Lucky Luna Page 6

  Luckily, Claudia speaks first. “I’ve only been at that school for one week, but I can already tell it’s full of mean kids.”

  “Some of them are mean,” I say, “but some are really nice.” It’s true. Mabel and John-John are nice. Plus, I’m a student there, too, and I’m one of the nicest people on the planet.

  “They make fun of … of … of people,” she goes on. I can tell she doesn’t want to admit that she’s the one getting teased. “They made jokes all week long.”

  I know she’s secretly talking about her nose, but since I got teased, too, I agree with her. So I repeat what my dad says when people need to change their behavior. “Some of them need an attitude adjustment.”

  “Major attitude adjustment,” she says. And that’s it. We don’t talk about it anymore.

  I feel so relieved. When something bad happens, it sits on you like a giant sofa right on top of your chest, and you can’t breathe or wriggle out. You’re just stuck beneath that awful, bad thing. But now that giant, bad-news sofa is gone, so I can breathe and move around again.

  We’re almost to my house when Claudia asks a question. “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Green,” I say, and I go on. “Some people think it’s a scary color since witches and snakes are green, and also aliens who look like lizards and want to take over the planet. But a lot of nice things are green, like grass, trees, and apple-flavored lollipops.”

  Claudia nods. “Green’s a good color, and apple-flavored lollipops are delicious.”

  I can’t believe it. Claudia and I just agreed about three things—attitude adjustments, the color green, and apple lollipops. I really can’t figure out my cousin. Most of the time, she’s irritating, but sometimes … well … sometimes she’s nice.

  But her kindness never lasts long. When we get to my house, Claudia can’t help it. She’s more interested in being a spy.

  “Luna’s really struggling with Spanish,” she tells my mom as soon as we walk in. “She totally messed up today.”

  “Is this true?” Mom asks.

  “No. I did not mess up.”

  “I’m pretty sure you didn’t get an A on that Spanish skit,” Claudia says, “or a B.” Then, to my mom, “I offered to help, but she wouldn’t let me.”

  Mom says, “Why didn’t you let Claudia help? She speaks Spanish all the time.”

  I’m silent. No matter what I say, it will be the wrong thing. When Claudia’s around, I’m always wrong.

  How could I ever think about being her friend, for even half a minute? It will never happen. We’ll be enemies now and forever, through all eternity, till the end of our days and beyond.

  “Well?” Mom has her hands on her hips now.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I need a tall glass of water.”

  I head to the kitchen to drink some water. Alex is there, too. When our eyes meet, he raises his arms so I can lift him. I pick him up. He’s getting so heavy, but it’s the good kind of heavy. Not like a bad-news sofa at all.

  We hear the doorbell. Alex scrambles down to see who it is. I follow. It’s Claudia’s mom. Good. I don’t have to see my prima for the next two days and that makes me very, very happy.

  As they’re walking out, I hear Claudia say, “Can we go to Hobby Lobby so I can buy some yarn for the needlecrafts club?”

  And Tía Nena says, “Sure. I need some things, too.”

  Then they leave. Even though Claudia is my bitter enemy, I would hang out with her if it meant going to Hobby Lobby. It’s one of my favorite stores. If I hurry, I could try and catch them before they drive off. But then I think of choosing a kit for friendship bracelets or a paint-by-numbers set, and I hear Claudia’s voice saying something like “That’s a waste of money” or “That’s an ugly picture” or “My arts-and-crafts project is better than yours.”

  Never mind, I think. I’ll just stay home instead.

  Ándale means “hurry,” and the next day, this is what Dad says as he peeks into my room. “¡Ándale! Get ready. We’re going to Joe’s for a fish fry.”

  Joe’s my dad’s brother, which means he’s my uncle. He’s also the father of three primos—Mirasol, Paloma, and Little Joe, who’s four.

  I grab a beige fishing hat. To make it more interesting, Dad had removed hooks from some old fishing lures so I could pin them along the brim for extra style. I love adding a personal touch to my hats.

  I put it on and adjust it, making sure it hides most of my white streak. Then I head to the kitchen, and as soon as Mom sees me, she says, “Take it off.”

  “But it’s Saturday, and I’m not going to school.”

  “You’re grounded for a whole month, period. School days and weekends.”

  I sigh, take it off, and refuse to offer my help with the Tupperware containers she’s filling with coleslaw and watermelon. Every meal with my aunts and uncles is a potluck because there are so many of us, and it’s too much work for one family to provide all the food.

  Just then, Abuela walks in with a giant bowl of banana pudding, the kind with vanilla wafers—delicious! She never knocks or rings the doorbell since she lives across the street. It’s as if my house and her house are the same building but with a street right down the middle.

  I give her a kiss and a hug, and then I sit on the floor next to Alex. He’s playing with little cars, so I make vroom, vroom noises for him.

  Abuela says, “¿Y, Claudia? ¿Cómo le fue la primera semana en la escuela?”

  All I hear is “And, Claudia? Blah, blah, blah, week, blah, school?” I can tell she’s asking a question, so I say, “Yes, Claudia started going to my school this week.”

  “I think she wants to know how it went,” Mom explains.

  “Oh,” I say. Then, “It was awful. Lots of kids made fun of her.”

  “Qué triste,” Abuela says, and I know this means “how sad.”

  Mom frowns. “I hope you stood up for her.”

  I look down because I don’t want to admit that the only time I stood up for Claudia was when I made an announcement on the bus, and it only worked for one morning. Even when I started to feel sorry for her, I didn’t tell the kids to stop making jokes or report them to the teacher.

  “You’re being very quiet,” Mom says. “Did you let the other kids tease your prima?”

  I nod, but then I say, “I tried to stop them, but there are lots of kids and only one of me. There’s no way I could stop them all by myself.” Mom sighs. I can tell she’s disappointed. “If I talk back to the bullies,” I go on, “they’ll pick on me even worse because they’re still making fun of my hair since you won’t let me wear hats. If I start wearing hats again, then they’ll stop making fun of me, and if they stop making fun of me, then all my problems will go away and I’ll have energy to help Claudia. So you see? The answer is letting me wear hats again.”

  Mom says, “I’m not budging. You’re still grounded. Besides, you have beautiful hair. You shouldn’t care what those other kids think. They won’t be around forever, but Claudia will always be around because she’s your prima.” She pauses a moment and then says, “Primas are for life.”

  Abuela nods. “Es la verdad.”

  “In fact,” Mom says, “why don’t you invite Claudia to the fish fry? We can pick her up on the way.”

  Is she serious? I want to shout “No way!” but if I do, I’ll get in trouble. How can I convince Mom that inviting Claudia is a bad idea? I need to give her a reason, and the reason can’t be “Claudia gets on my nerves.”

  So I say, “That’s a great idea, Mom, but …”

  “But what?”

  “I need to study, and Paloma already promised to teach me Spanish.”

  I haven’t exactly asked Paloma for help, but I’m sure she’ll say yes when I do. I’m stretching the truth a little, but it’s for a good cause.

  “If Claudia’s there,” I go on, “I might get distracted from my lesson, and you know how much I need to practice. Paloma’s going to help me make flash cards w
ith Spanish words on one side and definitions on the other.”

  “Really?” Mom seems doubtful, so I nod with excitement. I almost cross my heart, but I stop myself because you’re not supposed to cross your heart for lies no matter how small. If you do, terrible things will happen. Lightning will strike and set fire to the land. Giant swarms of locusts and bees will darken the skies and blisters will form all over your body.

  “Okay for today,” Mom says, “but next time, we’ll go pick her up.”

  When we get to Uncle Joe’s, Paloma’s not there. She’s at a rehearsal for her mariachi band.

  “She’ll be home soon,” Aunt Sandra explains. “Why don’t you say hello to Mirasol?”

  So I rush to Mirasol’s room. The door’s open, but I knock anyway.

  “Prima!” she says when she sees me.

  “Prima!” I say back.

  She waves me in and pulls out the chair from her vanity. “Sit here.”

  She’s got long fingernails. They’re painted purple to match the quinceañera dresses, and the pinkies are painted silver. She should be a hand model for bracelets and rings.

  I take a seat, and right away, Mirasol starts fixing my hair. She doesn’t even ask. She grabs a comb and tries pulling it through.

  “You’ll never get rid of all the tangles,” I say, “because of the curls.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “Come on.” I follow her to a bathroom that’s between her and Paloma’s bedrooms. They call it a Jack-and-Jill bath, which makes me laugh because every time I hear those names, I think of the nursery rhyme.

  Mirasol takes me to the sink and washes my hair with shampoo and conditioner for a “smooth, sleek look.” After the blow dryer, she uses the flat iron to get rid of my curls, but when she’s finished, my hair’s still wild and curly. Instead of getting mad, she laughs. She says, “Next time, I’ll try a silicon-based straightening serum. You can’t use water or mousse on your hair because any kind of moisture will cause it to frizz again.”

  “You know a lot about hair products,” I say. “Are you going to be a stylist when you grow up?”

  “No. I’m going to be the person who tests your blood when you go to the doctor. I shadowed your dad during career day and looked at blood through a microscope. It was awesome”

  My dad’s job is fixing medical equipment, so he’s always visiting hospitals and labs. Mom has a job, too, but only part-time. She works in the gift shop at Spohn Hospital and Aunt Sandra babysits Alex while she’s gone.

  “Styling hair is just a hobby,” Mirasol explains as she divides my hair into three sections for a braid. “Next time, we’ll try a detangler, too. That’s a special shampoo that’s supposed to get rid of tangles.”

  It probably won’t work, but I don’t care. Having tangles is okay. It’s the streak of white that bothers me.

  “My hair only likes three styles,” I say, “braids, ponytails, and hats.”

  Mirasol looks at me through the mirror and smiles. “You are so cute no matter what style of hair you have.”

  “I don’t feel cute,” I say. “I hate my birthmark. Why did my mom have to look at the lunar eclipse when she was pregnant? Why couldn’t she have been watching TV instead?”

  “I like your white hair,” Mirasol says. “It’s a defining feature. In fact, some people get streaks of colored hair on purpose.” She gives examples of people with streaks of pink, green, or purple. All of them are famous, which means they want to be singled out. When I ask for people with white streaks, she names a few superheroes and villains. I complain that they’re fictional, so she says, “How about Bonnie Raitt?”

  “That’s true,” I say, but I don’t know who Bonnie Raitt is. I agree because I don’t want to sound dumb.

  I wish Mirasol could name another prima or someone who lives in the neighborhood or goes to my school—an ordinary person in Corpus Christi, living an ordinary life with poliosis. I wish she could name someone with a little brother, an abuela who lives across the street, and a love for hats and rabbits. I wish she could name someone who is just like me because sometimes I can’t help feeling like the only person in the world who’s different.

  Paloma returns from mariachi practice a few minutes later. She steps into Mirasol’s room, guitar in hand, and bursts into “Ay, Jalisco,” a famous mariachi song.

  I can only understand a few of the words: “grito” (shout), “lindo” (pretty), and “palabra” (word). The rest is a blur. The music gets the attention of Alex and Little Joe. They run in and start hopping around to dance. I grab their hands, and we run in little circles while Paloma strums her guitarra and sings about “shouting pretty words.” We’re laughing. Even Paloma manages to chuckle between verses. Mirasol doesn’t laugh, but she’s clapping to the beat with a smile.

  Then I let Alex and Little Joe go. They’re dizzy from all the turns, so they lose their balance and bump into Mirasol’s vanity, knocking over hair spray and perfume.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” she says. “Everybody out.”

  She starts shooing us to the door. Alex and Little Joe run out first, but Paloma hangs back.

  “Out!” Mirasol says again, this time pointing at the door. A few seconds ago, she was acting like my fairy godmother and personal stylist, but as soon as her sister appears, she changes. Why can’t she be nice all the time?

  As we are walking out, Mirasol speed-dials one of our primas and says, “You’ll never believe what just happened. Little Joe and Alex tackled my vanity and broke my favorite bottle of perfume.”

  Paloma shakes her head as we continue down the hallway.

  “What a liar, right?” I say.

  “You know it,” Paloma says, laughing. Then she grabs my braid and gives it a playful tug. “Look at your locks. You are so cute, Luna. That’s why you’re one of my favorite cousins.”

  “Really? You like me better than Claudia?”

  She thinks about it. “Claudia can be cool sometimes, but I don’t talk to her very much. She likes to tell on me, and she can’t keep any secrets.”

  It’s true. I can’t say or do anything without Claudia reporting to the teacher or my parents or her parents or all of my primas and friends. Apparently, Paloma can’t say or do anything, either.

  When we enter her room, she puts away her instrument and closes the door to the Jack-and-Jill restroom because we can hear Mirasol talking to whoever’s on the other end, probably Celeste.

  “So what’s this about flash cards?” Paloma asks as she plops on her bed. “When I got home from rehearsal, your mom thanked me for helping you make them. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I said ‘you’re welcome’ anyway.”

  I tell her about my Spanish grade, how I got an F on a test and a C on my last assignment.

  “Why isn’t Claudia helping?” Paloma asks. “Isn’t she in your class?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “But you know how competitive she is. She’ll probably tell me ‘silla’ means ‘carpet’ when I know that it really means ‘chair,’ and she’ll lie just so she could get higher grades.”

  Paloma shakes her head. “Primas are supposed to help each other, not mess each other up.” She reaches for a pad of Post-its on the bedside table. “I don’t have any flash cards,” she says, “but I can make you a list of Spanish words.”

  “That would be great!” I say.

  She takes a Post-it, writes “la cama,” and sticks it on her bed. Then she writes “el espejo” and puts it on the mirror. She does the same for door (la puerta), lamp (la lámpara), and book (el libro). I already know how to say “book” and “door” in Spanish, but the other words are new. Soon, Paloma’s got Post-its on a dozen items, and she points at them, making me repeat and memorize. After reviewing a few times, she takes away the Post-its and quizzes me. I miss two, so we do it again. This time, I get all of them right.

  “See?” she says, delighted. “You’re going to get a perfect score on your next Spanish test. I just know it!”

  “I
guess so,” I say.

  “What’s wrong? You don’t seem convinced.”

  How do I explain? Knowing words is fine, but even if I learned a hundred words in Spanish, I still wouldn’t know how to put them together.

  “I need to learn sentences,” I tell Paloma. “When we do Spanish skits, we have to say full sentences.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Repeat after me.”

  I nod and straighten up so I can concentrate. I can’t wait to learn more, but instead of giving me everyday sentences, Paloma gives me lyrics to her mariachi songs. She’s not singing, but I can recognize the words. Plus, I have no idea what I’m saying. How can I say a Spanish sentence without knowing what it means?

  “Wait,” I say. “This isn’t working. The mariachi songs are not going to help me write skits.”

  She sighs. “Hmmm … It’s hard to come up with sentences when I don’t know what you want to talk about.”

  “I just want to be able to respond to things in Spanish. Like, how do I say ‘yes’ and ‘no way’ or ‘that’s cool’ or ‘how’s it going?’ Normal stuff like that.”

  She nods. “Okay. So you just want to shoot the breeze.”

  “Yeah! That’s it.”

  Now that she understands, Paloma jumps right into her lesson. “Say ‘¡Chale!’ for ‘Give me a break!’ or ‘No way!’ Say ‘¡Dale shine!’ for ‘Hurry up!’ ‘Juega la fría’ means ‘play it cool’ and ‘vato barrato’ means ‘lazy dude.’ When you’re greeting someone, you can say ‘¿Cómo te va todo?’ and when you’re leaving, you can say ‘Hasta luego.’ And one of my favorite things to say is ‘¡A la chambirdies!’” It sounds like “ham birdies,” not like a Spanish word at all.

  “What does ‘a la chambirdies’ mean?”

  She shrugs. “I made it up. It doesn’t really have a meaning, but when it’s time to say it, you’ll feel it in your bones—like when you say ‘Whoa!’ or ‘Woo-hoo!’ or ‘Yikes!’ I mean, what do those words mean, right?” I nod. “Yet when it’s time,” she goes on, “they just come out of your mouth on their own.”