Confetti Girl Page 6

  What do I do? I want to walk with Luís, but if I’m a no-show for Ms. Cantu, she’ll call the Coast Guard.

  With all this stress, I can’t focus in English. To make matters worse, I haven’t studied for the vocabulary test. Mrs. Huerta wants us to define words and use them in sentences. She calls the first task “recall” and the second, “application.”

  For once, I decide to take my dad’s advice. He says I can figure out words by taking them apart, so I try it. The first word is marsupial. Okay, I tell myself, mar in Spanish means “sea,” so a marsupial must be… seawater soup. FOR DINNER, THE FISHERMEN DIPPED THEIR POTS INTO THE OCEAN AND MADE MARSUPIAL. Number two, trifle has the prefix tri, which means “three,” so trifle has to mean “full of threes.” MY STUDENT IDENTIFICATION NUMBER IS TRIFLE. The next word is felicity. Now that’s a hard one, but I notice that it begins with the same four letters as “feline.” Hmmm… F-E-L-I must be the prefix for cats, so felicity must be… a city for cats. AFTER MAKING CARTOONS, GARFIELD WENT TO LIVE IN A FELICITY. Not bad, I think to myself. Before I know it, the test is done.

  After school, I linger in the hallway hoping to catch Luís or Vanessa, but they aren’t around. And no wonder! They’re already at the parking lot by the tennis courts. Ms. Cantu is there too. What a major bust! If only I could turn back.

  “Do you know this young man?” Ms. Cantu says. Before I can answer, she adds, “because he says you told him to meet you here, so he can walk you home.” This third degree makes me feel like walking home’s illegal.

  Vanessa says, “Leave Lina alone, Mom. She can do what she wants. It’s not like you’re her parent.”

  “I kind of am. Did you know,” she says to Luís, “that Lina is an orphan child? She lost her mother last year, la pobrecita.”

  “I, I know,” Luís says.

  “That makes her a delicate flower in my book. And delicate flowers have no business hanging out with weeds.”

  “Oh my gosh, Mom,” Vanessa says. “Just because Dad…”

  “Don’t ‘oh my gosh’ me, young lady.”

  “Luís is not a weed,” I say. “He asked if he could walk with me, and I said yes. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes, Ms. Cantu. I promise.”

  “But I thought you wanted to go to the grocery store,” she answers.

  “I can go another time,” I say.

  We stand like cars in a traffic jam—each of us stuck and in our own little worlds.

  “Well,” Ms. Cantu finally says. “I wouldn’t be responsible if I didn’t get your father’s permission first.”

  “Just let it go,” Vanessa says. “She’s not your responsibility.”

  “No she’s not,” Ms. Cantu says. “If she were, we’d be at the grocery store right now. Because no daughter of mine is hanging out with boys until she graduates from college.”

  Vanessa lets out this strange noise. It’s loud and not loud at the same time—something part scream, part grunt. Then she stomps to the truck, slams shut the door, and sits in the seat with her arms crossed. She’s angrier than I am. In fact, I’m not angry at all. I’m feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and appre ciation.

  “Hello,” Ms. Cantu says into her cell phone. “Hom ero?” I hear my father’s faint voice. “I’m just calling because Lina wants to walk home with some boy.” My dad says something. “From school.” He says something else. “Are you sure? Because I can take her home if you want. I’m already here.” Another pause. “Well, if it’s okay with you, but just so you know, this young man’s Hispanic, five feet four inches, brown hair, brown eyes, and about a hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

  She says goodbye to my dad, snaps shut her phone, and says, “Remember, Lina, if you’re not home in fifteen minutes, your dad’s calling missing persons.”

  Finally, Ms. Cantu gets in her car and backs out. I wave goodbye to Vanessa, but instead of waving back, she turns away. Why is she so mad? What did I do?

  When we’re finally alone, I tell Luís that I live on Casa de Oro. He nods. Casa de Oro is only two streets away from our school.

  “I’m sorry Vanessa’s mom was so rude. I can’t believe she gave my dad a police description of you.”

  “I don’t think she’s rude. She’s, she’s, she’s funny.”

  “She is funny,” I say.

  He nods and makes the loco sign with his finger.

  “She’s a lunatic. I’m a delicate flower. And you’re a weed.”

  He smiles. “A five-foot, f-f-four-inch-tall weed.”

  We giggle and then we outright laugh. The whole thing seems so ridiculous.

  A few hours later, I go across the street. Ms. Cantu hardly looks up when I walk in. She’s a one-woman factory cutting circles of tissue paper for dozens of cascarones.

  “Is everything okay?” I say to Vanessa as I follow her to the bedroom and take my seat on the beanbag. “You were acting a little weird this afternoon.”

  “Can you blame me? My mom’s so strict. She’d never let a boy walk me home. She’s such a man-hater.”

  “We need to change her opinion somehow.”

  “I know, but how?” Vanessa looks at the ceiling and touches her chin to brainstorm. “I got it!” she says. “Let’s get on the net.”

  We move to her laptop, and I stand behind her while she googles “The Corpus Connection.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I saw this dating service advertised on TV.”

  “You’re going to sign up your mom?”

  “No,” Vanessa says, “but I want to know who’s out there. Maybe we can make up a secret admirer for her. That way, she’ll be distracted, and she won’t complain about my dad all the time. She might even stop making cascarones and let me hang out with guys.”

  The Corpus Connection Web page appears on the screen. SEE PROFILES, it says.

  We scroll down the page.

  “Look at all these dorky guys,” Vanessa says. “This one sent a corny poem about his dog. ‘My pet dog Peaches, sticks to me like leeches.’”

  “That’s gross,” I say.

  “And this guy’s in training for the national cup-stacking competition.”

  “Is that when they get plastic cups and make pyramids real fast?”

  “Yeah,” Vanessa says. “And he’s hyped. He thinks cup stacking is a serious sport. He thinks it should be in the Olympics.”

  “That is kind of weird.”

  “Hey, look,” she says. “This one’s looking for a señorita.”

  We read his ad: Hello, señorita. I would-o like-o to meet-o you.

  “What a nerd,” I say. “He thinks you can speak Spanish by adding an o to everything.”

  Vanessa closes the website. “I’m starting to think the Corpus Connection was a bad idea.”

  She pushes aside the laptop, plants her elbows on the desk, and drops her head into her arms. I wish I had the right words to cheer her up, but I don’t.

  Más vale solo que mal acompañado –

  It’s better to be alone than in bad company

  11

  Rotten Eggs

  Another week goes by. After dinner every night, I go to my room. My dad thinks I’m reading Watership Down, but I do everything except read. As long as I listen in class, I can get away with not reading. Every day, Mrs. Huerta asks us to summarize a few chapters, and I always have something to say.

  “Watership Down,” I wrote on the first day, “is about a rabbit named Hazel.” I got this detail from the book cover. “He’s got two buck teeth and likes to say, ‘What’s up, Doc?’ When he stands, he’s as tall as a man, the tallest rabbit in his village. Sometimes the other rabbits make fun of him. He lives in a room underground, complete with a sofa, lamp, big-screen TV, Xbox, and everything a real house has except books. Hazel’s not into books. He’s into carrots. He’s always getting in trouble because he steals them from a bald man’s vegetable patch. Last year, Hazel’s mom died, and his dad ran away because he felt so sad. So now Hazel needs to find his
father.”

  It’s so easy to make stuff up when my dad gives me clues all the time. I’m not even worried about my grade. I figure I’m doing great because Mrs. Huerta still has my quizzes. She likes to make copies of the best assignments to share with the class.

  Besides, I think the whole book’s silly. Whoever heard of rabbits having intelligent conversations?

  So, instead of reading the book, I rearrange my sock drawers, this time by theme instead of color. Then I take one of my lonely socks, slip it over my hand, and with a black marker, draw glasses and a nose on it.

  “Hi, Luís,” I say.

  “Hello,” my hand answers back.

  I’m going to buy some yarn and add curly hair when I get the chance. For now, I put “Luís” next to my sock rocks.

  I don’t ignore Watership Down completely. In addition to my coaster, it’s been my doorstop and weapon of mass destruction for every fly, moth, or ant that sneaks into my room. By now, the cover’s got more squished bugs than the grille of my dad’s car.

  On a sheet of pink stationery, I write “Luís and Lina.” Right when I draw a big heart around our names, I’m hit with a new revelation! Could it be more perfect? Luís and I have a fifty percent twin trait rate, which is my mathematical way of figuring out how much a couple has in common. Fifty percent is perfect because I don’t want to be exactly like Luís. We need a few differences to spice things up. Then again, being too different makes for lots of fights while being too similar makes for too much boredom. So how did I calculate our twin trait rate? “Luís and Lina”—eight letters total divided by a twin factor of four (for the twin l’s and twin i’s in our names), which equals two—one hundred divided by two equals fifty percent.

  On another sheet of stationery, I draw a T-chart, something my history teacher calls a graphic organizer. I write same on one side of the chart and different on the other. I’m about to make a list when Vanessa appears at the door.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, hopping onto the top bunk and promptly checking her watch.

  “Making a T-chart to list how Luís and I are alike and different.”

  She giggles. “Do you turn everything into homework?”

  “Well, if this were a normal house, I’d be watching TV.”

  “Believe me, there’s nothing normal about TV when your mom thinks Lifetime is a documentary channel.”

  “Is she watching another male-bashing show?”

  Vanessa glances at her watch again, then nods. Just then, the phone rings.

  “Aren’t you going to get it?” Vanessa asks. “It’s probably Luís.”

  She’s right. Suddenly my heart starts racing.

  “Well?” she says.

  I pick up the receiver. “Hello.”

  It’s a boy all right, but not Luís.

  “Lina?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Vanessa there?”

  “Who is this?” I ask. Then it dawns on me. Now I know why Vanessa kept checking her watch. This whole visit is a setup. “Is this Carlos?”

  “Um. Yes.”

  Vanessa peeks over the edge of the bed and reaches for the phone.

  I cover the receiver. “I can’t believe you’re using me for phone services,” I say.

  “Just hand it over.”

  She takes it from me and turns toward the wall. It’s 7:45 p.m. At 7:55, I tell her to say goodbye.

  “Just another minute, Lina. We’re doing our homework.”

  Why is she lying? This is definitely a social call.

  I try working on my T-chart, but I’m too mad. According to the best-friend code, it’s okay if she uses my phone. I don’t care. And I don’t care if she lies to her mother, but I do care if she lies to me.

  I write “Vanessa and Carlos” on a sheet of paper. Thirteen letters with a twin factor of four. Thirteen divided by four is three point two-five. One hundred divided by three point two-five equals a twin trait rate of thirty-one percent. They’re doomed. It’s in the numbers. They should hang up right now and save themselves the trouble.

  I look at the clock again. Ten more minutes have passed.

  I say, “We don’t have call waiting, you know.”

  She peeks down at me again. “So? Are you expecting a call?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “I’m for real about getting my phone back.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Hey, Carlos,” she says. “I have to go now. Lina’s turning this place into a whiner diner.”

  I can’t believe she used “whiner diner” to describe me. That’s what we say when there’s a bunch of crybabies around. We use it when our classmates complain about homework or when our teammates complain about workouts, but we never use it for each other. Our motto is NO PAIN, NO GAIN.

  “There,” she says, handing me the phone. “Not that you’re going to use it.”

  “You never know,” I say. “Luís might call. He’s been walking me home, remember?”

  “Earth to Lina,” she says. “He won’t call because he can’t talk.”

  “He talks just fine.”

  “If you want to wait ten minutes for two words!” she says sarcastically.

  Sometimes this friendship stinks like a rotten egg.

  “Here’re two words for you,” I say. “Get out!”

  Vanessa knows she’s crossed the line with me because she apologizes right away and swears she didn’t mean to pick on Luís, that it just came out. But I’m too hurt to forgive her. I grab Watership Down and decide to use it on the biggest bug in the room.

  “Get out!” I say again, swatting her legs.

  She hops off the bunk, runs out of the room, and I slam the door behind her.

  Cada cabeza es un mundo –

  Inside each head lies a different world

  12

  Egg on My Face

  The next morning, I walk out my door and straight to school. I admit it—I hold grudges. If only I weren’t so lonely walking by myself.

  Vanessa beats me to science. As soon as I enter, she says, “Lina, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Tell it to your boyfriend,” I say, looking toward Carlos.

  She lets out a little huff and leaves to sit by him.

  I hardly look up from my desk when Luís walks in.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I got in a fight with Vanessa.” I’m not about to tell him she made fun of his stutter, so I say, “About some girl stuff. You know how it is.”

  “I do?” He makes a big show of looking at his arms and legs. “Because the last time I looked, I wasn’t a g-g-girl.”

  That does it. He wipes the frown right off my face.

  When class begins, Luís and I trade notes. He asks me things like what’s my favorite music video, my favorite movie, the funniest thing I ever spotted on eBay.

  “A wedding dress,” I write.

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “Because a guy modeled it, and he had a really hairy back.”

  Luís cracks up when he reads my note.

  “Did I make a joke?” Mr. Star asks.

  “N-n-no, sir,” Luís says.

  Before I know it, class is over and I’m feeling one hundred percent better. With Luís on my mind, I don’t walk but float to fourth period.

  Too bad I have to go to English. Mrs. Huerta squashes my good mood the minute she returns the vocabulary test—mine with a big fat zero!

  “Please see me after class,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say. “But while you’re passing out papers, can you give me back the quizzes from that book we’re reading?”

  “No. I don’t have them with me.”

  “You don’t? Where are they?”

  “Now, Lina, you know where they are.”

  But I don’t know where they are. How can I concentrate with this mystery on my hands? Why should I bother summarizing the final section of Watership Down when all my other quizzes are floating i
n the cosmos somewhere?

  Maybe I haven’t read the book, but like I said, I do listen in class. I take notes too. I get enough details for my Fiver and Hazel adventure. Fiver is, or was, Hazel’s best friend. Last time, they had to wear disguises. Hazel got mad when Fiver and a bunny named Carlita paired up as the munchkin lollipop kids from The Wizard of Oz. They sucked on helium to get funny voices. Then, they put on beanie hats with whizzing propellers that chopped off their ears. For today’s assignment, I decide that Hazel and Fiver are going to fight, a big fight like the one Vanessa and I had. “The Final Blowout,” I call it.

  After class, Mrs. Huerta waits for everyone to leave. Vanessa hangs around, but Mrs. Huerta tells her to go too. I’m still mad, but I have to admit, I wish I were walking out with Vanessa.

  Once we’re alone, Mrs. Huerta tells me to return the vocabulary test tomorrow.

  “With corrections?” I say.

  “Now that you mention it, that’s a great idea.”

  Why did I open my big mouth?

  She goes on, “Return it with corrections and with your father’s signature. I think he’d be interested to see how you’re doing in my class and curious about why you won’t be playing any sports for a while.”

  “What do you mean?” I say, secretly hoping Mrs. Huerta’s using scare tactics. That’s what teachers do when they see a student slacking off. They throw out empty threats.

  “I had to give Coach Luna a progress report for the new soccer season,” Mrs. Huerta says. “You know the rules. House Bill 72—No Pass, No Play. It’s the law.”

  “I know. I’m really sorry I messed up, but…”

  “No ‘buts’ and no ‘sorries.’ I don’t accept excuses and I don’t accept apologies. The only thing I accept is a change in behavior.”

  Her voice is dead serious. Oh, no! This isn’t a scare tactic at all. I can’t sweet-talk my way out of this. Today’s the first day of practice, and already I’m getting kicked off the team! I get this big lump of fear at the base of my throat, and my ears and neck get hot with shame.