Karina smiled even wider than before. She was positively glowing with happiness.
My brothers and my parents had saved us seats in the second row, as far up front as they could, and I went to kiss them one last time before it was my time to go onstage.
“Remember to sing with your heart, pajarita,” Papi said.
My brothers gave me the thumbs-up, and I left, my legs shaking.
Backstage, I stood with my band members, Los Galácticos, dressed in our Halloween costumes. These aliens that had taken me in like a family.
“No matter what, let’s have fun first. Okay?” said Beto, whose serious side always emerged during the most critical times.
“Donovan …” I said.
Tirzah and Beto sent him a charged look, and Donovan’s face softened.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice already wobbly. “I didn’t want you to know I’d made a mistake. But we’re friends, and we’re a band, and I should have told you.”
He pressed his lips. “I’m the one who’s sorry. The important thing is that Cookie is safe now. Thanks to you.”
With relief, I rushed in for a hug, and Tirzah and Beto piled in behind me. I was still squeezed in the group hug when the principal announced our name and the charity we had chosen to sponsor: the book mobile.
I followed my band onstage. Ashley Jane and her mom were sitting right behind my family. I waved at her, and she waved back.
The audience applauded for a few seconds, and then there was deep silence.
In the movies they say that before your death, your life flashes in front of your eyes. Turns out it also does when your life is going to change forever, when you’re about to become a new person and need to tell the old you that everything will be okay. As I held my entire past in my heart, I finally felt my sorrow melt into gratitude because, without all those difficulties, I never would’ve made it so far.
I said thank you to the old María Emilia, who would forever be part of me. I was excited to see what I would become, without the pressure of expectations.
Donovan played the first chords. Tirzah followed with the beat of her drums, and immediately, my heart echoed it. Beto played the melody on the keyboard and gave me my note.
I took a deep breath and made my voice ring.
At first, I panicked, knowing that I was slightly off pitch, my voice too timid to take up space. I went back inside my mind and closed my eyes.
I let my heart take over and pushed on.
The change was electric, like a current running all the way from my heart to the hearts of all the people in the audience.
I let the melody take me, smiling through the tears welling in my eyes. But I blinked them away because I wanted to remember this sight forever.
Then the chorus arrived, and Tirzah sang her piece in Portuguese, her voice clear as a bell. Beto joined in words that sounded like a lullaby. Donovan sang looking at his brother, sitting in the audience and mouthing the words back at him. Before I lost my courage, I sang.
In Spanish. With words from all my ancestors and the people that had built my country.
In the Spanish of my Mendoza accent, that carried the music of forgotten mother tongues. The accent that sounded nothing like the one from Buenos Aires that people kept expecting, but one that I was proud of.
It was the sound of my heart, what I spoke in my dreams when there was no one to impress.
By the time the second line in the chorus came around, the whole audience was clapping and singing along.
The guitar and keyboard went silent. Tirzah clapped with her drumsticks, and everyone clapped and sang, in a cacophony of sounds, the audience off-key and off tempo, but all united in letting our hearts speak truth.
And in that truth, we were all the same, united.
My family gathered around the computer as Lela, Tía Yoana, and Violeta gave us the news. “Make room for us! In a couple of weeks, we’ll be there to spend New Year’s with you!” Lela exclaimed.
“Mami!” I exclaimed, shocked that my parents had kept this surprise from me.
“And we’re bringing your lost suitcase, Mimilia!” Violeta said, moving the screen so I could see my battered little suitcase. It was covered in airline stickers. “It arrived a couple of days ago.”
I started singing with joy, while Cookie, who we were dog-sitting for the weekend, jumped around me on her two hind legs.
My brothers ran to make a bed for Lela, Tía, and Violeta. But I totally intended to have many sleepover nights with my grandma, my aunt, and my cousin in the attic room. The whole family celebrated long after our phone chat was over. Celestina had never seen her grandma again, but I would get to see mine.
Later that night, I sat by my window, wearing my Galácticos shirt, rubbing Cookie’s ears, and watching the stars blinking in the sky, and found Celestina’s Polaris. I’d had my dad point out the star my great-great-grandma had wished upon so many times before she immigrated, so that I could always find it. I was part of her wishes come true.
I’d sung my song, and even so many generations later, her feelings and dreams still lived in me. Just as the stars were eternal compared to the briefness of humans’ lives, her wishes turned into music had reached me, all these years later.
And as if that weren’t enough, I had a little star of my own who I knew would always be with me … one way or another.
Those we love are never far …
Writing this book was an amazing opportunity to explore my own experience as an immigrant in the United States. Although I was a little older than María Emilia when I first arrived in this country, I too faced the same frustrations over my accent and not being able to understand people when I’d been studying English all my life! The food tasted so different, and it was very hard to have two winters in a row. Unlike María Emilia, I immigrated by myself and I didn’t see my family for several years before some moved to the United States. I missed them every moment, and I miss them now.
This book is for the brave children—like my youngest brother, nieces, and nephews—who had to adjust to a new life in a foreign language.
This story wouldn’t have been possible without the support and inspiration of my wonderful editor, Olivia Valcarce, a fellow Argentine to whom this book is dedicated. ¡Gracias!
Thank you to editor Aimee Friedman, a daughter of immigrants too, and the whole team at Scholastic, including Jana Haussmann, Caroline Flanagan, Jennifer Rinaldi, Yaffa Jaskoll, Victoria Velez, Julia Eisler, Danielle Yadao, Kristin Standley, and everyone else who helps get my books in the hands of readers.
Linda Camacho, my superagent, thank you for believing in me and my stories.
Amigas queridas: Veeda, Aída, Amparo, Yuli, Romy, Olivia, and Las Musas for our retreat before the world went upside down!
To Mauricio Borba, Florencia Bellittieri, and Leticia Patrone Jessen, my first friends in the United States, my family. No sé qué hubiera hecho sin ustedes. ¡Los quiero!
Natalie Mickelson, Verónica Muñoz, and Rachel Seegmiller for making it possible for me to be a writer!
To my family in Argentina, Puerto Rico, and all over the United States, I love you.
Jeffrey, Julián, Magalí, Joaquín, Areli, and Valentino, everything is for you.
To the teachers, mentors, and librarians: For embracing the children who arrive in this country whatever their circumstances and nurturing not only their minds, but also their hearts, thank you!
And to you, dear reader, always remember, those you love are never far.
Yamile (sha-MEE-lay) Saied Méndez was born and raised in Rosario, Argentina. She has lived most of her life in a lovely valley surrounded by mountains in the United States with her husband, five kids, two dogs, and one majestic cat. She loves meteor showers, music, and the internet because it makes it possible for her to talk to her family scattered all over the world. She’s a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts and a founding member of Las Musas. Connect with her at yamilesmendez.com.
&nbs
p; Turn the page for a sneak peek at Random Acts of Kittens by Yamile Saied Méndez!
It was all the cat’s fault.
In my defense, I only fed it once. Really, how could I have resisted that sweet face? Yesterday when I saw it sitting on the snow-covered picnic table in my backyard, I snuck out of the house and placed a can of organic tuna nearby. I should have known that small decision would wreck my life. Hadn’t I learned time after time that no good deed goes unpunished?
Twenty-four hours after my spur-of-the-moment kindness, I heard the telltale sounds of something hungry rummaging in the garbage, apparently looking for more free food. If she heard the noise, Mami would send me out to check. Did she even care that I had things to do or that I was sick with a virus? I didn’t dare ask aloud in case the answer hurt more than swallowing rice pudding did.
Just when I thought Mami hadn’t heard anything, she muted the cheery Puerto Rican Christmas music on her phone and asked, “What’s making that escándalo outside?”
I kept typing at the computer, pretending I couldn’t hear the racket, as she’d called it.
“Shhh, Natalia, listen,” she whispered, and put the pudgy plastic succulent leaf down on the table. She was making flower arrangements for one of her commissions.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. The sound of a can clanking on the driveway echoed all the way into the kitchen.
Silly cat. I told it to keep the secret between us. If my mom found out I’d been feeding a stray, she’d ground me for the rest of winter break. Today was only the first day, and as soon as I shook off this bug, I intended to have the most unforgettable staycation ever.
Mami narrowed her eyes and shook her head, as if she could imagine nothing good happening outside. “Go and make sure the garbage bins are lidded, and while you’re at it, take them to the curb. Tomorrow’s garbage day.”
Although I knew this was coming, I still groaned. “Why is the garbage my job?”
But now she was the one pretending to have selective hearing. “I don’t want our leftovers attracting sabandijas,” she said. “Poor little chickens; they never hurt a soul. They were the happiest creatures ever.”
Happy creatures? I almost laughed. Give me a break. Mrs. Lind’s rooster would crow its heart out at dark o’clock every morning (and, I swear, even earlier on weekends and holidays). This week I’d slept in for the first time in ages. I was grateful the raccoon, or whatever it was, had eaten the chickens.
A terrible possibility flashed in my mind—had the cat eaten the chickens?
No way. The cat I’d fed was too small. It didn’t even have a tail, just a fluff. But what if the cat had really been that hungry? I knew nothing about cats. I’d have to ask my best friend, Reuben, if it was possible for such a small animal to have that big of an appetite.
I only had time to type the question when Mami said, “Natalia …”
“What, Mami?” I rolled my eyes. “I’m talking with Reuben!”
Reuben was also home sick with the same virus. I told him a million times not to drink from my water bottle, but did he ever listen?
When she didn’t reply, I swiveled in the computer chair to look at her.
“You’re always talking with Reuben. Since you’re on that computer all day, you could spend a little minute to send your father a note.” She smiled tightly and bobbed her head from side to side.
And this woman wondered who I got the attitude from.
I swiveled the chair back to break the eye contact, but I could still see her reflection on the screen and the smirk on her face. Writing to my dad was a topic I didn’t want to discuss right now. Or ever.
“Why are you asking me to do it?” I tried to change the subject.
“Because I did it last time and I had to clean up the mess you left. You always leave the lids on the ground.”
“I never!” I said … even though I might have left them on the ground last time. But what was I supposed to do? The bin had been full. “Can’t you ask Beli?” I forced a cough and grabbed at my throat for emphasis.
Mami laughed. “Seriously?”
Of course she would never ask my grandma. Beli was a guest, and a reluctant one to boot. She loved us, but she was used to the year-round summer weather in Puerto Rico and hated the cold. She was now in her room, the heater blasting as she watched TV. She wouldn’t leave the house unless it was absolutely necessary—or if my sister, Julieta, invited her to go shopping or something.
“What about Julieta, your favorite?” As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I wanted to bite my tongue. Telling the truth always got me in trouble.
Mami didn’t answer. Of course she wouldn’t send Juli to do anything as undignified as checking on raccoons in the garbage. Julieta always did everything perfectly right, like writing to my dad every week without being asked, plus keeping up with her own dad. She called my dad Papi and hers Dad, and they both adored her. She was everyone’s favorite.
I stomped to the door and made a show of putting my puffy red jacket on.
“Gracias, y por favor stop it with that favorite business,” Mami said, looking smug. “Your sister has been an angel lately. You could learn from her that when you spread kindness, you attract good things in your life.”
Julieta wasn’t an angel, not to me at least, and seriously, my previous experience proved that kindness didn’t always bring good things. I’d fed the cat and now it was practically haunting me.
I made a dramatic exit through the kitchen door that led to the carport, flipping my hair out of my face. Right next to the door was a photo of Papi in his fancy army uniform. Mami had put photos of him all over the house. This one sat on the wall shelf as if he were one of those peeping holiday elves.
The door slammed behind me in the wind, and I heard the photo frame fall. I cringed. Oops. Mami would think I’d thrown the door shut on purpose.
She didn’t understand. It’s not like I could spread kindness like honey butter on a warm dinner roll. When I’d been nice in the past, people like Meera Rogers had thought I was dumb and taken advantage of me. Never again!
Now, I was pretty sure that as—and I quote Mrs. Snow, the principal—“the most controversial student in Andromeda Elementary,” kind wasn’t the first word that popped into people’s minds when they thought of me.
If Papi were here, he wouldn’t send me out, or he’d at least come to check on the noise with me. He’d make it into an adventure. Although he loved Juli, he didn’t really play favorites, but a part of me liked to think I was his. Now he’d been gone for months, and who knew when he’d be back?
I told myself not to think about it too much and walked toward the bins.
“Gato!” I called in a whisper-shout.
The cat didn’t answer, but I saw little paw prints marking the pristine snow. I followed them all the way to the bins lined up by the wall. I glanced up across the street. The Rogerses’ house was lit up and decorated for the season, unlike ours. Mami had said this Christmas would be like any other, but the truth was that without Papi nothing was the same. We hadn’t even put up a tree.
The Rogerses always had a lot of company over. I recognized their grandparents’ car parked at their curb. At least there was no sign of my ex–best friend, Meera. Seeing her every day at school was bad enough. Crossing paths with her in the neighborhood and witnessing her perfect family was the worst.
More crumpling sounds called me to the task at hand.
When I looked behind the bin and yelled, “Fuah!” all I saw was the same scared, small, hungry cat I’d fed yesterday.
It stood frozen, an old slice of pepperoni pizza in its mouth. In the almost darkness, the cat looked black, but yesterday I’d been fascinated with the different colors of its fur—white tummy and feet, red on one side of its face, and black on the other.
“Whew!” I exclaimed. “You’re lucky I found you! Better be careful! My mom will call animal control if she sees you.”
The cat flattened its ears ag
ainst its head.
Raising my hand, I quickly said, “I come in peace.”
Poor cat just stared at me, breathing fast. It didn’t have a collar, but it wasn’t a pest, a sabandija. It hadn’t jumped at me to claw off my face yet. When I stretched out my hand to pet the gatito, it sniffed at me and took a step in my direction. Right then, a neighborhood dog suddenly barked, and the cat darted away straight to our storage shed, where Mami kept old flower arrangement materials and other craft things. She hardly ever went in there in the winter, so it was the secret hiding place for all my forbidden slime supplies.
Yesterday after I fed the cat, I’d gone in there to play with my favorite slime recipes. I’d saved a few tubs from the big purge. It had taken a while for Pink Rose, Slime Supreme’s bestselling scent, to soften in my hands, but the work kneading it had been worth it. Playing with slime always soothed me.
Now I couldn’t remember if I’d closed the door tightly when I left the shed.
Before I checked to make sure the cat didn’t get into any of Mami’s things, I dragged the bins to the curb, huffing and puffing with the effort.
While I was fighting with the wind for the lid to stay put on top, Meera Rogers walked out of her house with her dog, Captain America.
I didn’t want her to see me, so I stood still, hoping to blend into the shadows. Nothing escaped Cap’s attention, though, and he saw me, of course. He barked, all friendly, saying hi. He didn’t understand Meera and I weren’t friends anymore. But when I looked over, I caught Meera’s eye by accident.
Hurriedly, I smashed the garbage bags with the lid and ran inside my house. I’d have to wait to go check on the cat. I turned to lock the door and almost bumped into Beli.
“What were you doing out in the cold so long, mi amor?” she asked. “Your sore throat won’t ever go away if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“Mami sent me to take the trash out.” I tried not to whine.
“In this cold?”
I nodded while holding a hand to my throat and sending Mami a look that meant See? which she ignored.
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