Confetti Girl Page 9

  My dad doesn’t taste the quiche right away because he hates trying new things, especially new foods. But after a while, he takes a bite and then another, and then he gets a second serving.

  “This is delicious,” he says. And he’s right. Everything’s delicious, even the quiche, believe it or not.

  While we sit around the table and pat our bellies, my dad says, “Panza llena, corazón contento. A full belly means a happy heart, verdad?”

  “Very happy,” we all say.

  “I’ve got something else to make you smile.” Ms. Cantu goes to her room and comes back with a DVD. “Here’s a little Thanksgiving present,” she says to Vanessa. “It’s the first season of Ugly Betty. Want to watch it?”

  “Do I want to watch it? What kind of crazy question is that?”

  Vanessa hugs and kisses and dances around her mom.

  “Mucho cuidado,” Ms. Cantu says. “I’ve got a broken leg, remember?”

  My eyes are as greedily big as Vanessa’s. We love that show.

  “You can watch it in your room if you’d like,” Ms. Cantu says.

  We go to Vanessa’s room where I plop on the blue beanbag and wait for Vanessa to set up the DVD player. But she doesn’t set it up right away.

  “I’ve got to show you something,” she says. She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a Target bag. “Remember when I went to Target with Carlos last weekend?”

  I nod. I’ve been wanting to ask about her “date,” but she’s been so busy with soccer after school. And in the mornings, my dad’s been driving us since he has to chauffer Ms. Cantu around. So every time I’m with Vanessa, someone else is with us too. This is the first time we’ve had some privacy.

  “After Carlos and I picked our supplies for the project,” she explains, “we had some time to kill, so we walked around, and I saw this.” She opens the bag and hands me a picture frame.

  “It’s the Silver Fox!” I say.

  “No, it’s some model dude. Don’t you see the $2.99 in the corner?”

  I look, and, sure enough, there’s a big yellow $2.99.

  “So that’s why the picture seemed cut off,” I say.

  “The Silver Fox is a phony,” Vanessa cries. “A big, fat phony! He’s got to be really dorky to put a fake picture into the system.”

  I know she’s upset, but I can’t help laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” she says.

  “You’re mad at a guy who’s a fake when the whole time, you’ve been a fake too. I mean, he doesn’t even know your mom exists.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Vanessa says, sinking onto her beanbag. “At least things are getting better around here. My mom’s been really sweet since she’s been getting those letters. She wore regular clothes one day and cooked regular food. She even stopped complaining about my dad.”

  “So the secret admirer notes are working?”

  “So far, so good,” she says.

  Vanessa puts the DVD in the player, so we can watch Ugly Betty. But something about a big Thanksgiving dinner and the sun going down puts us to sleep. We don’t open our eyes till the ending credits roll.

  It’s dark outside, and when we get to the dining room, it’s dark in there too with only the candles and the light from the kitchen doorway. There’s an empty wine bottle on the table, a second bottle half-empty, and the strangest sound coming from the stereo.

  “What are you listening to?” Vanessa asks.

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering all night,” Dad says.

  “It’s a didgeridoo,” Ms. Cantu explains.

  “A what?” we want to know.

  “A long bamboo trumpet made by Australian aborigines,” Ms. Cantu says.

  We don’t even ask what “aborigines” are.

  “I wanted to listen to piano music,” Dad says.

  “Everyone likes piano music, Homero. You’ve got to be more adventurous. Try new things once in a while.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Dad says to Ms. Cantu. Then he turns to me. “Come on, Lina. Time to go home.”

  “Don’t forget your little gift.” Ms. Cantu hands my dad something.

  “What’s that?” Vanessa asks.

  “This?” My dad shows it to us. “Your mom gave me a CD with Native American music.”

  “They make wonderful sounds with animal bones.”

  “I can hear the coyote already,” Dad says.

  “Or a fox,” Ms. Cantu adds. “A silver fox.”

  Did I hear correctly? Did Ms. Cantu say silver fox? Maybe I’m wrong, but my guts are screaming—she thinks my dad’s been writing those poems!

  I bite my lower lip. Every muscle in my body tightens up. No cascarón could survive my clenched fist. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Ms. Cantu winking at my dad and Vanessa with the biggest smile.

  Perro que no camina no encuentra hueso –

  The dog that doesn’t walk doesn’t find the bone

  16

  Kidnapped Eggs

  The next morning, my dad, Vanessa, and I head to Aransas Pass Wildlife Refuge. It’s a cloudy day, the air cool enough for sweaters but not coats. I hope it doesn’t rain.

  At the entrance to the refuge is a visitors’ center and a gift shop. I buy a refrigerator magnet with a picture of a whooping crane and a bookmark with a bobcat.

  Then we drive to the observation tower and walk to the top, where telescopes are mounted on poles.

  “When whooping cranes are born,” the park ranger says, “they’re reddish-orange, but they grow up to be white, with a little black on their wingtips and tails, and with red ‘caps’ on their heads. They always have twins, but the parents ignore the weaker chick. So scientists started kidnapping the extra eggs and putting them in the nests of sandhill cranes, a bird that eats the same kind of food. Sandhill cranes take care of all their babies.” He points to the water. “There they are. Right at the top of that bend.”

  I follow his pointing finger to two spots in the water. I can’t see any details because they’re too far. I try the telescope and move it around until… there!… whooping cranes. Two.

  One of the birds is bent over the water, searching. Then its beak darts forward and comes back with a fish. The movement is fast—like the jump-back movement of a yo-yo. The bird lifts its head, points to the sky, and lets the fish slide down its throat. Then it flaps its wings in a happy way.

  The second bird’s standing close by. It’s very still and alert like a guard dog.

  “Well? What do you see?” Vanessa asks.

  “One just caught a fish.”

  “Did you know whooping cranes mate for life?” the ranger says.

  We didn’t know, so we shake our heads.

  “Ah,” my dad says, “so they understand. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.”

  “That’s really beautiful,” Vanessa says. “I bet you know a lot of love poems.”

  She winks at me, but instead of winking back, I make the sign for “zip it.”

  I look through the telescope again. After a few moments, the birds walk a little. Jason’s right. Their legs are long—very long. And skinny. But somehow they manage to walk without tripping over themselves. In fact, they look graceful.

  Soon they disappear around the bend.

  “They’re gone,” I say.

  “You can still see them if you want,” the ranger says. “We’ve got a trail down there. But you’ve got to be quiet. They’ll fly off if they hear you.”

  He points to the trailhead. I look at my dad, and he nods.

  Before we head out, I check the camera to make sure the batteries are working. Then I grab the notepad and three bottles of water for the hike.

  The trees along the trail are short. They look like overgrown bushes. Between them, leaves and twigs grow in a tangle with stickers and spiderwebs. But we have no trouble hiking. As we follow the trail, the sky gets cloudier. Soon the sky’s completely gray.

  “Look,” V
anessa says.

  She points to a bench and a sign that says SCENIC VIEW. We’re on a hill, not too steep, but dense with the small trees and bushes. Below is a strip of beach and water where the whooping cranes walk in a slow, relaxed way as if they don’t have a care in the world. I take a few pictures, but I can tell the birds are too far away.

  “What’s wrong?” Vanessa asks when she sees my disappointment.

  “I can’t get a good picture. The birds are too far.”

  “That’s easy to fix,” my dad says.

  He stands up and steps past the sign that says STAY ON TRAIL.

  “What are you doing, Dad? Don’t you see the sign?”

  “Forget the sign. We’re not tourists. We’re scientists. Besides, in Texas, ‘no trespassing’ means ‘watch out for hunters and bulls.’ You see any hunters or bulls out here?”

  Vanessa steps off the trail too. “Come on,” she urges. “This is fun. This is crazy. Besides,” she whispers, “your dad’s a silver fox, remember? He knows how to get around in the wild.”

  “Quit calling him that,” I say.

  “I’m kidding, Lina. Can’t you take a joke?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She and Dad are going to the beach with or without me. I don’t have any choice. I’ve got to follow them. Who knows what Vanessa will say when I’m not around.

  Somehow Vanessa and I pass my dad. We’re quiet, remembering what the ranger said about startling the birds. If I had a bad view before, I have a worse one now because I can’t see anything through the trees.

  Finally, I see the shore and the birds about fifteen feet into the shallow water. I step onto the beach but stay close to the tree line. I aim the camera, centering the birds in the view screen. What a perfect shot. I can already hear Mr. Star’s praise. No pictures from postcards for me. This is the real deal—worthy of National Geographic.

  I’m about to click my award-winning picture when the birds fly off. I click the camera, but I’m too late.

  “I’ll never get my pictures now,” I say.

  “Sure you will,” my dad says. “We’ll just follow the birds.”

  He starts walking along the shore, and once again, Vanessa follows.

  “Where are you guys going?” I ask.

  “To find the birds,” they say.

  Before I know it, they’ve got a good head start.

  “We should go back,” I call to them.

  “Nonsense,” my dad says. “Perro que no camina no encuentra hueso.”

  I know he’s right. The dog that doesn’t walk doesn’t find the bone, but I cross my arms anyway, refusing to budge.

  “Besides,” Dad says, “I should be more adventurous, remember?”

  “What are you waiting for?” Vanessa adds. “It’s your project. Not ours.”

  We walk and walk. Soon the shoreline gets very rocky and slippery. We step into the trees with plans to continue along the coastline, but soon we’re deep in the forest.

  “He doesn’t know where we’re going,” I tell Vanessa.

  “Sure he does,” she says. “He’s like a fox on the trail of a rabbit. A silver fox. Aren’t you, Mr. Flores?”

  “Sure, sure,” my dad says.

  I grab Vanessa’s sleeve and hold her back a while, letting my dad walk out of earshot.

  “You better stop it with the silver fox and poetry stuff,” I say.

  “Why should I? Don’t you get it? The Silver Fox was all make-believe, but your dad, he’s for real. My mom must have recognized the stationery. I think she was with us when we bought it. And besides, your dad has silver hair and he loves poetry. This is a match made in heaven, Lina.”

  “No it isn’t,” I say. “They can’t get together!”

  “Why not? My mom’s already fallen for him. I can tell. And your dad’s a great guy. Just think about it. If they get together, we’ll be sisters.”

  “They’re not going to get together!” I insist. “My dad still loves my mom, and once your mom figures that out, she’s going to send all her man-hating energy in his direction.”

  “Hey, girls!” my dad calls back. “Let’s stick together, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” Vanessa says, rushing forward.

  I can’t believe Vanessa wants to hook up our parents. It’s the dumbest idea in the universe. And what about me? Don’t my feelings matter? If I tell her to drop it, she should because that’s what best friends do. They take each other’s feelings into account.

  I’m too mad to talk or even pay attention to where we’re going. But after a while, I realize that our hike’s going nowhere.

  “Okay, Dad,” I say, “where are we?”

  He stops and scratches his head. “We’re taking the road less traveled,” he says. “Just a little farther.”

  “A little farther to what?”

  “To that field over there.”

  He points ahead, and I can see where the forest ends and a grassy meadow begins. We’re on the lookout for whooping cranes, but when we get to the field, it’s empty except for an old windmill.

  “Okay. Where’s the water?” I say. “Whooping cranes like the water.”

  My dad does a three-sixty, then shrugs.

  “You brought me all the way to nowhere? Are you insane?”

  “Give him a break,” Vanessa says. “He’s doing his best.”

  I let out a real big, bothered sigh.

  “So I’m guessing we’re lost,” I say.

  “Apparently,” Dad answers.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” Vanessa says.

  “Quit taking his side, Vanessa. Right now, this is between my dad and me. I never interfere when you’re upset with your mom. Do I?”

  “Whatever,” she says, walking away until she finds a rock to sit on.

  “That’s no way to talk to your best friend,” Dad says.

  “But Vanessa’s always taking your side, even after you get us lost.”

  “I just wanted to help you,” he says. “I thought we could get close to the birds.”

  “The only way to do that is to get back to the trail.”

  He reaches in his back pocket and unfolds a map of the park. We join Vanessa, and all of us study the map, but it’s very vague. It doesn’t show landscapes or windmills, only the shoreline, trails, and roads.

  “We’re way off course,” I say. “See how the trail circles around? It doesn’t come this far, so there’s no way we’re going to find it. I have no idea where we are.”

  “If only we could figure out where the water is,” Vanessa says.

  “Good point. From the water, we can head west. Eventually we’ll find the road, and from there we can walk north to the observation tower.”

  “Great plan,” Dad says. “So which way is west?”

  I look up, but with the sun behind the clouds, I can’t tell. The water’s too far to see or hear. It could lie in any direction.

  “We have to make a compass,” I say, half-expecting my dad to jump into action. When he doesn’t, I remember that when it comes to Boy Scout things, he’s got as much know-how as a blob of Jell-O. “Do you have the magnet we bought at the visitors’ center?”

  He nods, reaches in his pocket, and hands it to me.

  “Now take this paper clip,” I say, plucking the clip from my notes. “Rub it against the magnet about sixty times. Make sure you rub it in the same direction every time, okay?”

  My dad rubs the clip against the magnet, while I take the lens cap from the camera and pour some water into it. Thank goodness it hasn’t been a hot day, or the water would be gone. Then I tear off a piece of notebook paper small enough to fit inside the lens cap.

  “Here you go,” my dad says, handing me the clip.

  I gently place the clip onto the floating paper and tug an edge, watching it pivot till the paper clip aligns itself in a north/south direction.

  “It worked!” I say.

  “Let me see,” Vanessa says.

  “You’re amazing,” my da
d adds.

  “I’m not sure which is north and which south, but if we head perpendicular to the clip, we’ll either hit the water or the road. Then it’ll be easy to find our way to the car.”

  We start hiking again. After a while, my dad asks, “So where did you learn how to make a compass?”

  “You’re not the only one who reads. I do too, but I read about stuff that’s real. Unlike some people. I don’t fill my head with silly ideas like talking rabbits.”

  He lets a moment pass, then says, “Someday, Lina, you’ll understand. Maybe poems and stories can’t teach you how to make a compass, but they can teach you about a whole lot of other things. La educación es la única cosa que nadie te podrá quitar.”

  That’s his way of telling me that no one can take away my education.

  After what feels like ages, we find the road. We head north to our car. We’re a lot farther away than I thought.

  “Maybe someone will pick us up,” Vanessa says.

  But no one picks us up because no one’s around. It’s a gloomy day. Only fools like us would choose this weather for a nature walk. As if reading my mind, the sky begins a heavy rain.

  “My notes!” I say, full of panic. I put them under my sweater, hoping to keep them dry, but I can feel the water seeping through. When we finally get to the car, I see that my notes are ruined. My socks are mucky with rain and mud, and when I take them off, they stretch out of shape.

  “This whole trip’s been a bust. How am I supposed to remember everything I heard and saw without my notes? How am I supposed to do a presentation without pictures? I wish Mom were here!”

  “I’m sorry,” Dad says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  I’m too mad to accept his apology, so I inch away from him, lean against the window, and close my eyes. No one talks, so it’s a long ride home.

  El mal escribano le echa la culpa a la pluma –

  A poor writer blames the pen

  17

  Stubborn as a Hard-boiled Egg

  Once a month, we dress up for Spirit Day at school. For Color Day, we wear red. For Western Day, we wear cowboy hats and boots. For Retro Day, we wear outfits from our parents’ closets. But my favorite Spirit Day, of course, is Wacky Sock Day. So I wear a pair of knee-highs with green, orange, and yellow stripes. I wear them with flip flops to show off the separate sleeves for my toes—like gloves but for feet.