On These Magic Shores Page 3

  Someone had to be strong, and that someone was me. There was no one else.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and squared my shoulders. “But she’s okay. You’ll see.”

  “What are we going to do?” Kota asked. She blinked like ten times in five seconds and took a big gulp of breath. “Should we call the police?”

  “Are you insane?” I whisper-yelled. “No! She’ll come home tonight. What if we call the police and they come just when she walks in and take her away . . . all because we couldn’t handle a day on our own? What are we going to do then, huh?” My chest rose and fell fast in agitation. “I know a kid who was sent to foster care once when something happened to his parents and he had no other family to take him. And what about those kids on the news? They’re Latinos like us, and once they get separated from their parents, they never see them again. We don’t want that. We’re going to continue as usual. She’ll be home tonight. You’ll see.”

  Kota wiped her eyes but didn’t make a sound.

  I had to do something. We had to pretend everything was all right. According to my plans for the day, I’d be heading to my auditions now, so that’s what we’d do.

  When my mom came back and she found out how great the auditions had gone, she’d be proud of me. And when she found out I’d gotten the Wendy role? Then she’d be so happy she’d take us somewhere to celebrate. Not somewhere fancy — a McDonald’s would do.

  I picked up the silk dress from the chair where I’d left it the night before and put it on.

  “What are you doing?” Kota asked.

  “We’re going to my auditions.”

  “But your hair. Mamá was going to braid it.”

  “Well, she’s not here, is she? I’ll make it into a knot. And when we come home, you’ll see that she’ll be back. How happy she’ll be that we were so mature and didn’t freak out. She might even give us a present.”

  Kota’s eyes lit up. “Like a dog?”

  I buttoned the dress. A single line of silvery round buttons ran all the way up the front, except for the second one that was brighter than the others, like it had fallen off, and someone wasn’t able to match the new one up with the rest. But at least the buttons were in the front, thank goodness. If they’d been on the back, I’d have been doomed. Kota wasn’t good with buttons yet.

  I made a knot with my wild, wiry hair. “Ready?” I asked, unfolding the stroller to put Avi in.

  “You’re going to go like that?” Kota asked.

  I took a deep breath to keep myself from yelling at her. The last thing I needed was for Avi to wake up.

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing. I just thought you might be cold.”

  “I’m never cold. Now, can you please put your shoes on and hurry? We don’t have a lot of time.”

  She did as I said. Carefully, I placed Avi in the stroller. She didn’t even notice.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Oh! I almost forgot. Let me write a note for Mamá. She’ll be worried when she comes home and doesn’t find us.” I scribbled something on a piece of paper. I almost drew a heart instead of a dot on the i of Minerva, but decided against it. She didn’t deserve it.

  I pushed the stroller out and looked at the stairs in front of me. I hadn’t thought of this obstacle.

  “Kota,” I said, “you’ll have to help me.”

  Kota didn’t even protest. That was the good thing about her. She almost never protested or contradicted Mamá when she needed help. That’s why she and Mamá got along so well.

  Avi didn’t wake up with the jostling and rattling of the wheels on the steps. By the halfway point, I was sweating like crazy, and a strand of hair that I must have missed when I did the hair knot tickled my nose.

  “Do you need some help?” the voice of a man startled me so badly I almost dropped the stroller.

  “No,” I said at the same time Kota said, “Yes, please.”

  Ahead of us, blocking the stairs, stood our upstairs neighbor and landlord, Mr. Chang. He was like a wire with limbs. His little mustache seemed drawn on with a Sharpie.

  His rubber sandals plopped as he came down the steps that separated us and, in spite of my no, he took the stroller from our hands and carried it up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chang,” Kota said.

  He didn’t smile but his expression softened a little. “You’re welcome.”

  I nodded as a sign of gratitude and pushed the stroller.

  “Where’s your mother?” he asked.

  I kept walking, my ears burning. The sweat dried on my face, but my armpits were dripping.

  Kota turned and said, “She’s waiting for us at the school, thank you. Have a good day!” She jogged to join me and took hold of the stroller handle.

  “Why did you lie?” I asked her.

  She was blushing bright red, but looked ahead as she said, “We had to say something, and Mamá said to never ever say she isn’t home.” She kept her cardigan closed with her little hand. “It would help if you were a little more polite to people, you know,” she added.

  She was right. But I didn’t say anything. I just made a mental note to be more polite as we walked in the direction of the school and my audition.

  Andromeda Junior High after hours seemed more crowded than a summer festival. Besides students, parents claimed the rooms where ­several auditions and tryouts were taking place. Everything — from track-and-field to soccer, from robotics to ­theater — was decided here and now.

  “Don’t fall behind,” I told Kota over my shoulder.

  “I’m shy,” she said as she jogged to my side to catch up. She clutched the handle of the stroller. Avi slept like she was in a bed of feathers.

  “Since when?” I asked. I didn’t know if her shyness was contagious or if it was the atmosphere and excitement of the place, but my body seemed to shrink, smaller and smaller, the more people looked at us in the hallways.

  “How cute!” one mother said to another, pointing at us. Rude.

  The moms standing around looked so fashionable. I fantasized that my mom had pretty painted nails and sparkly necklaces. The thought didn’t cheer me up. My sisters and I were an island, a tiny, empty island in an ocean of accomplishment.

  The worst part of being a kid is the not knowing. I didn’t know where to go. In my plans, I was going to make sure I knew all the details this morning. But with Mamá not showing up and my missing school, things got derailed. I needed to ask for directions, but I didn’t see anyone my age or a single face I recognized.

  I didn’t have a watch, but I was sure we had made it on time. I turned in circles searching for one of the white clocks. On top of a row of lockers I found one. A quarter to four. I still had a few minutes to get in the zone, go over my lines, and maybe even check how I looked.

  The auditions would be in the auditorium. I’d only been in there once, for the student assembly. Maybe it was the stress, but I didn’t remember where it was. And if I wasted the precious few minutes I had searching for the auditorium, I wouldn’t be able to do anything on my list.

  Cutting through the crowd ahead of me, I saw a boy with longish light brown hair, the color right in between dirty blond and mousy brown, but with skin as dark as mine. A splattering of freckles covered his tanned face. Earphones dangled from his neck, and a skateboard peeked from under his arm.

  I’d seen him on my way to school a few times, and I noticed him because he was one of the only brown kids like me. But even I could tell that the things we had in common stopped at the skin level, literally. He had the kind of clothes that announced money. He didn’t seem like a brat, though. Once, we made accidental eye contact in the cafeteria. When the lunch lady asked me something in Spanish, he’d seemed interested, and not in the way that made me feel like I was an alien. We’d never talked to each other, so I didn’t know if he spoke Spanish too.


  “Hey,” I said, putting my arm in front of him to stop him.

  He crashed into me anyway and looked right at me, eyes flashing in annoyance. “What are you doing?”

  I stepped back, putting my hand over my heart for some stupid reason. “Do you . . . do you know where the auditorium is?”

  He sneered at me. “I don’t talk to sevies.” He turned around and left.

  Sevies, as in seventh graders? He didn’t talk to seventh graders? As if being a seventh grader was a disease, something to be ashamed of.

  I wanted to chase him and give him a piece of my mind, but someone beat me to it. Before the boy turned a corner, one of the fashionable moms took him by the arm and whispered in his ear as they walked away, out of sight. He didn’t look happy.

  Good, he deserved it.

  Someone’s hand fell on my shoulder, unfreezing me. If Kota had to go to the bathroom. . . . I whirled around and roared, “What?”

  It wasn’t Kota. It was one of the stylish ladies. She had beautiful blue eyes and the darkest hair. She reminded me of Snow White. She smiled like a princess too. “Sorry for startling you, but I heard you’re looking for the auditorium?”

  My eyes prickled with embarrassment. Kota watched me with something I recognized as dread. I would prove her wrong. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, remembering Kota’s advice.

  “It’s that way,” Snow White said, pointing in the same direction the boy had left. “Do you want me to come with you? I’m headed that way to watch my daughter.”

  I debated for a second. She was so kind, and she looked at my sisters with so much tenderness, but I had to hurry or I wouldn’t make it.

  “Thank you, but I have to run,” I said.

  She smiled. “See you there, then. Good luck.”

  I took the stroller and dashed ahead, Kota skipping here and there to keep up with me. The stroller didn’t give me trouble at all. If anything, it opened up the way for me. People were nice. Either that or they cherished unbruised ankles.

  “That lady was so pretty!” Kota said. “She reminds me of —”

  “Snow White. I know,” I interrupted, fighting with the hallway door to stay open so I could go through with the stroller.

  “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say —”

  “Kota, please. Give me a break. I’m stressed. Can’t you see?” The stroller’s wheel got stuck against the doorjamb. Trying not to wake Avi, I shook the stroller until it broke free. Once inside the audi­torium building, I glanced around, looking for a sign of where to go. The hallways were as deserted as the main building had been crowded.

  If it hadn’t been for the boy with the skateboard, who just exited from some double doors, I would’ve broken into tears. We locked eyes.

  “Jerk,” I muttered.

  That sneer. I wanted to wipe it off his stupid face.

  “Well? Are you coming in or not?” he asked. Now he was talking to me, a lowly sevie. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to make up for his rudeness.

  “Let’s go, Kota,” I said, because she stood staring at the boy like she had never seen one before. Reluctantly, she followed me through the double doors the boy had just exited to an out-of-the-way spot in the back of the auditorium where the girls could wait for me.

  “I need to run to the bathroom,” I said. “You stay here with Avi. We’ll go home straight away.”

  “You need to fill out a form first,” the boy said.

  Why was he still around? He’d followed us back into the auditorium. I balled my fists and clenched my teeth without turning to face him.

  “He’s talking to you,” Kota said, pointing at the guy behind me.

  I turned around just so that he’d leave me and my sisters alone. His bangs covered his eyes. With a hand inside the back pocket of his gray skinny jeans, he placed his weight on one foot. He was easily two heads taller than I was. “What happened to not talking to sevies, huh?”

  He puffed up like he was losing his patience. “Listen, even for a seventh grader you look pretty lost. Do yourself a favor. Before going to the bathroom, fill out the form.”

  He left before I could say anything. The Snow White lady entered the room. Kota smiled brightly at her and waved.

  “I’ll be right back. Be good, or you’ll see when we get home,” I warned her, dashing to the stage to fill out a form.

  I almost said to behave or I’d tell Mamá, but I didn’t want to even think about her. Where was she, and why wasn’t she here with me, like the nice lady who came to see her daughter like any regular mom would?

  The theater teacher, Mrs. Santos, was giving directions backstage. I took a form from the stack on the piano and filled it out as fast as I could. When I reached the bottom of the paper, I was satisfied that I hadn’t messed up anything. I even remembered my mom’s birthday. Why would they even need my mom’s birthday? I didn’t have time to ask.

  I turned the page, and on the back, I saw something that cut my resolution into a million pieces. A fifty-dollar fee? For participating? Even without searching my pockets I knew I didn’t have any money. Even if we did, Mamá wouldn’t let me use it for theater for sure, not when we needed so many other things. Fifty dollars? That would buy us food for a week if we were smart enough with it.

  I signed the form anyway, hoping the teacher wouldn’t notice I hadn’t included a check or anything.

  Distracted by worst-case scenarios (telling me in front of everyone that I hadn’t paid, or the other kids laughing because I was so poor), I headed to the bathroom, where a group of girls from my grade surrounded Bailey Cooper, the mayor’s daughter and the star of Andromeda Junior High. When our school won a best of the state award, a billboard with Bailey’s perfect smile appeared the next day on the freeway entrance to our town. She had the brightest, bluest eyes of all. And her dark, shiny hair reminded me of . . .

  Snow White.

  She looked just like the nice lady who was ­obviously her mom.

  Oh, I should have known. Kota had tried to warn me.

  I braced myself and looked in the mirror, ignoring the girls’ excited chatter. My bun looked like a bird’s nest. In the corner of my eye there was a crusty thing that I brushed away as fast as I could. Sweat stains darkened my dress armpits. Instinctively, I tucked my arms next to my body. Maybe I could borrow Kota’s cardigan for the audition to cover up.

  “Are you auditioning for Tiger Lily?” the mini Snow White asked. Bailey Cooper’s cheerful voice did sound like honey. It reminded me of all that was wrong with me being Wendy. Kota had been right. Again.

  The smile I sent her on the mirror could have shattered Arctic ice. “No.”

  I wanted to do my hair, but there was no way I’d raise my arms and show my sweat stains to her and her friends.

  “What are you trying out for, then?” she asked.

  Spots for girls in the play were super limited, but so help me, I was not trying out for pirate, lost boy, or mermaid. Tiger Lily was even more ridiculous than Peter Pan and all the Lost Boys combined. She loved Peter. That’s all she did. What was her purpose in life? Loving a boy that crows like a rooster? Thank you, but no thank you.

  Before I figured out a way to say all this in a non-confrontational tone, one of the girls said, “Bay, it’s time to go.”

  Bailey flicked her hair as she turned to leave, so she didn’t see me roll my eyes.

  Bay. Give me a break!

  But before she left the bathroom, she looked at me over her shoulder. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Same to you,” I added without even thinking. As if she needed any luck to steal my spot!

  I thought she was going to follow her friends, who kept the door open for her, but no. She stood on the doorway, staring at me like she was studying a bug.

  Slowly, she retraced her steps and stood inches from me. “Wait
a second,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Are you Natalia’s daughter? Are you Minerva?”

  My blood went cold and hot so fast I got lightheaded. “What? You know my mom?”

  Bailey stretched out her hand and brushed her fingers against the silk of the dress sleeve. “I used to love this dress. Too bad it got a stain in the skirt and got ruined.”

  My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  After a few seconds that stretched forever, I managed to ask, “What? My mom bought it for me.”

  Bailey shook her head. “My mom gave it to Natalia, our housekeeper.”

  “The cleaning lady?” one of Bailey’s friends asked. “I like her. She’s nice.”

  Another friend said, “Ooh, I love those pastalitos she made last week!”

  “Pastelitos,” I corrected her without thinking.

  Housekeeper. Cleaning lady. Pastelitos. She hadn’t made those for us in years. She always said they were a lot of work.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, crossing my arms.

  When Mamá came back home she’d have a lot of explaining to do. Why didn’t she ever say she cleaned the mayor’s house?

  Bailey stretched out her hand and touched the mismatched button, the ivory one. “I recognize this button. Natalia sewed it, but then the skirt got stained. My mom said she could keep it.”

  Her words were like a freezing curse. I was para­lyzed, mind and body.

  “C’mon, Bailey,” one of the girls said. “It will be Wendy’s turn soon.”

  “Okay,” she said to her friend. And before she left, she looked at me and smiled again. “She didn’t come to work today. I hope she’s okay.”

  The door closed after her, but not before I noticed Bailey’s hairdo: Mamá’s signature braided crown. The one she was supposed to do on me.

  * * *

  Bailey shone on stage. Although I was still stunned by our encounter, she captivated me as she went through her lines, sewing Peter’s shadow back on. Her audition was a five-minute glance into perfection. When it was my turn, I stepped onstage knowing that I could do this, I had those lines memorized and ready.