Confetti Girl Read online

  I have lucky socks for game days—white athletic socks with an appliqué of our mascot, a bronco. Unfortunately, it takes more than lucky socks to win a game.

  Coach Luna doesn’t know much about volleyball, since she’s really a math teacher. The only reason she works with us is because all the real coaches help the football team. Sometimes I hate the football players. Who can blame me? They get everything—pep rallies, cheerleaders, their scores on the morning announcements. I guess I can understand since the football team qualified for district finals, while our volleyball team has lost more than half its games. That’s what happens when you have a coach who can’t tell the difference between a spike and a block.

  “Okay, girls,” Coach Luna says in the locker room. “I know Hamlin is first in district, but don’t let that intimidate you. Losing a game doesn’t make you a loser for life. You still have high school and college and careers ahead of you. That’s the game that really matters—the game of life. So, even if you lose every inning…”

  “You mean match,” someone says.

  “Yes, match. Even if you lose every match, you’ll still be winners in my book.”

  She gives a thumbs-up and hurries us out of the locker room.

  We’ve got time before the game, so we run laps around the gym, stretch, practice our serves, then do a setup-and-spike drill. I see my dad walk in during our warm-up. He settles on the bleachers and opens a book. Luís is here too. He comes to every game to work at the popcorn machine for student council. Every time I look at him, he’s scooping popcorn into paper sacks or counting change. Maybe he doesn’t belong on the cover of a magazine like J-14, but I think he’s cute. Picture small, black-framed glasses on a curly-haired hero from my dad’s Greek mythology book. That’s Luís.

  A few football players walk in, Jason among them. They must have finished practice early because their hair is wet from the showers.

  Vanessa glances at the bleachers to look for her mom or her dad. She doesn’t have to tell me about her disappointment when she doesn’t find them. I know because we’re best friends, and best friends can read each other’s minds.

  Then the Hamlin girls arrive.

  They look like racehorses, tall and sleek. Their arms are meaty, not skin and bones like mine, and they don’t breathe but snort. They’re more muscular than boys in football pads.

  “Genetic wonders, every one,” Vanessa says.

  I can only nod in amazement. “Genetic wonders” are people who don’t need to work at being athletic or smart or musical. They’re just born with the right DNA.

  The floor suddenly quakes as the Hamlin coach walks in. There’s only one way to describe her—the human version of a monster truck.

  “I heard their coach was in the ’96 Olympics,” Vanessa says.

  “No way,” I tell her. “And we got stuck with a math teacher?”

  The Hamlin coach lines up her team and guides the girls through Tae Bo kickboxing moves. They’re punching and kicking the air, making us wonder if there’s a combat version of volleyball we didn’t know about.

  Coach Luna decides to copy the pro. She claps her hands and makes us line up.

  “Okay, girls,” she says. “Time to get serious.”

  We do jumping jacks, toe touches, and windmills. It’s embarrassing.

  Finally the referee blows the whistle. Three minutes till game time. We huddle, and Coach Luna names the starters and says, “Remember the true game.”

  We put our hands in the center for a cheer. “One, two, three! Baker Broncos!”

  Meanwhile, the Hamlin girls huddle too. Their monster-truck coach taps a clipboard and angrily points at them. Then they put their hands in the center.

  “We’re going to fry ’em!” their coach says.

  “Yeah!”

  “Roast ’em!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Devour ’em!”

  “Yeah!”

  And together they chant, “Hamlin! Hamlin! Rhymes with champion! Yeah!”

  If volleyball were a mind game, they’d have us beat. It doesn’t take much to make us feel like wimpy appetizers before a feast.

  We take our places, mine by the net since I’m the tallest girl. We crouch slightly. We brush off our insecurities. We’re ready, we tell ourselves. We forget everything Coach Luna told us about the schools and jobs of the true game. We don’t care if we’re in middle school. We want to win. Volleyball does matter.

  Hamlin’s server dribbles a few times, looks for our weak spot, then executes a beautiful overhand that lands with a boom. All we do is stand like statues because the serve’s too fast and powerful. I’m surprised there isn’t a crater where it hit the court. We’re in big trouble. Only two of us can serve overhand, and half the time, those serves clip the net.

  For Hamlin’s second serve, we move toward the ball, all of us, colliding in the middle like marbles.

  “Next time, call it!” one of my teammates says.

  The third serve drills toward us again.

  “Mine!” Vanessa calls. She digs deep, hurls herself to the floor, and bumps the ball inches before it hits the ground. It shoots straight up. Another girl sets it for me, and BAM! SPIKE! Right past the Hamlin girls! A perfect play. The ball’s ours.

  Goldie’s our first server. She’s not very athletic, but her serves are brutal. In fact, we call her our “secret weapon.” She shakes her bangs from her eyes, and executes a gentle underhand serve that floats straight up, nearly hitting the roof. We can’t tell whether the ball will land on our side or theirs. The Hamlin girls can’t tell either. They squint at the bright lamps overhead, and the ball falls inches from the net—their side! They scramble, but too late. The point’s ours. Like I said, a secret weapon. I feel a guilty joy when their coach stomps.

  Goldie’s serve is usually good for a few points, but like they say, we shouldn’t put all our eggs in one basket because the Hamlin girls are quick studies. We fool them only once. The ball is theirs again.

  For every point we make, they make three or four. It’s a quick game. We take a five-minute break and switch sides for game two. I no longer have my back to Luís and my dad, but I don’t have time to search them out because it’s our serve and I’m up.

  I can serve overhand—when I’m lucky.

  “You can do it,” Vanessa says, full of hope.

  Yes, I can, I say to myself. Querer es poder. Querer es poder. These are words my dad has drilled into me. Basically, they mean if I think good thoughts, then good things will happen. Maybe I can’t bore a crater like the Hamlin girls, but I can make a pothole. So I throw the ball, ready to drill it down, and drill it I do… right under the net.

  I feel horrible when my teammates slump. Soon the Hamlin girls are five points ahead. We’re not appetizers after all—we’re grease stains. That’s how bad we’re doing.

  When I glance at my dad for encouragement, I can’t believe my eyes. He’s reading! During the worst game of my life! How could he? If Mom were here—well—she’d watch the game and she’d make Dad watch the game too. I want to yell at him. I don’t care who hears. But then I notice Luís, who is paying attention—to me.

  Right in the middle of my volleyball game, I get paralyzed. I can’t turn away from Luís because he’s smiling as if proud. I don’t think he understands volleyball at all. Maybe he thinks it’s like miniature golf where the lowest score wins. Or maybe…

  Maybe he likes me. I smile back at him and wave. Then SLAP!—the volleyball hits my face with enough force to knock me down.

  I hear the audience laugh when Jason says, “Check out Daddy Longlegs. The taller they are, the harder they fall.” He points at me and cracks up. I’m sure Luís is cracking up, too. Now I know why he was smiling—not because he felt proud but because I looked ridiculous. And now I know why the football players come to our games, not for moral support but for laughs.

  I can’t take it. I run off the court to hide in the locker room.

  A few minutes later, my t
eammates walk in.

  “We lost,” they say. “Hamlin creamed us.”

  My dad waits for Vanessa and me outside the gym. It’s autumn and the days are getting cooler and shorter. By the time we begin our walk, the sky is a grayish purple and the first stars are out.

  We don’t say much. I feel humiliated by the whole volleyball slap incident and Vanessa’s feeling stood up by her parents. My dad usually likes the peace and quiet, but for some reason, he’s feeling chatty tonight.

  “Ah,” he says in a dreamy voice, “nights like this remind me of that Robert Frost poem, ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’”

  “It’s not snowing, Dad. It never snows in Corpus Christi.”

  “Is that a sour mood I hear?”

  Vanessa says, “Can you blame us, Mr. Flores? We got creamed.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says. “From what I hear, Hamlin makes worms’ meat out of everyone.”

  “Worms’ meat?” I ask. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Mercutio. Before he died, he said, ‘They have made worms’ meat of me.’ Get it? Because when you die, you become food for the worms.”

  “Who cares?” I say. “I don’t even know who Mercutio is.”

  “He’s from Romeo and Juliet. His name comes from the word ‘mercurial.’”

  Vanessa says, “You mean like mercury, the stuff in old thermometers?”

  “That’s it exactly. A person who’s mercurial is a person whose emotions are constantly going up and down. Very unpredictable, just like the weather.”

  My dad never stops, I think to myself, getting angrier by the minute. Why does he have to turn everything—even a volleyball game!—into a vocabulary lesson?

  “Guess what, Dad? I don’t care about worms and mercury and thermometers. We lost our game. And then I got hit in the face. Why don’t you define that?!”

  “Someone hit you?” he says, surprised and protective-sounding.

  “Not someone. The volleyball. But you wouldn’t know, would you? You’re too busy reading stupid books.”

  “Give him a break,” Vanessa tells me. “At least your dad came to support us.”

  “You call that ‘support’?” Then I turn to my dad and say, “You like make-believe people more than real ones. More than your own daughter!”

  With that, I run home. I want to hide in my room and cry, but since I don’t have the key, I sit on the hood of the car and wait. My dad and Vanessa are a few minutes behind, and I watch as he sees her safely home and accepts a dozen cascarones from Ms. Cantu. Then he crosses the street to our door. He knows I’m there, a few feet away. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look back.

  “I won’t take a book next time,” he says. “I promise.”

  It’s his apology, but I’m too mad to accept it. After a moment, my dad unlocks the door and goes in, leaving it open behind him. I keep waiting. I wait a long time. I don’t go in till I get sleepy and cold.

  Buñolero, ¡haz tus buñuelos! –

  Buñuelo maker, make your buñuelos!; in other words, mind your own business!

  4

  Cascarones for Sale

  The next morning, I’m still upset about the volleyball game, so when I grab a pair of socks, I don’t notice that they’re slightly different shades of blue till I’m ringing Vanessa’s doorbell. As I wait for someone to answer, I hear Ms. Cantu shouting. Vanessa opens the door, ignoring her mom. Then she gets her things, slams the door, and almost runs down the sidewalk.

  “Wait,” I say, rushing to catch up. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “Is this about last night’s volleyball game?”

  “No. Maybe. Just leave it alone, okay?”

  I know better than to bug her when she doesn’t want to talk, so I change the subject.

  “Why are you carrying that eight-pound bag of potatoes?” I ask.

  “Homemaking,” she says. “Mrs. Rumplestine asked us to find a partner. I hooked up with Carlos. I’m bringing potatoes and he’s bringing cloth napkins.”

  “You’re working with Carlos again?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Vanessa, every time you work with Carlos something bizarre happens, and the bizarre thing is always your fault. Remember last month and your famous pot holder cake? The whole school heard about it.”

  Vanessa and Carlos had baked a double-layer cake for Mrs. Rumplestine’s class. Carlos turned over the first layer to frost it. Then Vanessa took charge of the second layer. She got the pot holder mittens, grabbed both sides of the pan, flipped it, and somehow sandwiched the pot holder between the two cakes. The whole class cracked up.

  “I was so embarrassed,” she admits. “Carlos must think I’m silly. I can tell by the funny way he looks at me.”

  “That funny look is called love.”

  “No it isn’t,” she says, but I catch her wondering about it.

  We’ve known Carlos for years and mostly ignored him. He still wears high-tops and basketball jerseys, his style since the third grade, but over the summer, he got really cute and more interesting, even though he acts the same. Only now, since he’s so cute, we notice and we listen when he talks about the NBA or tries to reenact scenes from his favorite comedy shows.

  “Back to the potatoes,” I say. “What are they for?”

  “Who knows? I guess we’re going to make potato salad and learn how to fold napkins the fancy way.”

  We spend the rest of our walk inventing potato recipes. When we get to school, we go in separate directions. I won’t see Vanessa till our third-period class, science. I bet Corpus Christi is the only city that teaches marine biology as part of a science class. That’s the best thing about living by the sea.

  Luckily, the first two classes fly by, and before I know it, I’m with Vanessa again.

  “Guess what?” she says. “Luís and I passed notes in history.”

  “You did?” I try not to show it, but I’m jealous. She knows I like him, so why does she torture me?

  “About you, dummy,” she says. “Look.”

  She hands me a folded paper. I open it up. Hi, Vanessa, it says. Sorry about last night’s game. Is Lina okay? Then I see Vanessa’s handwriting. Yes. Thanks for asking. Then there’s a smiley face with Luís’s curly hair and glasses.

  “That’s it?” I say.

  “It shows he cares.”

  “No it doesn’t. It shows he saw the most embarrassing moment of my life.”

  “Shush!” she says, grabbing the letter. “Here he comes.”

  Luís walks in and sits sideways in the desk in front of me. I say hello, and he waves back. I ask how he’s doing, and he nods and smiles as if to say “okay.” That’s it. The same routine every day. I don’t have a chance. That note was about pity, not love.

  “Okay,” Mr. Star says. “For your semester project, you’re going to do a five- to ten-minute presentation on some aspect of the Gulf Coast. And since most of you think the coast is only about fish, I’ve put some interesting topics on note cards.”

  He fans the cards, hiding the topics, and then he goes around the room and tells us to pick one. I get whooping cranes. Vanessa gets sand dune plant life. Carlos gets coastline trash. I ask Luís about his topic. He shows it to me—sand dune animal life. Others get oil rigs, sea turtles, brown pelicans, hurricanes, and barnacles.

  “Hey, Luís,” Carlos says after class. “Want to trade topics?”

  “Sure,” Luís says.

  “Did you hear that?” Vanessa whispers. “Looks like Carlos wants to work with sand dunes, too. I guess we’ll be doing two projects together.”

  After science, Vanessa and I go to English class. Mrs. Huerta likes her students in alphabetical order, so we don’t get to sit together. Lately I’ve been sleepy in English. Fourth period is the most boring hour of my day.

  Near the end of class, Mrs. Huerta says, “We’re starting a new book, Watership Down.” She hands out copies of a pape
rback with a picture of a rabbit on the cover. “Read the first four chapters tonight,” she says as we walk out.

  I practically sleep through my afternoon classes. Soon the final bell rings. Laughter and slamming locker doors echo through the hallways. In ten minutes, the building clears except for the “Hollywoods” of the school, the stars of the Baker Show. Every school has them—a handful of students that go for the extracurricular activities or make the honor roll or act like class clowns. Everyone else is a “Hollywood extra”—nameless, faceless, background noise, sofa slugs at home.

  Dr. Rodriguez, the principal, has asked all club officers to help plan the annual Halloween carnival, so I head to the cafeteria. Vanessa and I are the captains of girls’ athletics. The position was offered to the older girls first, but none of them wanted to deal with the extra work. I guess the same thing happened with the guys since Jason’s the captain of boys’ athletics.

  When I walk in, I see a couple of Windsors from the pep squad and all the smart honors kids or “eggheads.”

  I take a seat as far from Jason as possible, but he sees me anyway.

  “So what’s it like to spike a volleyball with your face?” he says. Everyone laughs. All I can do is sink in my chair, but I’m too tall to hide.

  A few seconds later, Luís, who is the student council treasurer, enters, looks around, and sits beside me. Love or convenience?

  When Vanessa walks in, everyone starts laughing again. Her eight-pound bag of potatoes is wearing a diaper!

  “Teen pregger!” Jason says, and a few others join in.

  Fortunately, she’s not alone. Some other students, including a boy, come in with potato babies, too.

  “Can you believe it?” she says, taking the seat across from Luís and me. “Mrs. Rumplestine wants us to treat the potato bag like a baby. She says eight pounds is the average weight of an infant. It doesn’t sound like much, but try carrying it around for an hour.”