Lucky Luna Read online

  “I’m making a surprise,” Claudia adds. Usually, when a prima tells me something’s a surprise, I beg for hints, but I don’t want to seem too interested because she’ll start bragging about how good she knits.

  Soon the bus arrives, and when we get on, a few kids say it stinks. They’re mumbling under their breath, but I can still hear them. Claudia can, too. She plops onto her seat, but instead of hiding behind a book, she starts knitting.

  As soon as I sit, Mabel closes a notebook as if to hide it from me.

  “What were you writing?” I ask.

  “I was working on the article about your cousin.”

  “Really? Let me see.” I reach for her notebook, but she stuffs it in her backpack before I can take a look.

  “You’ll have to wait for the newsletter on Friday.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts,’” Mabel says. “I’m not supposed to leak the story before its official publication.”

  “I won’t talk about it,” I say. “Promise.”

  She sighs. “Luna, I’ve known you since first grade.”

  That sentence is always like the period at the end of a conversation. Nothing I say will change her mind. I can’t stand being in the dark about the article, so I reach into my pocket, grab the starfish, and squeeze. It helps, but not as much as drinking water.

  We spend a couple of hours in class, and right before recess, I ask John-John and Mabel if they can help me catch flies. Mabel seems a little disgusted, but John-John’s smile is wider than the Harbor Bridge. It figures. He ate an earthworm, so he must like catching flies, too. He grabs a juice box and says, “Fly bait.”

  “We have to keep it a secret from Claudia,” I say.

  Mabel crosses her arms. “What are you up to?” She sounds like my mom, and it gives me the shivers.

  “It’s a Mexican tradition to stop gossip,” I explain. “My abuela told me about it. I’m going to put the flies in this envelope.” I show it to her.

  “And then?” she asks.

  “Who cares?” John-John says, stuffing my flyswatter and envelope into his camouflage backpack. “It’ll be fun.”

  Mabel sighs but she joins us outside anyway. Turns out, I don’t have to hide from Claudia because for once she’s not spying on me. She’s on a bench, and she’s not alone. She’s knitting with two other Needle Beetles. They’re fifth graders from another class, so they probably haven’t learned that she likes to show off and tattle.

  Mabel and I follow John-John to a picnic area on the other side of the playground. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the purple rabbit’s foot. After we touch it for good luck, he says, “First we set the trap.” He pours a few drops of juice on the table. “Then we wait.” He takes out the flyswatter. “You need superior reflexes to catch living flies.” He demonstrates, slapping the table with lightning speed. Then he hands me the flyswatter. “You try it now.”

  I do a few slaps as quickly as I can. “Good job,” John-John says.

  Then we wait for the flies to come … and we keep waiting … and the juice dries up, so we pour a little more. We wait again. Basketballs bounce on the court and hit the backboards. Jump ropes slap the pavement. Swings creak as kids go higher and higher. Our classmates are shouting, singing, and laughing. Meanwhile … no flies. I’m starting to feel impatient, so I squeeze the starfish. Mabel sits on the edge of the picnic table. She isn’t looking at the spot of juice anymore. She’s staring at the other kids having fun. I can tell she’d rather be with them, but she’s loyal even if it means being completely, totally, 100 percent bored.

  “We’re running out of time!” I say.

  John-John nods. “Agreed.” He drinks the rest of his juice box and gets a new idea. “If the flies won’t come to us, we will go to the flies.”

  “And where are we going to find a bunch of flies?” I ask.

  He glances around. “I don’t see any roadkill, so we’ll have to search the Dumpsters behind the cafeteria.”

  “Are you kidding?” Mabel says. “That’s outside the playground area.”

  It’s against the rules to leave the playground, but … “I really need these flies,” I say. “Besides, we’ll be back before anybody notices.” Mabel’s not budging. “Please,” I beg. “You’re my best friend, and best friends are supposed to help each other, no matter what.”

  She thinks about it. “Okay, okay. I’m going but not to help you get flies. I’m going to help you stay out of trouble. That means you have to listen to me, okay?”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  We fist-bump to seal the deal. Then Mabel, John-John, and I head to the Dumpsters. When we get to the edge of the playground, we glance back to see if someone’s watching. Luckily, no one’s paying attention, so we run like crazy, skidding past corners, leaping over shrubs and mud scrapers, and stooping below windows so we won’t get caught. Finally, we get to the back of the cafeteria and take a moment to catch our breaths. Then we spot two brown Dumpsters and catch a whiff of rotten meat and spoiled veggies. I want to gag, but I squeeze my starfish instead.

  “Okay,” John-John says. “Mabel, you be the lookout while Luna and I go hunting.”

  She nods and peeks around the edge of the building. Meanwhile, John-John and I approach the Dumpsters. He was right. There are hundreds of flies buzzing about. It’s like Disneyland, but instead of excited people, we have excited bugs.

  John-John flips open the giant lid. “Go for it,” he says, and I get to work. I don’t even have to aim because there are just so many—not only flies but roaches, bees, and ants, too. I slap the lip of the Dumpster. I slap the front wall, the side wall, even the ground. Slap! Slap! Slap! John-John has the envelope and collects the little bodies. A few times, we scrape clean the flyswatter, getting rid of the flies that are too squished up.

  “Hurry! Mrs. Carmona’s coming,” Mabel says. She sounds nervous because we’re about to get caught.

  We run off, Mabel leading us away from Mrs. Carmona’s path. Once again, we skid, leap, and stoop. When we return to the playground, we’re out of breath again. No one’s telling jokes or being tickled, but that doesn’t stop us from laughing.

  Finally, we settle down. “How many did you get?” John-John asks.

  We peek inside the envelope. There are about fifteen flies.

  I give them a thumbs-up. “Mission accomplished.”

  We cheer, and Mabel says, “That was so stressful. It felt like we were in a movie. Like an action-thriller film!”

  “Yeah,” I say, “with mutant flies.”

  “And zombies!” John-John adds.

  An hour later, Claudia’s behind me in the lunch line, and when I select a cookie for dessert, she tells me I should put it back and choose a fruit cup instead. “Fruit is more nutritious. Cookies have too much sugar, and too much sugar in your system can lead to diabetes and cavities. You wouldn’t want a root canal, would you?”

  Instead of responding, I take a giant bite of la galleta right in front of her. Claudia shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Then we pay, and instead of tagging along to my table like she did last week, she heads in another direction.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I’m going sit with my new friends.”

  “So you’re not going to sit at my table anymore?”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to sit there.”

  “I don’t but—” I can’t finish the sentence. If I do, she’ll know about the flies.

  “But what?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  She does a quick turnaround. Her new friends seem happy to see her, and I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing right. How’d she make friends so fast? Meanwhile, Mabel calls me to our table. I join her. Everyone’s talking about an upcoming talent show, but I’m not paying attention. The envelope of moscas is in my pocket, and all I can think about is Abuela’s wise advice.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Mabel.

 
I rush to the lunch line before it closes, and while I’m waiting, I sneak a fly from my pocket. I’ve got some extra change, so I buy a fruit cup and drop the insect. It sinks between two grapes. Then I approach Claudia’s table. She’s listening to her friends, but she looks up when she sees me.

  “I decided to take your advice and eat fruit,” I say, holding out the cup.

  “You can thank me later when your teeth don’t rot.”

  She turns back to the conversation.

  I put my fruit cup beside hers. “Look. They’re exactly the same,” I say. She nods without looking. This is too easy, I think, swapping the cups. “Well, I guess I’ll go back to my table.” She waves me away as if I’m the pesky fly.

  I watch her all during lunch, and later when we’re returning to class, I say, “Did you enjoy your fruit?”

  Claudia shrugs. “Couldn’t finish. It had a dead fly.”

  She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t even threaten to call the health inspector. But more important—she doesn’t vow to stop gossiping! Luckily, I have more flies in the envelope.

  During class, Claudia gets up to sharpen her pencil. I get up, too, dropping a fly on her desk as I walk by. She just flicks it off. Then Claudia volunteers to pick up worksheets. I leave a fly on my paper, but it slips off and lands on the floor before she sees it. When Claudia goes to the restroom, I approach Mr. Cruz’s desk to ask a question, dropping a fly onto my prima’s chair, but when she returns, she brushes it away before sitting. During art, I slip a fly into the water she’s using to clean her brushes, but it doesn’t bother her at all. She just dumps the water in the sink. Every time she sees a fly, she gets rid of it and moves on.

  What’s wrong with her? If I kept seeing flies, I’d wonder if it’s bad luck. I’d look for cracks in the sky or holes in the earth. I’d check the Weather Channel for natural catastrophes. I would definitely stop gossiping.

  Maybe she’s too distracted to worry about moscas. Today some kids saw her nose and said “reek” and “stench.” But she’s not the only one they’re talking about. I also heard “Cruella de Vil.” She’s a character from 101 Dalmatians. Half her hair is black and the other half white. It hurts my feelings to hear about my hair, so it probably hurts Claudia’s feelings to hear about her nose.

  Finally, the dismissal bell rings. Since Mabel’s staying after school to work on the newsletter, she’s not riding the bus. That’s a bad-luck thing. The good-luck thing is leaning against the window and stretching my legs because I have the whole seat to myself. It also gives me a good view of Claudia, three rows behind. She’s back to knitting. Her blob-shaped circle looks bigger now.

  Keeping the envelope in my lap, I take out a fly and toss it toward her, but there are boys in the rows between us. The fly hits one of them on the shoulder. I take a second fly. I don’t know where it goes, but it doesn’t get to Claudia. Same with the third and the fourth. I’m reaching for another when …

  “What are you doing?” Janie says. She’s standing in the aisle, her shadow falling over me. “What’s in that envelope?” she wants to know.

  I close the flap. “Nothing.”

  “Let me see,” she says, and before I can stop her, she reaches across, grabs it, and peeks inside. “Gross! Are those bugs?”

  “No.”

  “You were throwing bugs at people!”

  “I was not.”

  But now Janie wants to make an announcement. “Hey, everybody! Luna was throwing bugs at y’all.”

  “That’s nasty!” someone says, and someone else says, “Yeah, that stinks!” Then a bunch of kids start laughing.

  “Be quiet, everyone!” Now it’s Claudia talking. She isn’t standing, but she looks taller. She’s probably kneeling on her seat. “Leave my prima alone.”

  “But she was throwing bugs at you, too,” Carly says.

  “They’re not bugs!” I shout, trying to defend myself. “They’re flies!”

  “Flies?” Claudia repeats.

  “Same thing,” Janie says. Then, to Claudia, “And Carly’s right. She was throwing them at you, too. She was probably aiming at you.”

  Claudia looks at me with eyes that can peer into the darkest corners of my soul. “Well, that’s between Luna and me,” she says.

  Just then, the bus stops. We aren’t at a light or stop sign or railroad track or official stop on our route. “Settle down!” the bus driver shouts. “All of you! And no standing in the aisle!”

  Janie returns to her place beside Carly. Claudia sits down and starts knitting again. And I sink as low as I can, but even with a whole seat to myself, I can’t sink low enough to disappear.

  Luckily, the bus reaches my stop a few minutes later. As soon as my prima and I walk into the house, Claudia marches to my mom and says, “Luna threw bugs at me. She tried to hit me with dead flies. She even put them in my food!”

  “I did not!” I throw down my backpack to show how serious I am.

  “I had to go hungry,” Claudia whines. “I didn’t eat a single bite. And all day, I felt creepy-crawlies on my skin.” She rubs her arms and shivers. “Luna even ruined my art project by throwing flies in my paint.”

  “That’s not what happened!” I say. “I threw them in your water.”

  “See?” Claudia points at me. “She admits it. And on the bus, she kept throwing flies. The other kids saw it, too. The bus driver had to stop in the middle of the street because the kids were freaking out about the bugs.” She turns on the dramatics. “It was humiliating! I hate flies! They’re worse than roaches.”

  “What?” I’m beside myself. “Roaches are way worse, especially when they’re in your underwear drawer. Besides, you didn’t notice the flies. You flicked them away like it was no big deal.”

  “Well, it was a big deal!” she insists. “I was just trying to keep it cool in front of the other kids.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mom says to me. “Why were you throwing flies at your prima in the first place?”

  “Abuela told me to. It’s a Mexican tradition.”

  “I’ve never heard of that tradition,” Claudia says. “And there’s no way Abuela told you to throw flies.”

  “Well, you don’t know everything. And she did. You can ask her yourself.”

  “I will!” Claudia says, and she stomps over to Abuela’s, letting the door slam behind her.

  Mom grabs my backpack and plops it on the table. Then she reaches in and takes out the flyswatter. For a moment, I think she’s going to slap me with it, but she returns it to the space beneath the kitchen sink. Then she stares out the window. I can tell she’s mad. “I don’t know where to begin, Lucky Luna. Seems like every day you’re fighting with Claudia, no matter the consequences. Am I supposed to keep thinking up punishments? Nothing works.” She sighs heavily. “I think I’ll let your dad handle this when he comes home. For now, you can go to your room and think.”

  So I go to my room, and when Dad comes home, he steps in, pulls out my desk chair, and sits down. He’s already heard the story from Mom.

  “What did Abuela say exactly?” he asks.

  “She said that if I want Claudia to keep her mouth shut and stop gossiping about me, I’ll have to give her flies.”

  “Those were her exact words?”

  “No. Her exact words were in Spanish, but I can’t speak Spanish, remember?”

  “Then what makes you think she told you to throw flies?”

  “Because she said ‘boca’ and ‘moscas,’ and I know what those words mean, so I filled in the blanks.”

  Dad thinks for a minute. “En boca cerrada no entran moscas?”

  “Yes! That’s it exactly. See? I was just doing what Abuela told me to do.”

  He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “Luna, she wasn’t telling you to give Claudia flies. She was telling you a dicho.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. It must show on my face because he goes on to explain.

  “A dicho is a Spanish prove
rb. She’s saying that flies can’t get in a closed mouth, but she doesn’t mean it word for word. It’s a figurative way of saying ‘don’t gossip.’ Like when we tell you ‘don’t put your eggs in one basket.’ You understand?”

  I nod even though I once asked for a second basket during an Easter egg hunt because of that phrase. I felt so dumb when I realized it was a figure of speech. I thought I was smarter now, but apparently, Spanish and English have something in common—you can’t take everything word for word.

  Later that night, there’s more gossip! I’m at my mirror, trying on different hats and searching for the one that matches my mood. But I’m frustrated, confused, angry, and embarrassed—too many emotions for one hat. Then I hear the Skype melody. It’s Marina again.

  “Prima!” she says, and I answer back with a bummed-out “Hey.”

  She’s fast-talking. “I told Celeste and Estrella about Paloma giving you fake words and making you get in trouble at school, and they agree that it’s totally wrong and completely against the prima code, so now they’re mad at Paloma, too. Estrella lent her a cell phone cover, a pink one with lots of bling, and she’s going to get it back. Celeste is going to break their Snapchat streak. You know how Paloma loves Snapchat. I’m going to unfriend her on all my social media, and I’m not going to put her back until she apologizes publicly, maybe at her next mariachi performance. I mean, really, how could she tell you that ‘cama’ means ‘camel’? That is just plain wrong.”

  I’m waiting for her to take a breath so I can tell her that I’m not mad at Paloma because it’s really Claudia’s fault.

  “I also talked to Kimberly,” Marina says, “but she always takes Paloma’s side. Always. And she told me Josie’s taking her side, too. When I told her how you humiliated yourself by using fake Spanish, she said it’s your fault because you didn’t double-check the definitions before you went around acting like you were bilingual, and so I told her that primas aren’t supposed to lie, that if you ask a prima for the color of the sky, then she better say ‘blue’ unless it’s night or sunset time, but you know what I mean, right?”