Confetti Girl Read online

So this Silver Fox gets down and begs

  For you, the queen of lovely confetti eggs.

  Para el gato viejo, ratón tierno –

  A tender mouse for an old cat

  14

  The Best-looking Egghead

  Dad has always graded papers on the weekends, so Mom and I used to go to the mall or movies while he worked. Or we’d buy snow cones at Cole Park and watch the kids fly kites or skateboard. Now I just sit around the house on Saturdays, especially when Vanessa’s with her dad. I get so bored. This is what I’m thinking when the phone rings. Lucky for me, it’s Vanessa.

  “Want to go to the beach?” she says.

  “In November?”

  “Sure, why not? We’re not going to sunbathe. We’re going to work on our science projects. My dad’s lending me his digital camera. Isn’t that great?”

  “But there aren’t any whooping cranes at the beach.”

  “Who cares? You can invite Luís and help him with his project while Carlos and I work on ours.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Let me call you back. I’ve got to get permission from my dad.”

  Something tells me a Saturday at the beach is a no-no when I’m failing English. On the other hand, I’ve been working extra hard to bring up my grade. Every night, I read Watership Down and summarize the chapters. I don’t know if Mrs. Huerta will accept these late quizzes, but it’s worth a try.

  “Dad?” I ask. He’s in the living room, entering student scores on his laptop. “Can I go to the beach with Vanessa? Her dad’s taking us.”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “And with Luís too?”

  He looks up from his screen. He knows I’ve been walking home with Luís, and they’ve even met a few times. They get along, but that doesn’t stop Dad from being overprotective. “You mean like a date?”

  “If that’s what you call going to the beach to work on projects.”

  He leans back in his chair. I can tell he wishes my mom were here so he wouldn’t have to make such a big decision by himself.

  Instead of answering, he says, “Under one condition.”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Give this to Luís.” He pulls out a business card from his wallet.

  “What’s this? A speech therapist?”

  “She works with me at the high school. The students love her.”

  “But if I give this to Luís, he’ll think I’m making fun of him.”

  “No he won’t.”

  “Yes he will.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Lina, I can tell he’s a really smart boy, so he deserves to speak well. There’s nothing shameful about stuttering. It’s a problem lots of people have, and it’s something he can fix. So tell him to call my friend. She works wonders.”

  He gets back to his typing as if our conversation’s done.

  “So can I invite him if I promise to mention the speech therapist?”

  “Sure, sure,” he says. “As long as you’re supervised.” Then as an afterthought, he adds, “And take the extra key. I might be helping Irma when you get back.”

  I call Luís. I call Vanessa. An hour later, we’re cruising in Mr. Cantu’s SUV.

  Maybe it never snows in Corpus, but the ocean wind sure gets cold. That’s why I have on jeans, hiking boots, and a sweatshirt with a hood.

  “That’s a really cool scarf,” Carlos says when he sees me.

  Around my neck, I’m wearing the most colorful socks from my lonely sock drawer. I’ve cut them open to make squares, then I’ve sewn the ends together to make a scarf. It’s very warm.

  “I can show you how to make one,” I offer. “All you need are some old socks you don’t use anymore.”

  “You might not like my old socks,” Carlos says.

  “Why not? Old socks have character. You can’t just throw them away.”

  “Boy socks are a lot different from girl socks.”

  “How?”

  “They’re not as colorful,” he says.

  “We’ll make you a white scarf then.”

  “I don’t think I want my old socks around my neck.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they…” Carlos looks at his feet as if searching for the answer. “They kind of smell,” he finally says.

  We all laugh and Carlos’s face gets as red as Mrs. Huerta’s grading pen.

  Everyone’s dressed warm like me—except Mr. Cantu’s girlfriend. Vanessa was right—she’s a Windsor. Today she’s got the spring-break look—a turquoise bathing suit with a floral sarong around her waist. She’s got turquoise earrings, too. Her hair’s in a bun with a flower neatly tucked in her ear—a real flower, something very Hawaii-looking.

  She pulls down the sun visor to check her makeup. After a few minutes, she checks her makeup again.

  “Do you really think your face has changed since the last time you looked?” Vanessa says.

  “Behave,” her dad warns, “or I’m canceling this trip right now.”

  Vanessa slumps in her seat and lets out a real bothered sigh.

  The girlfriend doesn’t say a word. Instead, she ejects Vanessa’s CD. Now we’re listening to some preacher guy on an AM station. What cold-blooded revenge. No wonder Vanessa hates her. She crosses her arms and stares at the back of the girlfriend’s head with a look that could shatter bulletproof glass.

  Looking for conversation, I turn to Carlos and Luís in the seat behind me, but they’re using some kind of guy talk. All I hear is a bunch of “uh-huh’s,” “right, dude’s,” and some caveman sound I can’t identify.

  Finally we get to the beach. Mr. Cantu finds a nice spot and parks the car. There’s a fierce November wind, but that doesn’t stop the girlfriend from taking her umbrella out of the SUV. It opens, yanking her arm. Then her sarong flies off. She tries to catch it, and just like that, the umbrella takes flight, too.

  “Walter! Walter!” she calls to Vanessa’s dad.

  He hurries after her things, and that’s when I notice that he’s wearing what looks like a golfing outfit—a yellow polo shirt with lime green slacks.

  “I can’t believe it,” Vanessa says. “My dad is such a cliché!”

  “What do you mean?” Carlos asks.

  “He’s almost forty and his girlfriend’s only twenty-five.”

  “She can’t be twenty-five,” I say.

  “She is. I went through her wallet to check her ID. She turned twenty-five two months ago! Leave it to my dad to have a midlife crisis. I’m surprised he isn’t driving a convertible. I’m surprised he hasn’t had liposuction yet. I’m surprised…”

  I don’t know what else she says. I’m laughing too hard. Carlos and Luís are laughing too. Vanessa stops midsentence, and then she starts laughing.

  “It’s so ridiculous,” she says through her giggles. “What did your mom used to say when an old movie star married a younger woman?”

  “Para el gato viejo, ratón tierno.” A tender mouse for an old cat.

  “That’s right. That’s what I think about every time I see my dad and his girlfriend.”

  Poor Vanessa. Her dad has a young girlfriend and a whole new wardrobe, while Ms. Cantu’s stuck with nothing but the TV, giant T-shirts, and cascarones.

  “At least your mom has the Silver Fox to cheer her up,” I say.

  “Who’s the Silver Fox?” the guys ask.

  “He’s my mom’s secret admirer,” Vanessa says. “She’s been getting a lot of love notes from him.”

  We giggle, and when the guys aren’t looking, we wink at each other, our promise to keep the whole letter-writing scheme a secret.

  ***

  After Mr. Cantu and his girlfriend return with the umbrella and sarong, Vanessa and Carlos get the camera and head toward the dunes. Finally, I’m left alone with Luís.

  Most people think Luís is a nerd, but in my eyes, he’s the best-looking egghead in Corpus Christi. He’s put a lot of thought into his field research. He predicted the wind, so instead of bringing paper, h
e brought two small dry-erase boards. On mine, he writes “plastic,” “metal,” and “glass.” On his, he writes “paper,” “oil clods,” and “other.”

  “We’re g-going to walk a mile down the beach and mark each type of trash we see,” he explains.

  “How will we know when we’ve walked a mile?”

  “I have a p-p-pedometer.” He shows it to me. “I’ve already set it to my stride and tested it on the track to be sure it’s measuring correctly.”

  We start walking. It’s not the romantic scene I’ve been dreaming about. We don’t look or act like beach love-birds on perfume commercials. No, we’re all business. I’m ten feet into our journey when I realize how messy people are. Actually, they’re pigs. We see the usual Coke cans and potato chip bags along with weird stuff like a broken ukulele and a hand puppet that looks like it used to be Big Bird. Who knew trash could be so in teresting? Especially when I consider the trash cans and signs that say DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS. They’re really obvious. So why dump stuff on the ground? And what about the wildlife? I’m sure the turtles and birds have cut themselves on glass or gotten tangled in fishing lines.

  My mind is racing with all kinds of questions. So when Luís says we’ve walked a mile, I’m surprised.

  “That was fast,” I say.

  He looks at his sundial. “It’s been half an hour.”

  He puts the supplies into his backpack, and we head back. Halfway to the car, we spot a log.

  “Do you want to r-r-rrrest?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  We use the log as a bench and sit facing the water.

  “My dad really likes you,” I say. Then, because I promised, I hand Luís the business card. “He wants you to call her.”

  “A s-s-speech therapist?”

  “Yeah.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I’m not saying you should call her,” I explain.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t mind how you talk.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure.”

  He believes me, and why shouldn’t he? It’s true. I think about Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the scene with the elf that wants to fix teeth instead of toys. Rudolf doesn’t care, and the elf doesn’t care about Rudolf’s glow-in-the-dark nose. So if Luís is okay with my long, skinny legs, then I’m okay with the way he talks.

  He draws a heart on the sand and writes our names in it. Then he reaches for my hand. I thought holding hands would be easy, but I’m not sure if my elbow should go in front of his or behind—or whether or not we should interlock fingers. We laugh because we look like we’re playing patty-cake. When we finally figure out the whole handholding thing, we get quiet. We don’t dare speak or look at each other.

  Suddenly I forget about the beach trash and notice only the pelicans flying by. They look like dinosaur birds. I notice the waves too. I listen as they roll in. They seem stuck on a syllable, constantly repeating the “st” sound—ssssT, ssssT, ssssT. So, I realize, the ocean stutters too. I find myself enjoying the sound, the way I enjoy halftimes during soccer games because they make the moment last, because, while I’m waiting for the second half, I’m wondering how the game will end, and in this case, how the ocean’s word will end—ssssT, ssssT, ssssT—storm, stream, stairway, stars.

  When we reach the car, Vanessa’s dad and his girlfriend are sitting in it. She’s got the sarong wrapped around her shoulders. She’s shivering, but that doesn’t stop her from enjoying an ice-cold Coke.

  “We’ve got snacks in the ice chest,” Mr. Cantu says.

  Luís and I dig in. After I go through a box of Cracker Jacks, a bag of Doritos, an orange, a few sardines, and a can of Big Red, Mr. Cantu asks me to get Vanessa from the dunes. So I head out by myself because Luís’s lenses are too dirty from the ocean spray.

  I spot the highest dune and climb it, my feet sinking into the soft sand. At the top, I see how the line of dunes makes a fence between the coast and the flat grassland on the other side. I take in the whole scene, looking for Vanessa and Carlos. I don’t see them, but I do see their footprints leading over another dune.

  I follow the footprints, my feet sinking into the sand again. The higher I go, the noisier and cooler it gets. Finally I reach the top of the dune and there they are—Vanessa and Carlos.

  They don’t notice me. But then, I couldn’t get their attention if I pulled their hair. That’s how involved they are. They’re holding hands the way Luís and I held hands, but they’re sitting a lot closer. And then, Carlos leans over and kisses Vanessa’s lips. Their kiss isn’t long or intense, just a peck, but still—it’s on the lips!

  I don’t want them to catch me staring, so I hide in the quiet bowl between the dunes.

  I can’t help it, but I’m jealous. If I gave into my mean streak, I’d stomp at the top of the dune and bury their romantic moment with a sand avalanche.

  I tell myself I’ve got no reason to be jealous. But let’s face it. I do! What about my special moment? What’s holding hands compared to a kiss?

  But that’s not the real reason I’m jealous. The real reason’s in our baby books. Vanessa grew the first tooth, said the first word, took the first steps. That’s right! When it comes to growing up, she beats me to everything. In the past few years, she’s had the first bra, the first period, and now the first kiss, while all I got was the first zit.

  I decide to call out. “Vanessa! Carlos!”

  A few seconds later, they peek over the dune.

  “There you are,” I say. “Your dad’s ready to go.”

  After we drop off Luís, we head to Carlos’s house.

  “Are we still meeting at noon tomorrow?” Carlos asks Vanessa.

  “If it’s still okay with my dad.”

  “It’s okay,” Mr. Cantu says.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Carlos and I are going to Target to buy some stuff for our project.”

  “Oh, great,” I say. “I need to buy some film and a poster board.”

  “You mean you want to go?” she asks, glancing at Carlos. “Because it’s not really a shopping trip. It’s homework. You know, for our science class.”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Vanessa and I always go to Target together.

  “Maybe we can go next weekend,” Vanessa says.

  “Sure,” I say. “Next weekend.”

  I try to act like I don’t care, but I do. When her dad drops me off, I say goodbye and pretend everything’s okay even though I’m feeling like a sitcom that’s been cancelled for a snazzier show.

  Panza llena, corazón contento –

  Full belly, happy heart

  15

  Eat Quiche

  Last Thanksgiving, my dad and I nuked turkey potpies in the microwave. We ate alone even though Vanessa and her mom had invited us over. We should have joined them, but it was our first Thanksgiving without Mom, and somehow my dad and I knew we couldn’t let ourselves have fun. I still miss my mom’s turkey stuffing with the celery and mushrooms. But if she saw me moping around, she’d be mad. She’d say life’s too short for so much sadness. So this year we accepted Ms. Cantu’s invitation to celebrate at her house.

  “I guess she wants to show her appreciation for all my help,” Dad says.

  He’s talking about the errands he’s been running for her. Ever since Ms. Cantu broke her leg, my dad’s been driving back and forth from the high school, the grocery store, and the post office. He even delivered some of her Avon products. And now, every time he cooks eggs, he saves the shells, and when he has a dozen, he delivers them to Ms. Cantu.

  We cross the street to Vanessa’s house around three in the afternoon.

  “Come in. Come in,” Ms. Cantu says.

  She’s got crutches under her arms, but she still manages to greet me with a smothering hug—the kind where I’m stooped over while she pats my head and says la pobrecita over and over again. Today, her oversized T-s
hirt has a cornucopia with glittery fruit.

  Ms. Cantu has set the table with candles, flowers, and her best china and silverware, which surprises me because even on special occasions, Ms. Cantu’s a paper plate kind of person. She hates washing dishes and so does Vanessa.

  “You two sit down,” she says. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Maybe we should help you,” my dad suggests.

  “No, no. We can manage.”

  When she leaves, my dad whispers to me, “Go and help them anyway.”

  I nod, happy for something to do. I go to the kitchen where Vanessa’s taking a pie plate from the oven.

  “I can’t believe what we’re eating,” she says.

  “What’s wrong with the food?”

  Ms. Cantu interrupts before Vanessa can explain.

  “Okay, girls, take the bowls to the table,” she says.

  One by one, we take mashed potatoes, marshmallow yams, green bean casserole, cranberries, and biscuits to the dining room. Vanessa follows with the pie plate. Then Ms. Cantu comes in with some matches to light the candles.

  “Well, that’s everything,” she says. “I hope you have big appetites.”

  “It looks… um… different than I expected,” my dad says.

  It does look different because there’s a key item missing. “Where’s the turkey?” I ask.

  “Right there,” Ms. Cantu says, pointing to the pie plate.

  “That’s turkey?”

  “It’s turkey quiche.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Vanessa says. “Everyone else is having a normal Thanksgiving, but not us.”

  “Well,” Ms. Cantu explains, “there’s no way four people can eat a twenty-pound turkey by themselves. Plus, quiche is a great way to get eggs into the menu.”

  “But I’m sick of eggs, Mom!”

  I have to take Vanessa’s side on this one. I really like to eat weird stuff, but not on Thanksgiving. Couldn’t Ms. Cantu make the quiche another day?

  Once we’re all seated, we hold hands to pray. “Gracias, Señor… ,” Ms. Cantu begins. Then we eat.