Food and music brought people together. Even if we couldn’t pack everything in our tiny suitcases, sharing the music from my heart while we ate had brought me new friends I never expected.
The scent from the lasagnas filled the kitchen.
And when a few minutes later Mami arrived, our rented house felt like it was giving us all a warm hug. After long years of being empty, it loved having us here.
Band practice with Los Galácticos continued to make time slip by. I worked hard at school, but I really measured time from practice to practice—from the moment I saw Estrellita until the next one. Each day my walk over to Donovan’s got chillier. And as the trees became bare, Estrellita started to meet me halfway to Donovan’s, happy to trot alongside me. The festival was approaching quickly, and I loved seeing her lie underneath Beto’s keyboard as we prepared.
Of course, I should’ve known that every time things start feeling comfortable, a crisis is right around the corner, waiting. Mine took me by surprise.
One morning, I was in my bed, rehearsing the song that had been playing in my heart for months, when I didn’t remember how to say rainbow in Spanish.
The realization that I was forgetting my language made me feel sick. I had noticed my brothers—and actually, the whole family—speaking more and more Spanglish and English in the house to make it easier at school. Now I noticed the cost of blending in: losing what made us unique.
I remembered Celestina had gone through a similar thing, and I opened the binder to one of my favorite letters of hers.
Dear Nonna Rosa,
I haven’t heard from you since Easter, and now it’s almost time for Christmas. Mami was upset because she was asked to bring a traditional dish to the community dinner for Christmas Eve, but her vitel toné didn’t turn out the same as back home. My friend Nafiza and her family came to Las Palmas from their new home in Entre Ríos. Her dad makes empanadas árabes. She said he modified a dish from their home to the new flavors and spices he found here, and now everyone loves his lemon beef empanadas. Now that we’ve both been in Argentina for a while, we can actually communicate in Spanish! Still, she’s sad that her little brother is forgetting how to speak in Arabic since there’s not a lot of people to practice with and his schoolteacher insists the family help him integrate by speaking Spanish. It’s the same with my brothers and little cousins. They speak in Spanish constantly, and I fear they’ll forget to speak Neapolitan. What if I forget? I wish there were books in Italian, but the mini library on the teacher’s horseback doesn’t have anything. I asked Mamma for two books for Christmas: The Adventures of Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi or Cuore by Edmondo De Amicis, but she said she can’t find them in Italian.
Since I don’t have anything to read in my language, I write to you only in Italian. So I won’t forget. You’re my link to the Celestina I was back in Napoli. Without her, the one I am today wouldn’t exist.
I wish I could see you soon and give you a hug. Maybe next year you’ll come join us, Nonna?
With love,
Celestina
In my heart I wished that Celestina and Nonna Rosa had the chance to hug each other again, to sing their songs together. But when I had read this letter the first time and asked Lela, she had told me that hadn’t been the case, sadly. They had never seen each other again.
I held the binder against me, glad to have Castellano to read. Glad that Celestina had letters to connect her back to her grandma. I imagined the links going back in generations in many languages, all of them a song.
* * *
Later that day, Mateo came along to band practice with me—our second-to-last before the Battle of the Bands. Francisco was having a birthday dinner with just Mami and Papi. It was all he’d wanted. As a middle child, it was hard for him to get the attention he needed, and he always flew under the radar. The day he’d explained to Papi and me why Mateo had lied to his teacher, it was clear to all of us that Francisco needed some extra love.
But Mateo wasn’t too happy about it. We argued the whole walk to Donovan’s house, and when we opened the door, a wave of negativity greeted us.
After one look at my friends’ grumpy expressions, Mateo said, “I’ll stay in the kitchen with Cookie.”
“Be good, Mati, and don’t make Cookie too hyper, please,” I said, eyeing Karina, who was painting another mural in the living room. When she smiled at me, I noticed the blue streak of paint on her cheek.
Mateo nodded and said, “I brought her favorite story.” It was his favorite book too, about a police officer with the head of a dog. It was ridiculous and funny.
I ruffled his hair and went to sort out what the argument was all about.
When we made it to the garage, Los Galácticos looked at me and different expressions crossed their faces.
“Finally! The voice of reason,” Tirzah said, wrapping an arm over my shoulder.
Donovan’s eyes were narrowed. “Don’t try to win her over before she knows what this is all about. I don’t think she’ll agree with you anyway, but whatever.”
Beto smiled. “Now I can go back to working on the arrangement. Whatever you decide, you have my vote,” he said, and put his headphones on.
Tirzah and Donovan shook their heads.
“Is anyone going to tell me what this is all about?” I asked, dropping my backpack, which landed with a heavy, ominous thud. “Oh no! The tomato marmalade!”
“You brought it?” Donovan said, his eyes glinting with surprise. The argument fell to the wayside in the face of homemade food.
I rummaged in the backpack and took out the jars of tomato marmalade my dad had sent for the band. One extra so we could have it for snacks after we practiced. Luckily none were damaged. The galletas marineras, the homemade crackers, were another story though. Most were broken and pulverized.
“We should have put them in a plastic container instead of a baggy. I’ll let Papi know later. In the meantime, we can use regular saltines.”
Beto nodded at me, confirming my suspicions that he put those headphones on to pretend he was in his own world, but that in truth he could hear everything we said.
Donovan dashed to the kitchen with his jar of marmalade and a few seconds later came back with a box of saltines, a tub of butter, and a pack of Yoo-hoo drinks.
He handed a sleeve of saltines to each one of us and opened the jar of marmalade with a satisfying pop. He’d brought little spoons to spread it, and he dropped a tiny bit of marmalade on his finger. “We’ll see what this is all about …” He licked his finger, and his eyes went so wide I could practically see the fireworks exploding in his mind.
I smiled, delighted. “Your turn,” I said to Tirzah and Beto, who’d momentarily left the keyboard to try my dad’s famous marmalade.
“I was expecting it to be more like ketchup,” Beto confessed, and we all started laughing.
“No wonder you didn’t want to try it!” I exclaimed.
He shrugged and made a cracker and marmalade sandwich. “But since you were always brave trying what we brought to share, it was only fair we gave it a chance.”
Tirzah’s crackers were gone. She rubbed her tummy. She was wearing a reindeer T-shirt that said The OG Unicorns. “Good thing I don’t have to sing,” she said. “I’m so full now.”
I pursed my lips. “That’s why I’m not eating until after practice,” I said. “Now that you’re all fed and happy, tell me what you were all fighting about.”
Tirzah and Donovan exchanged a look, and Beto said, “See you later!” and went bac
k to his keyboard.
Donavan spoke first. “Tirzah had a great idea … You know the song you keep singing when you think no one can hear you? What if we play that one for the Battle of the Bands?”
My face felt like I was on fire, and the feeling spread to my whole body as his words sank in.
“My song? But it’s not finished yet …” I hadn’t been afraid to hum it around the band members, but I had never really shared it with them.
Tirzah’s cheeks were red as well, but she said, “I love how happy you are when you sing it, María Emilia. I can tell the lyrics mean a lot to you, so the boys and I made this arrangement.”
“You made a what?” I asked.
Instead of explaining, the three of them played the same melody I’d been humming for months on their instruments. I’d never heard one of my own songs played by someone else. All that was missing was my voice. Was I ready to share this part of me with them?
But then I remembered my desire to pay it forward. To find a way for my story to help someone else.
What better way to send a message out to the world than a song that had come straight from the heart? Celestina had her letters, and I had my songs. Each one of us had found a way to record our story. Who knew? Perhaps a hundred years in the future, a descendant of Los Galácticos would sing this song when they felt like an alien.
First I sang it softly, but before I knew it, the song broke free.
In the end, my friends surprised me by repeating the last line—those you love are never far—in Spanish and Portuguese. Beto rapped in a language I’d never heard before, but it was so powerful, that when his last note rang, it still echoed on the walls.
“What was that?” I asked, tears stinging my eyes.
Leaving the drums, Tirzah placed a placating hand on my arm and said, “Okay, I’m going to tell you the whole story … This is what happened.” She sat on the sofa and wrapped herself in one of the rebozos that were there in a pile. “I was home last night, and my grandma was on the computer with my cousin Becca from Rio. I was singing your song in my room. I hadn’t picked up all the lyrics, but you always sing that one line. I didn’t know it carried all the way to the kitchen. But later, my grandma told me that Becca cried even though she couldn’t tell what the words said. I roughly translated it into Portuguese for her. She loved it and said that you must sing a verse in Spanish, and I in Portuguese. And then when I came over and told these two, Beto said that he could say a few things in Garifuna so his family knew what he really felt, and I had an idea.”
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