Lucky Luna

  To Aunt Beatrice, in loving memory

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  La prima

  Olvidar

  El chisme

  El Domingo

  La luna

  La cocina

  La abuela

  ¿Dónde está?

  La amiga

  La semana

  Enojado

  Ándale

  La guitarra

  Otra vez

  Buenos días

  El problema

  El nombre

  Las moscas

  La galleta

  La noche

  Hablar

  El desayuno

  El fin de semana

  La respuesta

  La familia

  Glossary of Chapter Titles

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  My cousin Mirasol is having a quinceañera, a celebration for her fifteenth birthday. All of my primas on Dad’s side are here, and most of them are dancing in beautiful purple dresses because they’re damas, which is the same thing as saying “ladies in a royal court.” I’m not a dama, so I don’t get to wear a purple dress. I’m not dancing, and neither is Mabel, the most loyal friend in the world.

  Mabel and I sit right by the dance floor. Everybody else is twirling and doing fancy steps in front of us. I can’t help tapping my feet, and when I glance over, Mabel’s tapping her feet, too. Then my parents pass right in front of us.

  “Come on, Lucky Luna!” Mom says. “You can’t sit there all night.” My dad lifts his arm, and she spins under it, three times. I’m dizzy just watching.

  “Why don’t you want to dance?” Mabel asks.

  I cross my arms. “I’m protesting because I’m not in the royal court. I have too many primas, and they took all the spots.”

  “How many cousins do you have anyway?”

  I shrug. Then I get a great idea. “Maybe I should count them.”

  We stand on our chairs to see the entire dance floor. One, two, three—I’m pointing as I count—four, five …

  Oh no! Some of my primas moved.

  I start over. One, two, three, four, five, six …

  Wait a minute. I can’t remember which cousins I’ve already counted.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …

  It’s impossible. Even if I could count the primas here tonight, it wouldn’t cover everyone. I’m here with my dad’s side of the family, but I have a whole other group from my mom’s side. I’m never with all my primas in the same place at the same time because we’d have to rent a football stadium to make that happen.

  “I give up!” I say to Mabel. “My cousins keep moving, and lots of them are wearing purple dresses. It’s like counting goldfish in a pond. Have you ever tried to count goldfish in a pond?”

  Mabel shakes her head. “No, but I did try counting the stars one night. I had to give up because there are just so many of them. At first, I felt sad, but then I realized that every star is a wish. Can you imagine it? A sky of countless wishes?”

  “No,” I answer. “But I can imagine a sky of countless primas.” As I say this, I picture all of my cousins’ faces peering down at me and I shudder.

  “I wish I had a bunch of girl cousins,” Mabel says. “I have a few, but they’re in the Philippines. This is how many times I’ve seen them.” She curls her fingers and makes a zero.

  “Better than seeing them every day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because every time I’m in trouble, a cousin is involved.”

  Mabel scratches her head, which means she’s thinking. Then she says, “But—and before I say anything else, promise you won’t get mad?”

  I put my hand over my heart. “I promise.”

  “Well,” Mabel continues, “you get in trouble at school—not all the time but sometimes—and your cousins aren’t even there.”

  She has a good point but only because she doesn’t have all the facts. “It’s still their fault,” I explain. “When I forget my homework, it’s because a prima came over to my house and distracted me. When I don’t forget my homework but get the answers wrong, it’s because a prima helped me. And when I get in trouble for other stuff, it’s because a prima planted a bad idea in my head.”

  Mabel laughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just imagined a bunch of leaves coming out of your ears when you said ‘planted.’”

  I laugh, too, but then I get back to the topic. “So there you have it. Too many primas is a bad-luck thing, especially when your cousin is having a quinceañera and she doesn’t ask you to be in her royal court.”

  This is the first time Mabel’s been to a quinceañera, so I tell her that only fourteen girls (one for each year of the birthday girl’s life) get to be damas. First, Mirasol asked a few friends. The rest of the slots went to primas, but I didn’t get picked. My dad has six siblings, and his oldest sister, Tía Margo, has five daughters, one after the other. We call them the “quins,” short for “quintuplets.” Two are already twentysomething, but the others are still teenagers. And that’s not counting my dad’s other siblings and all of their daughters. Most are older than me, so they get to have all the fun.

  The worst part is not being in the official photograph! A few weeks ago, Mirasol and her damas wore their fancy dresses and went to the fountains in front of the art museum for a photo shoot with a professional photographer. When they gave a copy of the picture to my abuela, she framed and hung it in her hallway next to other photos of fancy events. I’m not in a single one, so it’s like I don’t exist at all.

  I moped around after seeing that picture, and no one could cheer me up. Then Mirasol invited me to her house a few days later. She apologized and explained that she chose by age, starting with the oldest, because she didn’t want to pick favorites. Then she painted my fingernails. She even drew little palm trees on my ring fingers with a glittery dot for the coconut. It was hard to be sad after that. Still, she should have picked the nicest cousins instead of oldest because that would have been me for sure.

  I glance around the dance hall and search for Mirasol. She’s posing for pictures beneath un arco covered in purple flowers. Her beautiful white dress has lots of ruffles and lace, and she has a tiara sparkling in her blond hair. Her hair’s not really blond, but she bleaches it. My other primas surround her—Estrella, who runs all the time, Nancy, who does weird science experiments in her garage, and even Kimberly, whose favorite class is shop. They’re all wearing the same purple gown because you’re supposed to match when you’re part of a royal court.

  Mabel puts a hand on my shoulder. “I just thought of a good-luck thing,” she says.

  “Really? Something better than standing in my cousin’s quinceañera, wearing a beautiful purple dress, and being in the official picture?”

  “Yes.” She points at my head. “At least you get to wear a cowboy hat, and you love hats more than anything in the world.”

  I glance up and smile. I’ve got a beautiful cowboy hat. It’s white like my cowboy boots, and it has a yellow band to match my yellow dress. “That’s right,” I say. “Damas can’t wear cowboy hats.”

  Just then, my parents pass us again. “Start dancing!” Mom orders.

  I can only sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” Mabel asks.

  “How can I go out there with a cowboy hat when they aren’t playing country music?”

  Now it’s Mabel’s turn to sigh.

  Next they play “Bésame,” a Spanish love song, and my parents dance real slow. Then they play an oldie but goodie song, “Rockin’ Robin” by Michael Jackson. For this song, Abuela carries my brother, Alex, to the floor. He�
�s two. She swings him around, and his laughter is louder than the music. Then they play pop tunes—for over twenty minutes!

  I start to think that my night can’t get any worse, but then I see her—Claudia—my prima with the giant nose. She’s in the fifth grade just like me. I hate how she bosses me around and always brags about stuff—like getting a ribbon for perfect attendance or winning a poster contest or being in the photo on Abuela’s wall. She’s one month older than me, so she got to be in the royal court even though I don’t show off or boss people around.

  Here comes Claudia with her mean, angry face. She marches right up to Mabel and me, and then she points at my boots. “This is a dance, not a rodeo. You’re supposed to wear cowboy boots with jeans, not with dresses.”

  “I can wear whatever I want, whenever I want,” I say.

  “Would you wear a bathing suit to church?” she asks. “Would you wear pajamas to school?”

  I want to say that I would happily do both of those things, but then I imagine the nuns scolding me and my teachers sending me to the principal’s office.

  “I thought not,” Claudia says, because she knows I’m stumped. “It’s a dumb idea to wear cowboy boots with dresses.” She marches away before I can talk back.

  I narrow my eyes as I watch her leave. I’m just so mad!

  Claudia sits at a table with her mother and Abuela. They start talking, probably in Spanish and probably about me. When Claudia turns and glances back at me, my aunt and abuela glance back, too. They are definitely talking about me! One thing I hate is gossip, and in my family, there’s a lot. You can’t say or do anything without everybody else knowing. I can only hope that Abuela is scolding Claudia for saying mean things. But wait! She doesn’t look mad. She looks concerned. She’s taking Claudia’s hand!

  “I feel so betrayed,” I say.

  “Why?” Mabel asks.

  I shrug, too frustrated to explain.

  A few minutes later, Claudia leaves the table, weaves her way through the dancers on the floor, and then flings open a swing door to the dance hall’s foyer.

  “Let’s follow my cousin,” I tell Mabel.

  When we get to the foyer, Claudia is nowhere around. There are only four places she could be—the parking lot, the men’s restroom, the ladies’ restroom, or the bridal room.

  “Logic dictates that Claudia is in the ladies’ restroom,” I say, pointing to the door.

  My dad’s a Trekkie, which means he loves to watch Star Trek, so he’s always saying things like “Make it so,” “Beam me up, Scotty,” and “Logic dictates.” I can’t help it. I’ve got these phrases in my head, too.

  Mabel and I step inside, but Claudia’s not there. So Mabel stoops over and peeks beneath the bathroom stalls. “Looks empty,” she says.

  “Claudia?” I call out. “Claudia, I know you’re in here.” Nothing but silence. Maybe she’s standing on a toilet. “Are you standing on a toilet?” More silence, but to make sure she isn’t hiding, I open every single stall. All empty.

  “I bet she went outside,” Mabel offers.

  “Or the dressing room,” I say. “And if she went to the dressing room, she’s in big, big trouble. My aunt Sandra told us to stay out because she doesn’t want us touching Mirasol’s beauty products.”

  We head to the dressing room, which is really three rooms: first a small room with a sofa; then a room with a giant mirror, a vanity full of makeup, and a counter with a straightening iron and almost ten different hair products; and then the last door, another restroom. I had peeked in earlier. It’s fancy, with lavender air freshener, a picture of flowers, and extra space for when brides wear puffy dresses. The restroom door is closed, but I can hear someone inside. Aha!

  I signal to Mabel, putting a finger to my lips so she’ll be quiet. Then we tiptoe back to the room with the sofa.

  “I’m going to lock Claudia in the restroom,” I tell Mabel.

  “Why? You’re just going to make her mad.”

  “That’s the point,” I say. “She makes me mad, so I should make her mad, too.”

  “Or we could forget about it and go back to the dance hall instead,” Mabel suggests.

  “Claudia thinks she’s too good for the ladies’ room,” I go on. “If she wants the fancy restroom all to herself, then she can have it. Besides, there’s no end to how mean she can be. If you ask me, leaving her in a fancy restroom for a few minutes is letting her off too easy.”

  I tiptoe back to the dressing room, but Mabel doesn’t follow. When I give her a questioning look, she says, “I’ll wait here.” So I go in alone, and as soon as I enter, I hear the toilet flushing. I need to be quick or I’ll miss my moment. Luckily, there’s a wooden chair nearby. I grab it and anchor it beneath the doorknob.

  Almost immediately, I see the doorknob turning, but of course, the door doesn’t budge.

  “Hey,” Claudia calls out. “Who’s out there?”

  I hear Claudia push against the door, and I imagine her shoulder slamming into it. I can’t help giggling.

  “Is that you, Luna?” Claudia says. “You better open the door right now!”

  Instead of opening the door, I run out before I’m caught. This time Mabel follows me, all the way to the dance hall.

  “You’re going to get in trouble,” she warns.

  She’s probably right. I think about turning back, but then I remember the time Claudia put a dead roach in my underwear drawer and how she said that if I ate snacks in my room, I was going to have a lot more roaches, live ones, because of the crumbs.

  So I might get in trouble for locking her in the restroom, but at least I’ll get even, too.

  Back at the dance hall, I’m ready to forget about Claudia being stuck in the restroom—but Mabel doesn’t let me.

  “Okay,” she says. “Claudia’s been in the restroom for a whole minute. Now it’s time to let her out.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I already told you, Luna. You’re going to get in so much trouble.”

  “Why would I get in trouble? No one saw me do it, so unless Claudia has X-ray vision and can see through doors, there’s no way she can prove it was me.”

  “But don’t you feel sorry for her?” Mabel asks. “If I were locked in the restroom, I’d worry about being stuck forever with nowhere to sit but an uncomfortable toilet seat.” She frowns. “What happens when you run out of toilet paper? How horrible!”

  “Stop!” I say. “You’re getting carried away. She won’t be in there forever. Just for a few more minutes.”

  We hear a new tune from the DJ.

  “Country music!” I cheer. And sure enough, they’re playing “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” my favorite line dance!

  “Let’s go dance to this song,” I say, “and then we’ll come back for Claudia.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. We’ll be back in five minutes.”

  Mabel glances at the bridal room and then at the dance floor. “Okay. Five minutes,” she says.

  So we run to the floor and get in line between Abuela and Dad. We swing our right legs forward and tap our heels. We swing our left feet backward and tap our toes. We do a whole bunch of other steps before bringing our feet together and clapping. And then we repeat the whole thing. And I’m doing it better than everybody because I have boots, and the “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” is all about boots. That’s why it’s called “Boot Scootin’” in the first place.

  When the song ends, Mabel heads toward the foyer, but I grab her wrist. “One more,” I say, because the DJ’s playing another country tune, “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” Texas-style. This is my favorite dance because it’s the only time I get to say a bad word. We get in a line, skip forward a few paces, then hop backward while kicking and singing “What you say? Bull****!”

  When the song ends, Mabel says, “We should get Claudia now. You promised. More than once.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s probably been out for ten minutes. I bet a dozen people have used that bath
room already.”

  Mabel looks around. “I don’t see her, do you?”

  Truth is, they’re still playing country music, and I want to take advantage of my boots. “Come on,” I say, grabbing Mabel’s hand.

  “Yes, but what about your cousin?”

  “She’s fine.” And sure enough, Claudia is fine because there she is, stepping into the dance hall with Nancy, her older sister, behind her. I point. “Look!”

  Mabel sees her and gives a big sigh of relief. Then we hear the opening notes for the Chicken Dance. We love this dance because we get to act silly, and seeing my abuela act like a chicken cracks us up.

  Now that Claudia’s out of the restroom, Mabel stops worrying. For the next song, my dad asks me to dance, and while I’m circling the floor with him, Mabel’s circling the floor with Alex. They aren’t really dancing, more like holding hands and skipping, but nobody cares. Lots of people make up their own steps.

  Then the country playlist ends, so Mabel starts to head back to our seats. At the same time, Claudia and her mother, Tía Nena, start marching toward me. If I’m at my table, they’ll talk to me for sure. Claudia can’t prove anything, but that won’t stop her from blaming me for the restroom incident. I need to hide, and right now, the best place is on the crowded floor.

  “Let’s keep dancing,” I tell Mabel. “They’re playing ‘Y.M.C.A.’ and one of the guys in the band wore a cowboy hat and boots, just like me.”

  We make our way to the middle and act like cheerleaders making Y.M.C.A. letters with our arms. When the song ends, I stay on the floor even though there’s no more country music. The more I dance, the more I forget about Claudia and about not being a dama in Mirasol’s royal court.

  I’m about to give the night an A-plus, but then Mom spots me and calls me over. She’s with Claudia, my prima Kimberly, and Tía Nena.

  When I reach them, Mom says, “Is it true that you locked Claudia in the restroom?”

  I know lying is bad, but sometimes it’s good. Like when your aunt Priscilla wants your opinion about her new hair color—and it’s the same color as the powder on Cheetos, which looks ugly when it gets all over your hands and even uglier when it’s all over your head—but if you admit this, you’ll get in trouble and hurt your dear aunt’s feelings. This is what goes through my mind when Mom asks me if I locked Claudia in the restroom. That’s why I lie, but lying to Mom isn’t easy. When I’m nervous, I fast-talk, so a bunch of words spill out and most of them spill out on their own.