by Beth Turley
“This isn’t about the sun, Cassi. It’s always like this. You’re always like that.”
She says “that” the way someone would say “wrong” or “bad” or “lost.” I watch Daniella tug her dark curls, adjust her dress, and walk out. My heart prickles the way it did when the girls in my Communion class thought I couldn’t speak Spanish. Like it did at the Welcome to Middle School dance for sixth graders last year, my first school dance ever.
Ben, Jac, and I were in a spot at the edge of the dancing area. All the popular kids were in the middle. Part of me wanted to be there in there with them, where the chaperones kept breaking up couples that were dancing too close, but I wouldn’t have known what to do if I had been in the center. My body moved too awkwardly to the music, like my limbs and the song couldn’t communicate with each other. I imagined a spotlight beaming down on me, showing the whole world I wasn’t ready for a Welcome to Middle School dance. I told Jac and Ben I’d be right back and went to stand by the refreshment table. I watched my best friends—one whose whole life was a musical number and the other who didn’t know how to care what people thought. I stayed in my spot in the corner and drank fruit punch until the sugar made me queasy.
Daniella had her door open when I got home.
“Hey, I’ve been waiting for you. I want to hear everything,” she called out.
I didn’t answer. I closed the door hard and curled up in my bed. The pebble CASSANDRA sign banged around. I knew how the sign felt. Rattled.
Daniella came in a minute later. I didn’t have to look to be sure it was her. I knew the sound of my sister’s footsteps. She sat on the edge of my bed.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I don’t fit in,” I answered.
“Fitting in is overrated.”
“Of course you can say that. You always fit in. Everywhere.”
Daniella put a hand on my shoulder and tried to roll me over. I wouldn’t budge.
“Want to tell me what we’re talking about here?”
I tried to stop thinking about dancing with boys, and big bowls of blood-red fruit punch. About women on TV who dance in bright dresses with flowers in their hair. About my own family who flew in from Florida and Puerto Rico for my grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary party, the Spanish music loud, their movements as smooth as water.
“I can’t dance. I’m supposed to be able to dance. Like you and Mom and all the Titis.”
Daniella laughed under her breath.
“It’s meant to be fun, Cass. If you only focus on how you look, then it’s not going to be,” she said, and then stuck her arms under my body and tried to lift me.
“What are you doing?” I shouted.
“Either come on your own or I will carry you.”
I didn’t move. Daniella picked me up. I pretended to struggle as she brought me across the hall to her room and then deposited me onto her carpet.
“Now what?” I asked.
Daniella set up her speaker, and it started playing a fast song with lyrics in both Spanish and English.
“Dance,” she said.
I crossed my arms.
“Did you not hear me before? I can’t.”
She reached out and grabbed my hands. Her hips swung to the music, her arms moving to the same beat of the song, taking mine along.
“Yes. You can. Just move.” She mouthed the lyrics.
I started with my feet, little side to side movements that I tried to match to Daniella’s. Then my shoulders joined in with circle motions.
“Like this?” I asked.
“However you want! That’s the point.” Daniella smiled our same sister smile. The song’s chorus started again, and I let myself move until I was too dizzy and breathless to care what I looked like.
I guess it’s not good enough to stumble around on Daniella’s carpet anymore. I need mathematical proof of who I am—a tan color in my skin or a dark, satiny shine to my hair. Hips that know what to do when a song comes on. But in the mirror there is only paleness and red patches. Long, rhythm-less arms. Split ends like dried-out straw.
I walk out of the bathroom. Either the hallway has changed or I have. Everything is upside down. Buela steps out of the room.
“Come, Fantasma. We’re doing a prayer.”
Ghost. The word punches and leaves a bruise. She doesn’t call me “Fantasma” because I’m special. She does it because I’m different.
I walk back into room 201 and stand next to Mom. I bow my head while the church women recite the Hail Mary in Spanish. My legs stick out from my shorts, strikingly white, and tears burn hot in my eyes. I’m afraid to look away from my knees, or at Daniella, or at the women with their rosary beads. If anyone really looks at me, they’ll see what Daniella sees. They’ll realize I’m not one of them.
* * *
I’m in a classroom I’ve never seen before. The floor is made of sand instead of tile. Seashells are scattered all over. I reach down for a fan-shaped one close to my feet, but it moves farther away each time I try to grab it.
“Cassi Chord,” I hear a voice say. I straighten back up. A teacher stands in front of the classroom with an attendance sheet.
“Here,” I answer. The teacher’s eyes scan across the sand.
“Cassi Chord?”
There’s no one else in the room.
“Here,” I say louder.
The teacher looks back and forth again. A chart on the wall features perfectly round, colored circles, the names written underneath in Spanish. Café, verde, azul. Colors of the earth and trees and water.
“I’ll say it one more time. Cassi Chord.”
My heart fills with anger and fear and loneliness.
“I’m Cassi,” I scream. “I’m Cassi!”
The teacher finally looks at me over her thin, wiry glasses.
“No. You’re not.”
5 Mapleton
Math Olympics meets in Mr. G’s classroom. The windows face the parking lot, and the digits of pi border the walls on glossy strips of paper. Mr. G had us memorize the first thirty numerals as part of his algebra class last year. Sometimes I wonder how a brain decides what to hold on to. Like, I’ve forgotten who was at my sixth birthday party, but I can remember that my name was spelled wrong on the cake. Happy Birthday, Cassy. Daniella tried to fix it, but the letters smeared together.
I sit at a desk by the window and don’t let myself think about the nightmare. There is no sand and no shells. This is where you learned about prime numbers.
“You should all be proud of yourselves.” Mr. G stands in front of the lesson he’s written on the board. Lesson One of Math Olympics: Begin with the process of elimination. What doesn’t belong? His tie is covered in sevens. “You needed an A average in your math courses to get here, and you’ve done it.”
I look around to see who else is in the room. Sage Gordon is in the front row, wearing a blue sundress with yellow flowers. Her hair is white-blond, like Jac’s before she put Kool-Aid in it. Everyone calls her “Sage the Great.” At the Welcome to Middle School dance, she had her hair in spiral curls, and danced with three different boys. I remember thinking that she’d never be stuck in a corner with a fruit punch mustache. I guess that’s one of those things my brain decided to hold on to.
Sage’s best friend, Allie Prince, sits behind her. The boy to Allie’s left must be new because I’ve never seen him at school before. Emilio Rivera is in the seat next to me. His skin is tan and shiny. He was in my Communion class at Saint Anthony’s. I wonder if he heard those girls talk about my scarecrow hair. I run a hand across my head to tame the fly-aways.
“Does anyone have any questions?” No one raises a hand. Mr. G shrugs. “I guess I have nothing to teach you, then. Club dismissed.”
“What are the competitions like?” Allie blurts. Her hair is pulled up in a perfect red ponytail. Her lacy white shirt shows the freckles on her arms.
“The one question I can’t answer. I’ve never had a club qualify, seventh or e
ighth grade. Are you all going to be my first?”
We cheer back at him. I’m all wrapped up in numbers the way Mr. G’s classroom is wrapped in pi.
“You’ll have to become a team. That means getting to know each other better. Starting with…” He drops his voice low. “Two truths and a lie. Pick a partner and break that ice.” He imitates breaking something. It looks like he’s pulling a heart apart.
Sage picks Allie. Emilio pairs with Markus Ferris, who wears his hair in cornrows and takes a pre-calculus class at the high school. I feel a pang of appreciation for Jac. She always claims me as her partner during group work. In Metals last year, she hissed like a cobra if anyone else tried to be my Drill Bud (Mr. Windsor’s take on “drill bit”).
“You can pair with Cassi-no-e Chord,” Mr. G says to the new kid, like the most remarkable thing about me is that my name is missing a letter.
Insanely tall (almost two yardsticks) + beige T-shirt and olive-green cargo shorts + shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes = The new kid.
“Should I go first?” he asks when he sits at the desk in front of mine. His voice sounds like it comes from deep in his chest.
“Sure,” I say.
He sits up straighter.
“This is the fifth town I’ve lived in with a tree in its name. I build incredible birdhouses. I’m actually terrible at math.”
I search for clues. The new kid has rough patches on his hands, which could confirm the birdhouse thing. The living in five towns might be a lie. Or maybe it seems far-fetched to me because I’ve lived in Mapleton my whole life.
“Any guesses?” the new kid asks.
I clear my throat and my thoughts.
“Your lie is that you’re bad at math. You wouldn’t be here if you were.”
“Correct. Ten points to Cassi-no-e Chord,” he says.
“Just ‘Cassi’ is fine,” I say.
“I’m Aaron Kale.” He pushes his hair out of his face. I look closer at this birdhouse builder who has lived in five towns named after trees. His eyes are amber-colored. He has three birthmarks plotted like an acute triangle on his neck. It’s a funny list of things to know about someone.
Maybe that’s just how people get to know each other. In little sets of facts.
“Why have you moved so much?” I ask. Aaron shifts in his seat like I threw a heavy weight on him.
“My dad is writing a memoir about a father-son trip through tree towns. But to write a memoir you have to live the memories first. So that’s what we’re doing.”
I imagine myself as a pale birch tree, my branches stretching upward to a sleet-gray winter sky. I think Aaron would be an oak. He seems pretty sturdy.
“What were the other tree towns like?”
He shakes his head.
“You can’t get out of this that easy. It’s your turn. Lie to me.”
In my head, Daniella’s voice says, You can’t get rid of me that easy. I see her face lit by the fire pit, feel the air like a warm cloud around the Chordays.
I push her lie away and come up with my own.
“I’m Puerto Rican. I’ve broken a bone. And I have a cousin who also goes to this school.”
“You’re not Puerto Rican.”
He says it so fast. His words are like thorns pressed into my ghost-white bark—I mean, skin.
“Why’d you guess that?”
Aaron points to Lesson One of Math Olympics. “I eliminated.”
“Show your work,” I say, like a teacher writing on a test in red pen. Aaron’s forehead creases.
“Well, I met a Jac Chord in my English class earlier, so I’m assuming that’s your cousin. Nice hair, by the way. And you don’t really look Puerto Rican, but you do look strong enough to handle a broken bone.”
“And how does someone look Puerto Rican?” Anger laces my question, ignites in my chest. I add too quick to assume to my set of Aaron Facts.
“Uh. I picked the wrong one. I’m really sorry.” He waits for me to say something. I don’t. “I’ll quit Math Olympics right now if you want me to. Seriously.”
Aaron grips his chair, ready to push himself up. I think he might actually walk out if I tell him to. He reminds me a little of Jac.
Mr. G taps a marker against the whiteboard. The class quiets down.
“Watch your step, people, because you broke the ice all over this place.” He pretends to wobble on slippery ground.
Aaron doesn’t go back to where he started. He keeps facing me.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “Forgive me, and I’ll tell you a story from every tree town I’ve lived in.”
Stories like Buelo used to tell + befriending a stranger = Maybe forgetting to feel like a stranger in my own skin.
But the anger still feels too hot for me to forgive him just yet.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. He nods and turns around.
Mr. G starts his lesson on the process of elimination. It can be used on all types of problems, like multiple choice or true-or-false. He tells us that sometimes a problem will trick us with unnecessary information. We can eliminate that, too.
Sunlight glares off the late buses outside an hour later. Mr. G dismisses us, and I see Mom’s maroon minivan parked in the lot, waiting for me. A folded piece of paper slides across my desk while I pack up my notes and new Math Olympics workbook.
“The first story. I hope it helps with your decision,” Aaron says. He slings his backpack over his shoulder before walking out. I unfold the piece of paper.
Mapleton: I met Cassi Chord, cousin of Jac Chord. She is Puerto Rican. She has never broken a bone.
A set of Cassi Facts.
6 Shavasana
Six.
Mom squeezes Daniella’s leg and whispers “Todo estara bien” for the sixth time since we left for Saturday Yoga in Carnation Park. Everything will be fine. Mom saw the ad for yoga in the Mapleton Parks and Rec catalog. She circled it with the pencil she uses for sudoku and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet from Pepper’s Pizza.
“I don’t really feel like going,” Daniella said before we got into the car this morning.
“That’s exactly why we are doing it. A few deep breaths of fresh air can change a person’s entire mind-set.” Mom blocked the front door like she wasn’t letting Daniella back inside, no matter what she said.
I think it would take an oxygen tank of fresh air to change Daniella’s mind-set.
“Aunt Flora, is it true there’s a yoga pose where you lie there and do nothing?” Jac asks from the bucket seat next to mine. She has her hair tied up in two blue buns.
“You don’t do nothing. You breathe. You reflect,” Mom says.
“But the ‘lying there’ part is true,” Jac says.
Daniella whips her head around. “Do you ever turn off?” she snaps.
I expect Jac to flash her creepy smile and say, Never. Instead her eyes widen and shift to the window. Daniella’s always been the one to call Jac out on her antics, but not like that.
“Be nice,” Mom whispers.
Daniella leans her head to the side. Her dark braid swings. The Carnation Park sign is ahead, obscured by flowers and ferns and grass. We drive through the entrance and into the dirt lot.
“Sorry,” Daniella mumbles, like she’s apologizing to her reflection in the window.
“Todo estara bien.” Mom squeezes Daniella’s leg again. I wonder if she’s saying it more to herself than Daniella.
Seven.
We park, and Jac bursts from the minivan. Mom gets out too. For a second it’s just me and the back of Daniella’s head. I wonder if she’d even turn around if I screamed.
Mom hands me a purple yoga mat from the back when I get out. Jac has the blue one tucked under her arm. Mom takes out the two pink ones left and closes the door. She leans them up against the car, then looks at us.
“Your cousin doesn’t mean to take her feelings out on you, Jac. She’s going through some growing pains.”
“What are those?
” Jac asks.
Mom smiles tightly. “It’s like how your knees hurt when you get taller. Except it’s her heart stretching out in difficult places. The pain goes away in time.”
Jac nods and waves her yoga mat around like an oversize magic wand. Like she can conjure up a spell to take Daniella’s growing pains away. Mom taps on the back window. Daniella doesn’t move.
“Go ahead. We’ll meet you.” She hits the glass with her whole palm this time.
Jac and I walk toward the open field. A few women are out there, unrolling their mats in the sun-scorched grass. Some of their leggings are black, some are leopard print, and some are bright neon like Easter eggs.
“How long do you think those growing pains last?” Jac asks, tugging on one of her buns.
I look over my shoulder. Daniella still hasn’t gotten out of the car. I try not to think of her heart being stretched like a rubber band.
“Until it stops hurting, I guess.” Our flip-flops slap the concrete.
“We were all supposed to stick together even when she went to high school.”
“We are. Like super-est superglue.” I don’t even convince myself. The two-year difference between Daniella and the rest of us never mattered before. Now we might as well be a hundred years apart.
“ ‘Super-est.’ Interesting. Maybe stick to the math.”
The field is wide and turns into woods at the edges. A wooden fence separates the field from the parking lot. I walk through the gap in the beams. Jac leaps over them.
We lay our mats in the back row, leaving room for Daniella and Mom. Daniella sets her spot up next to mine but puts five feet of space between us. Farther than the distance between our bedrooms.
The yoga instructor’s name is Lola. She wears striped leggings and a matching headband.
“Welcome,” she says. I can tell she’s trying hard to sound serene. “This class is designed for all skill levels. Follow along with what you can. I’ll come around and show you how to modify what you can’t.”
Lola folds into different positions. The class copies her moves. I lunge and bend and lift my arms, face leaned up to the sun, lungs full of fresh air. Lola calls it the Warrior pose. Maybe Mom was right about the transformative power of a deep breath. It does adjust my mind-set.