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 dad 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
O
nce 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.
Everyone thinks my socks are the coolest.
Today Mr. Star wants us to report on our projects. Everyone but me has gone on successful field trips. My visit to Aransas
Pass doesn’t count, since I came back empty-handed. As I listen to my classmates, I suddenly realize that I’m not only failing
English but possibly science too. At this rate, I’ll be off the team for the rest of the year!
“Carlos and I got some real good pictures,” Vanessa tells the class. “Close-ups and everything.”
Sure, I think to myself, they got close-ups. Close-ups of each other’s lips.
“And how about you, Lina?” Mr. Star asks.
“Well,” I say. “You see… I went to the Aransas Pass Wildlife Refuge with Vanessa and my dad.”
“We had fun,” Vanessa says.
“I bought a magnet,” I tell the class. “Then I went to this observation tower and the ranger said whooping cranes mate for
life… edge of doom and all that. The birds went around the bend, so we tried to follow them but we took the road less traveled
and got lost. And I never got my picture because the birds flew off. Then there was this big, empty field, no water anywhere,
so I had to make a compass on the spot. When we found the road, it started to rain, and all my project notes got ruined. So
I guess I don’t really have anything right now. But it isn’t my fault. It’s my dad’s. All of it. The whole trip was a bust.
Just ask Vanessa.”
“Did the compass work?” Mr. Star asks.
When I nod, he smiles proudly.
Adults can be so confusing. I just told him I haven’t got anything for my project, but instead of being concerned, he seems
proud about a compass that has nothing to do with whooping cranes.
After science, Luís carries my books and walks me to fourth period.
He says, “I uh… I uh… I wanted to tell you something. My c-c-cousin is having a… a
quinceañera.
I have to stand in it with another g-g-girl.”
I can’t help being jealous even though I know that for most
quinceañeras,
the guest of honor chooses fourteen of her best friends and then guilt-trips her brothers and cousins into being escorts.
Luís says, “I know that I’ll… that I’ll… I know I’ll have to dance with that girl, but it’s just one time so you want to come
to, to dance with me all the other times?”
“Really?” I say. “Okay.” Even though I can’t dance.
He smiles, then he shyly looks at his feet—not a good idea in the crowded hallway. Before I can warn him, he bumps into Jason.
“Hey!” Jason says.
“Excuse… I… I… I mean…”
“You mean what? Spit it out, dummy.”
“Quit talking trash,” I say. “Luís is ten times smarter than you.”
“I wouldn’t know. Porky Pig talks better than him.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yes he does… P-P-Petunia Pig.”
“Are animal insults the best you can do? Because you sound so preschool.”
Jason and his friends laugh at me. I don’t know why, but apparently Luís
does
because he walks off without a word.
“Hey, wait,” I say. “Don’t mind Jason. He’s a jerk.”
“I know.”
“Then why’d you walk off?”
“Because I can speak for myself. Even when… when Jason’s around.”
“So that’s why they’re laughing? I can’t believe how dumb I am. Can you ever forgive me?” I pout to show how sorry I am.
He smiles and says “sure,” then he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Right there in the hallway! I’m hoping for a follow-up
when the tardy bell rings.
“W-w-we better hurry,” Luís says, rushing to his class.
I’m already late, so instead of running to Mrs. Huerta’s class, I take the long route. I never noticed the water-color paintings
in the hall before, pretty flowers and seascapes. I know it’s impossible, but I can smell the flowers and hear the oceans
as if the paintings were alive. If my dad quoted a poem now, I’d probably understand it. The whole world makes sense, and
it’s a wonderful time to be alive.
In fact, I could live off my joy forever if it weren’t for Mrs. Huerta.
“You’re late,” she says when I walk in.
I take my seat and she continues with the lecture. As soon as I realize she’s talking about Charles Dickens, I tune out. The
view outside the window is much more interesting than Mrs. Huerta’s face. Besides, I don’t care about make-believe. My dad’s
love for make-believe is what ruined my trip to the animal refuge. Give me newspaper articles, vacuum cleaner manuals, the
ingredients on a cough syrup box,
anything
but stuff from someone’s imagination, especially if that someone is dead.
Like Charles Dickens. When did he die? In the 1800s sometime? He didn’t even live in Texas. I know, because I read the first
few pages of
A Christmas Carol.
The place Dickens describes is full of snow. How can I relate? The only time it snows in Corpus is when someone throws Styrofoam
peanuts on the ground. Plus, instead of saying “my bad” or “snap!” Dickens says dorky things like “Bah!” and “Humbug!” And
instead of tamales, his characters eat dumplings for Christmas. What’s a dumpling? No one I know in Texas eats them. As far
as I’m concerned, a dumpling is something a cow leaves on the ground.
There’s no way I’m going to waste my time reading that book. Besides, I’ve seen the Mickey Mouse version a dozen times. Ghost
of Christmas Present, Ghost of Christmas Past, Ghost of Christmas Future… blah, blah, blah. I thought talking rabbits were
silly, but ghosts? At least rabbits exist in the
real
world.
Mrs. Huerta catches me daydreaming. “So what do
you
think about Scrooge?” she asks.
“The Mickey Mouse guy?”
“Mickey Mouse? What are you talking about?”
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the movie,” I say. “Mickey Mouse comes out on
A Christmas Carol.
So do Donald Duck and Goofy. You get the whole book in thirty minutes. We should watch it.”