Lucky Luna Read online

  “That’s fine,” she says. “I don’t want to sit next to you anyway.”

  With that, she marches to the teacher’s desk, and when she gets there, she smiles and talks with a sweet voice, so of course Mr. Cruz says, “I’m so glad to meet you.”

  I shrug it off and head to my seat. Mabel and John-John are already there, and John-John is shaking his head. “I can’t believe they’re still talking about what happened last week!”

  He’s talking about the day he threw up. He’s always thinking about the zombie apocalypse, who’s going to live and who’s going to get “zombified.” Of course, he’s going to live because he knows survival tactics. At least, that’s what he says. He actually brags about it, so last week, some boys dared him to eat a worm during recess. It was an earthworm straight from the dirt, and it was still wriggling when John-John put it in his mouth. He chewed a few times and swallowed. He even stuck out his tongue to prove it. Most of the kids were disgusted, but I was impressed. Everyone agreed that John-John had a good chance of surviving the zombie apocalypse because after the stores run out of food, he can just dig for worms, and worms are quite nutritious. That’s why birds eat them. Unfortunately, all that nutrition ended up on the classroom floor, because as soon as we got back, John-John upchucked the worm and the grilled cheese sandwich he’d eaten for lunch.

  “I don’t smell worm-and-cheese vomit anymore,” Mabel says.

  “Neither do I,” I add.

  John-John shakes his head. “Then why do they think the room stinks?”

  Mabel and I shrug, but maybe they’re still making jokes about my prima’s big nose.

  The bell rings, and Mr. Cruz introduces Claudia to the whole class. When he says that she’s my cousin, I want to disappear. I wish I had a blanket to put over my head.

  I’m grateful when the morning announcements come on, so everyone can forget that Claudia and I are related. As soon as we hear “Please rise,” we all stand up and say, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.” Then the principal talks about a PTA meeting. And then I really, really, really have to pee because of all the water I’ve been drinking.

  So I raise my hand for the restroom pass. Mr. Cruz says, “Why don’t you take Claudia with you? That way, you can show her where the restroom is. And then you can show her the library, cafeteria, and playground.”

  I do not want Claudia to tag along, but I need the hall pass so I can go to the restroom before I have an accident. What can I do? I don’t even have time to think about it. I nod, grab the pass, and rush out the door. Claudia follows. I don’t talk to her because I need to go to the restroom right now! Lucky for me, it’s across the hall. I get there just in time.

  When I step out of the stall, Claudia is standing by the row of sinks, and I have a very bad thought that jolts me like a nightmare. Now that everyone knows Claudia and I are related, they’re going to lump us together. We’ll be a duo like Batman and Robin, but instead of heroes, we’ll be weirdos.

  After I wash my hands, we step into the hall. I don’t walk anywhere. Instead, I point. “The cafeteria is down that hall. The library is over there, and the playground and gym are in the back.”

  “Aren’t you going to show me?” Claudia asks.

  “I just did.”

  “But aren’t you going to walk me over?”

  “Can’t,” I say as I head back to class. “Mr. Cruz doesn’t like us to be away too long.”

  I race into the room, and since it takes Claudia a few seconds to catch up, we aren’t exactly together. And later in the afternoon, we aren’t together during recess or lunch or music hall because I rush to each location. Poor Mabel has to jog to keep up.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” she asks, out of breath.

  “Because.”

  “That isn’t an answer,” she says. Then she takes a guess. “You’re trying to run away from Claudia.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Mabel stops, forcing me to stop, too. She crosses her arms, raises an eyebrow, and studies me. “I’ve been your friend since first grade.” That’s Mabel-talk for “you’re lying.” She lets this sink in before saying, “It can’t hurt to be nice to your cousin. You should try.”

  “How can I be nice to her when she’s so mean to me?” Mabel still has her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, so I go on. “This morning she kept bragging about a fancy boat her dad bought and then she made fun of my dad’s kayak.”

  “She did?”

  “She said it doesn’t have a motor and it looks like a bright yellow banana.” I’m exaggerating, but that’s definitely something Claudia would say.

  Mabel just giggles. “But it doesn’t have a motor,” she says, “and it does look like a banana.”

  I can’t believe it! Mabel thinks it’s okay for Claudia to brag about her boat? I give a few more details to change her mind, and before I know it, I’m getting carried away. “She said it’s going to sink in the middle of the ocean and that I’ll have to float there with my life jacket and hope the Coast Guard happens to find me because I won’t be able to call 911 since there’s no cell phone reception, and if I’m out there too long, I’m going to start hallucinating and then the sharks are going to attack. No one will ever know what happened to me and all because I was on a giant banana instead of a fancy boat.”

  “Well,” Mabel says, “don’t take the kayak to the middle of the ocean. Stay close to land so people can see you waving your arms.”

  “That’s not the point, Mabel. I’m trying to explain why I want to stay away from my cousin. Who wants to hear about getting eaten by sharks?”

  She thinks about it. “I see what you mean,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

  She race-walks by my side anyway because friends are loyal even when they don’t agree with you. And that’s another reason why they are better than cousins.

  When I step into my house after school, Mom asks, “Where’s Claudia?”

  A few seconds pass, and before I can make up an answer, Claudia walks in. “Luna ran away from me all day,” she announces.

  “I did not,” I say.

  “Did too. You were literally running.” She fans herself with a folder to show how tired she is from chasing me.

  “I did not run. I walked at a normal pace. It’s not my fault you’re so slow.”

  Claudia turns to my mom. “She even pushed aside some kids to get away from me, and at lunch, she said the empty seat at her table was being saved, so I had to sit with strangers.”

  “It was being saved,” I say.

  “No, it wasn’t. I kept looking. No one ever sat there.”

  “Is this true?” Mom asks me.

  “No,” I say. “Claudia just wants me to get in trouble. I can’t help it if no one wants to be her friend.” And before Mom can tell me that you don’t need friends when you have so many primas, I run to my room, slam the door, grab a pillow, and throw it because I left my water in the kitchen and don’t know how else to calm down.

  I don’t come out till Claudia leaves. I find Alex in the living room. He’s sitting beneath the coffee table, so I stoop down. “What are you doing under here?”

  He barks. Then he sticks out his tongue and starts panting. He likes to act like different animals.

  “So you’re a dog today, huh?”

  He barks again. I reach over to pat his head.

  A few minutes later, Dad comes home. Most dads say “How was your day?” but mine turns into a Star Trek captain and says, “Status report.”

  “It was a terrible day,” I begin. “The kids kept saying ‘Hi, Grandma!’ or ‘Where’s your cane?’ or ‘Show us your dentures.’”

  I repeat every insult I heard, plus a few extras, and to make sure he understands how upset I am, I try my hardest to cry. No tears come out, but I manage to frown and sniffle. Guess what! Instead of getting angry and calling the principal like a normal father, he smiles, snaps his fingers, and starts singing about being posit
ive and forgetting the negative.

  Then he repeats the song and starts dancing!

  “Dad!” I say, because I want him to get serious. I know where some of the kids taunting me live, and I was thinking we could throw rotten eggs at their houses. “Dad!” I say again, but he’s just singing and dancing. Alex comes out from beneath the table and starts spinning around. Mom comes in and dances, too!

  Before I know it, I’m hooked. I can’t let the whole family have fun without me, so I start dancing and singing along, even though I don’t know what I’m saying. “La, la, la, the positive. La, la, la, the negative.”

  After a while, we all tire out, so Mom takes Alex to give him a bath while Dad gets comfy on his chair.

  “I’m glad you feel better, mija,” he says.

  “I might feel better right now,” I explain, “but it’s not going to last, not as long as the kids can see the white streak in my hair. Can you tell Mom to let me wear hats again?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he says. “When it comes to discipline, we need to present a united front.”

  I hang down my head. “What am I going to do?” I sigh.

  “I told you in that song,” Dad says. “Focus on the good things, and try your best to ignore those kids. Eventually, they’ll stop.”

  I can only shake my head. This is weak advice. Couldn’t he give me some good comebacks instead?

  I go to my room, and after a while, I come up with some positive things. First, everyone will forget about my hair when my hats return next month. Second, Claudia’s getting teased, too, but unlike me, she’ll be teased for the rest of her life because she’ll always have a giant nose. There’s no way to cover it up. There’s plastic surgery, but it’s only for the rich and famous. Claudia isn’t rich or famous. Poor girl. Come to think of it, I kind of feel sorry for her.

  Mabel says I should be nice to my prima, but I am nice. She’s the one who’s mean. But maybe it isn’t her fault? Maybe she’s mean because people make jokes about her nose. Maybe I should take Mabel’s advice and treat my prima more like a friend.

  The next morning, I wake up in amiga mode. I’m going to pretend that Claudia is my friend, and I’m going to focus on the positive, even when she’s getting on my nerves. So, when she’s sitting in my chair for breakfast—this time with the last blueberry muffin, the one I was saving for myself—I smile and say, “Good morning, Claudia. Are you enjoying breakfast?”

  Her mouth is full, so she takes a moment to swallow. Then she says, “Are you being sarcastic? I can’t tell.”

  “No,” I say in a pleasant voice.

  “Oh … okay … well, then … I’m enjoying breakfast very much.” She takes a giant bite. I can smell the delicious blueberries, and my stomach growls. If she were Prima Claudia instead of Amiga Claudia, I would yank the last half of the muffin and stuff it in my mouth before she could grab it back. Instead, I’m stuck with a dry piece of toast, and I tell myself that it’s okay because friends make sacrifices for each other. Plus, I have water, which is good for calming nerves and for washing down things like toast with no butter or jelly or honey because my parents need to go to the grocery store.

  We’re about to leave when my mother says, “Lucky Luna, Tía Nena’s going to get you after school today. You’re going to spend a few hours at Claudia’s house.”

  I glance at Claudia and she nods. I hate when she knows things before I do, but I remember my secret promise and pretend that she’s a friend.

  “Okay,” I say, cheery. Then to Claudia, “Maybe you can show me your dad’s new boat.”

  “It has a motor,” she reminds me, “and a cabin. It goes so fast that it skips over the waves, and it never flips over like the kayak.”

  Instead of getting mad at the way she shows off, I imagine the cabin of her boat with a little kitchen and sleeping area. “I bet it’s cool,” I say. “Can’t wait to see it.”

  She gets a suspicious look on her face. I can tell she wants to ask if I’m being sarcastic again, but she doesn’t.

  We head to the corner, and soon the bus arrives. When we step inside, some of the kids snicker. I can tell they want to make jokes about Claudia’s nose, so I do what Dad calls a “preemptive strike,” which means stopping enemies before they attack. I stand in the middle of the aisle and make an announcement. “If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all.”

  The first and second graders sink in their seats. The older kids roll their eyes, but they don’t say anything, so that’s okay.

  I scoot beside Mabel.

  “That was …” She searches for the word. “Brave.” Then she quietly claps. “Good job of standing up for yourself.”

  “Myself and Claudia.” I glance back. My prima’s sitting three rows behind again. She doesn’t notice me because she’s reading. “Looks like she’s still trying to hide behind a book. Can’t blame her after those jokes about her nose.”

  “Hmmm …” Mabel mutters, thinking. “Remember that time your aunt colored her hair and turned it orange?”

  “My aunt Priscilla? The one with hair that looked like Cheetos?”

  Mabel nods. “Did you ever tell her about it?”

  “No. Sometimes, it’s better not to say anything, especially if it’s embarrassing. It’s like they say, ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’”

  Mabel nods. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Why are we talking about my aunt anyway? I thought we were talking about Claudia.”

  “We are. Sort of.”

  “Well, I’m taking your advice, Mabel. I’m going to treat Claudia like a friend. I’m going to ignore the zillion ways she gets on my nerves.”

  “Good,” Mabel says. “I’ll help you. Then we can all be friends, and the next time we have a class vote, she’ll take our side.”

  Last week, we voted on whether to create a bulletin board about math or poetry. Mabel, John-John, and I wanted poetry, but we lost. So now our board has definitions for different shapes—the hexagon, octagon, and dodecahedron, which has twelve sides. Then we created dodecahedrons out of construction paper and hung them from the ceiling like Christmas balls. Mine’s a little lopsided. Every time I see it, I think about how awesome my poetry would have been. I would have written the best poem with lots of rhymes and similes.

  We bounce in our seats as the bus rolls over the speed bumps in the parking lot of our school. It squeals to a stop and the doors swoosh open. Mabel and I make our way down the aisle, waiting for Claudia to join us once we’re outside. The three of us walk into the building and visit the Club Board. Claudia has decided to join kickball and Needle Beetles, which has its first meeting next Monday. She tells me I should learn needlecrafts, too, but poking my fingers and getting cross-eyed as I try to see the thread is not my idea of fun.

  When we enter the class, Mabel and I introduce Claudia to a few more kids. At lunch, we invite her to sit at our table, and during art, we share our supplies. I’m being super nice. Even Mabel says so. But that doesn’t mean Claudia’s acting nice, too. She says, “Sacred Heart has more books in its library” and “Sacred Heart has better food” and “Sacred Heart has the Pledge of Allegiance and prayers for morning announcements.” Nothing at Woodlawn is good enough.

  Using a sweet voice, I say, “But at least Woodlawn has a lot of extracurricular activities. Isn’t that why you came here in the first place?”

  “Yes, but Sacred Heart has a choir.”

  “But that’s all it has.”

  “True, but it’s a very good choir. They travel all over the country. They’re even singing at the University of Notre Dame next summer. That’s in Indiana, in case you didn’t know.”

  Ugh! Will she stop already? Every time she mentions Sacred Heart, I want to yell—If it’s so good over there, then just go back! But I don’t. I take a large gulp of water instead.

  Friends don’t yell at friends, I write in the margins of my worksheets. Friends smile and nod happily. Sometimes friends d
rink lots of water. Since I keep drinking water, I have to ask for the restroom pass—three times!

  John-John notices. “Why do you keep going to the restroom? Do you have a stomachache?”

  “No, I’m just drinking lots of water.” I don’t feel like explaining my abuela’s advice. The day’s almost over, and being nice and patient has worn me out. I glance at Mabel, hoping she’ll help me out.

  “Luna’s staying hydrated,” she says.

  John-John nods. “That’s good, but don’t drink all the water. You should stash some for the zombie apocalypse. I’ve already got three gallons hidden in my closet. We won’t have water, electricity, or Internet once the zombies take over. You should save some nonperishable food, too.”

  “Like cans of corn,” Mabel suggests. “And pasta.”

  We keep talking about zombies until Mr. Cruz tells us to get back to work. Then the dismissal bell rings. Yay! It’s time to go home. But I’m not going home. I’m going to Claudia’s. Luckily, Mabel doesn’t have to ride the bus by herself, because she has a newsletter meeting after school.

  It takes forever for Tía Nena to reach us because there’s a traffic jam in front of the school, but eventually her car arrives. A blast of cold air hits us when we enter.

  Tía Nena says, “How was your day, girls?”

  “Bleh,” Claudia answers. “It was okay.”

  What! Didn’t she notice how nice I’m being? I’m itching to say this out loud. Instead, I reach for my water bottle. It’s empty. Suddenly, the blast of cold air feels like an oven of dry heat.

  When we get to Claudia’s house, I ask her to show me the boat. It’s on a trailer in the backyard. I was expecting a yacht with a deck for sunbathing and enough seats for all the primas on my dad’s side, but it has room for only three or four people. We climb in. It smells like rotten fish. It has a motor just like Claudia said but no canopy for shade. The vinyl on the seats has cracked.

  “Hey!” I say. “This isn’t a new boat. It looks used.”