Lucky Luna Read online

  “Why would I lock her in the restroom? I’m too busy having fun. Didn’t you tell me to dance? Well, I danced, so I’ve been following your orders all night. Ask Dad. And Abuela. They were dancing with me. Think about it. When would I have time to lock someone in the restroom? Besides, I’ve got wimpy arms. I can’t lift a shoebox, so how could I possibly lift a whole chair?”

  Mom crosses her arms, a really bad sign. “Who said anything about a chair?”

  Uh-oh. I am so busted.

  Right then, Mom starts yelling at me. Mabel hangs her head even though she’s not the one in trouble.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Mom says. “Claudia’s your cousin. You’re supposed to be nice to her. You aren’t supposed to be locking her in restrooms.”

  “She started it,” I say. “She’s the one who put a dead roach in my underwear drawer.”

  Claudia jumps in. “You’re the one who snipped my ukulele strings.”

  “Only after you took a picture of me sleeping with my mouth open and posted it on Instagram!”

  “But it got twenty-seven likes.”

  “And a comment that said I drooled!”

  “Girls!” Mom shouts, and at the same time, Tía Nena says, “¡Cállense!”

  But Claudia isn’t finished. “I was in that restroom for a very long time. I thought someone was trying to kidnap me, and I was scared for my life!”

  What a liar! “You weren’t scared for your life,” I say. “You knew it was me the whole time.”

  “But I wasn’t sure it was you because you just left me there without saying a word. I thought I was going to be kidnapped forever!” With that, she throws herself into her mother’s arms. She really knows how to be dramatic. Kimberly is behind them, and she rolls her eyes. At least one person in my family knows that Claudia likes to exaggerate.

  Now Tía Nena is yelling at me, but I don’t know what she’s saying since she’s yelling in Spanish, and my parents never speak Spanish to me. It takes forever for my aunt to stop and catch her breath, but when she does, my mom takes over again.

  “I could try giving you extra chores,” she tells me. “Or stopping your allowance or grounding you. But none of those things seems to work. So …” She thinks a moment. If she had a see-through skull, I’d probably see a lot of sparks going off in her brain.

  “So?” I say, wincing.

  “So no hats for a whole month.”

  I gasp. Everyone knows I love hats. Everyone knows I need them, and since they aren’t against my school’s dress code, I wear them every day.

  “But—” I try.

  “No ‘buts,’” she says. “Now apologize to Claudia.”

  When I don’t speak, she nudges me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

  But Mom wants more. “And?”

  “And I promise not to do it again.”

  “And?”

  “And I promise to be nice to you from now on.”

  She finally seems satisfied. “Well,” she says, “you’re going to have plenty of chances to be nice because Claudia’s transferring to your school.”

  I do a double take. “What? When?”

  “Monday.”

  I turn to Claudia. “Did you know about this?”

  She nods and smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. She looks like an alligator about to snap its jaws, and I can’t help feeling like she’s snapping those jaws around me.

  My family has enough gossip for its own twenty-four-hour news network—but instead of CNN or Fox News, we’d call it the Chisme Channel. When my prima Josie wanted to break up with her boyfriend because he couldn’t stop talking about weird facts like how much sweat your feet produce (a pint per day!) or how many burgers McDonald’s sells (seventy-five per second!), my primas and I heard about it before he did. We also heard about Estrella winning her first track race, only by the time I got the story, Estrella was going to the Olympics because of the world record she broke. But that’s not what happened at all. She broke a school record, and it was a lot slower than the slowest person who ever ran in the Olympics. And even though I didn’t say anything, my primas heard about the time in second grade when I flushed a hat with a fluffy ball on top and flooded the girls’ restroom, and the time in third grade when I landed in mud after jumping out the classroom window because I didn’t know the fire alarm was fake and didn’t think walking in a straight line down a long hall was the best way to avoid flames and smoke inhalation, and the time in fourth grade when I went to the principal’s office for drawing a picture of my teacher’s face, including a few nose hairs. I wasn’t making fun of her—honest! I was being realistic by paying attention to detail, but that didn’t matter. Every single prima heard about it, and they couldn’t stop laughing even after I explained that my teacher no longer had nose hairs because she plucked them out after seeing the picture, which proves that I actually did her a favor.

  So I’m absolutely positive that there’s got to be chisme about the quinceañera last night. Maybe something embarrassing happened to one of my primas or one of them got busted for kissing a boy.

  I open my laptop to Skype with Paloma. She’s already in middle school, two years older than me, but she talks to me as if I’m in middle school, too. That’s why I like her so much.

  “Prima!” she says when her face appears on my screen.

  “Prima!” I say back.

  She doesn’t waste time. She gets right to the gossip, but instead of talking about somebody else, she’s talking about me!

  “What a crazy night, right?” she begins. “I can’t believe you locked Claudia in the closet at the quinceañera.”

  “Restroom,” I correct.

  “And that she was in there for three whole hours!”

  “Thirty minutes, tops.”

  “And now you can’t wear hats ever again for your whole entire life!”

  “For a month,” I say. “But it feels like a lifetime.”

  In the background, I spot a guitar, a music stand, and Paloma’s mariachi outfit hanging from a hook on her closet door. It looks like it just came back from the dry cleaner’s. The purple dress she wore last night is crumpled on the bed.

  Then Mirasol comes into the room, cell phone against her ear. She’s wearing wrinkled pajamas. Her hair’s a tangled mess, and her eyes are smudged with mascara. I guess being a quinceañera queen really wore her out.

  “Who are you talking to?” Paloma asks her sister.

  “Celeste,” Mirasol replies. Our prima Celeste is the same age as Mirasol, so they’re always talking.

  Mirasol peers into the computer to look at me. Just like Paloma, she gets right to the gossip. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice the excitement. Celeste says that you locked Claudia in the trunk of a car last night.”

  “No,” I answer, laughing. “Where would she get a crazy idea like that?”

  Mirasol shrugs. “Something about kidnapping her.”

  “Kidnap!” Then I remember. “Oh, Claudia was exaggerating, trying to get me in more trouble. All I did was lock her in the restroom.”

  She repeats this to Celeste. Then she plops onto Paloma’s bed, right on top of the crumpled dress, and starts talking about her boyfriend. Paloma rolls her eyes and turns the screen. Instead of her mariachi outfit in the background, I now see a dresser with a pile of books and board games.

  “Did you hear that Claudia got transferred to my school?” I say, and while Paloma’s nodding, I add, “Why is she coming to my school? Doesn’t she go to Sacred Heart? Isn’t she always bragging about going to a private school?”

  “I heard she talked back to one of the nuns,” Paloma says.

  “Really? What did she say?”

  “I don’t know. Probably something about the homework assignments. It’s only the second week of school, and she was already complaining.”

  “So she got kicked out because she didn’t want to do her homework?” I shake my head the way Mom shakes her head when I don’t do my homework.

/>   “That’s not why she’s transferring,” Mirasol interrupts, her voice offscreen.

  Paloma turns toward her sister to hear more. I look in the same direction even though I can’t see Mirasol.

  “Uncle Freddy bought a boat,” she says, “so they don’t have money for private school. There was a big fight about it. Tía Nena told him that a good education is more important than a good vacation, but Uncle Freddy said he’s always wanted a boat and that Claudia could go to school for free like everybody else.” She stops talking, but I hear her mumbling “uh-huh” and “ooh.” Then she goes on. “Celeste says that Tía Nena was so mad she threw a box of Popeyes fried chicken at the boat!” She starts laughing. “I wonder if it was spicy or mild.” She’s still talking, but her voice fades away.

  “She’s gone,” Paloma says. “I hate the way she just waltzes in and out of my room all the time. No privacy.”

  “You think it’s true?” I ask. “About the boat and the fried chicken?”

  “Naw. Celeste probably made that up because Claudia tattled on her. She found Celeste kissing her boyfriend in the parking lot at the dance last night.”

  I gasp, pretending to be shocked even though I’m not.

  “Now Celeste is grounded,” Paloma says. “She can’t wear hats for a whole month.”

  “Really? She can’t wear hats, either?”

  “Oh, wait.” Paloma taps her chin. “You’re the one who can’t wear hats. I guess Celeste got some other kind of punishment. Anyway, she’s mad, and she vowed to never talk to Claudia again.” Paloma shakes her head and then continues. “I’m sure Claudia talked back to one of the nuns and got kicked out of Sacred Heart. It makes more sense. She’s probably using the boat as an excuse because she doesn’t want anyone to know she got in trouble. You know how she likes to show off.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, remembering how Claudia bragged about being a dama because she knew that I wanted to be one, too.

  “Did I tell you about the time … ?” Paloma begins. She’s got ten—maybe twenty!—examples of Claudia acting like she’s better than everyone else. I say, “She didn’t!” and “No way!” and “That’s ridiculous!” and “Who does she think she is?”

  We talk for almost an hour. I’m smiling and laughing, but when we hang up, I spot Dad in the doorway, arms crossed.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” I ask.

  Instead of answering with a yes or no, he says, “If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all.”

  Great, I think. Claudia’s not here, but she’s still getting me in trouble.

  Today’s Sunday, so Monday’s not far behind. And that’s the day Claudia transfers to my school. She can’t go to my school. She just can’t!

  School is my chance to take a break from my family. Some of my primas go to the same high school, and all they do is spy on one another. If Claudia goes to my school, she’ll spy, too. She’ll tell her mom everything I do and her mom will tell my mom and my mom will tell me. And by the time I hear about it, I’ll be in so much trouble—especially because Claudia’s going to focus on all the bad stuff I do and conveniently forget to mention the good stuff, even though I’m mostly good!

  I need to find Mom. Maybe she can convince Claudia to find another elementary. First, I look in Alex’s room, and then I remember that he’s at Cole Park with Dad. I look in the kitchen, but Mom’s not washing dishes or slicing veggies or baking pies or anything. Then I look in the sewing room, where she does arts and crafts. She’s not there, either. I peek into the laundry room, the garage, and finally the backyard. That’s when I find her. She’s sweeping up leaves from the patio.

  “Why is Claudia transferring to my school?” I ask. “Is it because Uncle Freddy and Tía Nena had to claim bankruptcy after buying a yacht and throwing fried chicken and mashed potatoes at it?”

  Mom laughs. “You have a wild imagination.”

  “So they’re not bankrupt?”

  “No.”

  “But we’ve only been in school for two weeks. Did Claudia talk back to the nuns? Is that why she’s transferring?”

  “No, she didn’t do anything like that. She’s transferring because her school only has a choir. There aren’t any clubs or sports. She’s really good at kickball and wants more practice so she can be in the Little Miss Kickball League next spring.”

  “But why Woodlawn?” I cry out. “Can’t she go somewhere else?”

  “Nope. She lives in the Woodlawn district.”

  “But she should stay at Sacred Heart. She’s going to miss her old friends. It’s hard to make friends when you go to a new school.”

  Mom uses a dustpan to scoop leaves into a trash bag. When she finishes, she says, “You’ll be there and you’re her prima, which automatically makes you her friend.”

  “But friends and cousins are not the same thing!”

  “That’s right,” Mom says. “Friends come and go, but cousins are forever.” She scoops up another pile of leaves.

  “If that’s true, then I’m going to be miserable forever.”

  Mom sighs. I can tell she’s getting impatient. Why doesn’t she understand?

  I try to explain. “Friends hang out with you because they want to, not because they have to. I could list a hundred reasons why friends are better than cousins.”

  “Is that right?” Mom says, putting away the gardening tools. “You listed one reason. Why don’t you give me the other ninety-nine?”

  “Okay,” I say, but nothing else comes out—not because there aren’t any other reasons but because my mind goes blank when I’m put on the spot. “Well, let me see.”

  I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. Meanwhile, Mom waits.

  After a few minutes, she says, “Don’t you like playing volleyball when we go to the beach?”

  I nod.

  “There wouldn’t be enough people for a team without your primas, right?”

  I have to nod again.

  “And who bought raffle tickets when you were selling them for your school?”

  “My primas,” I admit.

  “That’s right. And your primas are always giving you the books and hats and games they don’t use anymore.”

  “Hand-me-downs,” I say.

  “Gifts,” she says back to me, and then she goes on. “Who teaches you dance routines and cookie recipes? Who invites you to parties? Who cheered for you when you played Villager Number Two in your school’s production of The Pied Piper?”

  Primas, primas, primas! They’re the answer to everything. And, yes, some of my primas are nice and fun and interesting, but others? Others are bossy, annoying, and mean. They’re a real mixed bag of pan dulces—some flaky, others dense, some sweet, others tart.

  “Okay,” I say, giving up. “But I still don’t think primas are better than friends.” And I walk off before she can list more reasons.

  So Mom is no help. She thinks Claudia being at my school is like winning a raffle for a trip to Las Vegas and then winning $1,000 from a slot machine. If Mom can’t help, then maybe Abuela can. I decide to run to her house. She lives across the street, so I go there all the time. They say old people are wise, and it’s true. My abuela is also a great listener. She always lets me talk about my problems.

  “Abuela!” I call through the screen door. She unhooks the latch and waves me in. Then she points to the rocking chair, so I take a seat and start rocking. Meanwhile, Abuela and her cat, Gato, get comfy on the couch.

  “I’ve got terrible news!” I’m yelling because of the creaky rocking chair and because I’m upset. “Claudia is transferring to my school!”

  “Ya lo sé,” Abuela says. “Qué bueno.”

  “It is not bueno,” I tell her. “It’s horrible. It’s the most horrible thing in the world!”

  Abuela pets Gato, and he starts to purr. He seems so peaceful. I wish I felt that way, too.

  “She’ll spy on me,” I go on. “She’ll tell my parents everything. Like when I get bad gra
des and when I forget about rules and when I break rules even before they’re invented.” I’m rocking super fast now. “She’ll tell my teachers everything, too. Like when I don’t do my homework or when I say something bad—even when the bad thing is true—like the time I talked about how Coach was getting fat. I thought she was maybe eating too many Big Macs. I didn’t know she was pregnant. It was an honest mistake. But Claudia doesn’t care about my intentions. All she wants is to get me in trouble. And I’m going to be in trouble all the time if we go to the same school!”

  I tell Abuela about the time Claudia put jalapeño slices in my sandwich when I wasn’t looking and about the time she borrowed my T-shirt and got it full of stains from the juicy hot dog she was eating. She said she did it by accident, but I know it was on purpose. And … okay … maybe I stole the shoelaces from her favorite pair of Skechers, but only because she lost my library book! I had to pay a fee or never go to the library again. And whenever Mom calls me Lucky Luna, Claudia whispers, “There are two kinds of luck—the good kind and the bad kind,” and then she twitches her nose and says, “Guess what kind you are.”

  “I must be the bad kind,” I tell Abuela, “because Claudia at my school is a very bad-luck thing.”

  By now, I’m not rocking so fast. I’m slowing down. All that rocking and talking has made me tired.

  “What am I going to do?” I cry. “I can’t let her meet my friends. She’ll embarrass me!”

  Abuela sits quietly for a while. It’s because she’s wise, and wise people never blurt out answers. They think first. After a long time, Abuela nods and says, “La sangre es más espesa que el agua.”

  When I hear Spanish, it sounds something like this, “Let’s go, blah, blah, blah” or “blah, blah, cookies, blah, blah.” So when Abuela gives me her wise advice, I hear, “Blah, blah, blah, water.” I try my best to translate, and only one thing makes sense. She’s telling me I should drink water when I’m mad about Claudia.