On These Magic Shores Read online

  Maverick smiled at me, like he expected my ­undying gratitude for saving me from English class. One conversation on the way to school and he thought we were best buds?

  Mr. Beck looked at me like it was my fault we’d been interrupted. “Well,” he stammered. “Can’t the reveal wait until after the period’s over?”

  “Period. . . .” Ravi whispered, and the whole class snickered.

  I smiled behind my I-don’t-care mask.

  Mr. Beck looked about to burst into flames. His face was splotchy. “Literally, Miranda. You arrive late. You leave early. You couldn’t care less, now could you?”

  That did it.

  The chair scraped the floor when I stood up. The new girl and I made eye contact, and my mask slipped for a second, because she winked, and I couldn’t help but smile. This exchange of smiles fueled my bravery, or stupidity, depending on who told the tale.

  “I finished the whole quiz,” I said, and handed him the piece of paper.

  He smirked, but one glance on the paper stopped the mean words I was sure he wanted to say. “This looks okay, Miranda. Literally.” Cough, cough. “Next time answer my questions promptly. The time we wasted on the quiz could have been used to better purpose. Literally.”

  He let that sink in, and the mood in the room turned murderous.

  “Let’s go, Minnie,” Maverick said. He even stretched out a hand like he was saving me. I took it — not literally though. I’d never, ever hold hands with a boy for as long as I lived.

  I grabbed my backpack and followed him, my armpits already sweaty with nerves. Leaving the classroom, I said, “Síganme los buenos,” like the Chespirito show Mamá played for the girls and me on the weekends.

  As I passed the classroom windows, I saw the new kids, the out-of-place siblings, smiling openly. They must have been the only ones who understood the phrase. Chespirito was common knowledge to all Spanish-speaking families in the world, or so Mamá had said.

  “What does that mean?” Maverick asked.

  “Really, you’ve never watched El Chavo?”

  He shook his head.

  “It means ‘All the good ones, follow me!’”

  “I love it!” Maverick exclaimed. “All the good ones. Good what, though?”

  This guy was so infuriating. Did he have to ask every little stupid question that crossed his mind?

  “I don’t know! Good people? Not evil?”

  Maverick stopped in the middle of the hallway, right next to the posters reminding students of the presidential elections next April. it’s never too early to plan! Bailey’s older sister, the current student body president, announced in the picture.

  Maverick and I were just outside the auditorium doors that to me seemed like the gates to either heaven and success or eternal misery.

  “If you’re nervous, we can go together,” Maverick said.

  “Are we the last ones?”

  He scoffed. “They’ve been waiting for you forever. I think you must have gotten a big part because Mrs. Santos insisted on you being here, too.”

  “Your being here,” I corrected him.

  He screwed up his face in confusion. “Me? I was here. . . .”

  Seriously? He was even more clueless than the English teacher. “For the love! Let’s go in already.” I reached for the door, but at the last second, I turned to him and asked, “Is my hair okay?” I hadn’t had time to really brush it this morning. It must have looked like a dark cloud of fluff.

  I shouldn’t have asked. He looked like he’d rather eat a bumblebee than answer me.

  “Never mind!”

  His hand clasped mine before I yanked the door open. “I was going to say that your hair looks awesome. You have something on your face, though.”

  He swiped something off my cheek, and I held my breath, not wanting to breathe into his face.

  “There. It’s some kind of glitter. It’s not completely gone, but it’s more toward your eye, so it looks like you have some cool makeup.”

  “Makeup!” I rubbed my hand against my skin, not knowing if I was making it worse or not. Never in my life, not even when I was Kota’s age, had I even played with makeup. Mamá didn’t wear any. Why would I bother?

  “Is it really bad?”

  Maverick pressed his lips together, and I had no idea if it was so he wouldn’t laugh or what. But he didn’t get to answer. The door flew open, almost slamming my face.

  It was the Black kid I’d seen with Maverick. The one that looked like a movie star. His name was Blessings.

  “Mav! We’ve been waiting forever!” Then he saw me and said, “There you are! Come in!”

  He grabbed my arm and pretty much dragged me inside the auditorium where half the school was waiting.

  When I passed the row where Bailey Cooper was surrounded by her entourage, her flowery perfume tickled my nose. She had a headband with an enormous flower perched just on top of her ear. As far as I knew, only babies were allowed decorations like that. Somehow, Bailey could pull it off. Had I ever worn anything like it? If I had, did I look as pretty as Bailey?

  “Newcomers, find a seat,” Mrs. Santos said over the microphone. The screech of feedback luckily switched everyone’s attention away from me. I ­scuttled to the only empty seat on the last row.

  The distraction didn’t keep me out of the radar though. “Minerva, sit closer to the front,” Mrs. Santos said.

  I had no other choice but to follow Maverick. He was in the front row, kind of to the side of the room, so he had a perfect view of everyone while at the same time being safe from their prying eyes.

  “First law of invisibility: remain in the open. It’s easier to blend in,” he said with his eyes fixed on Mrs. Santos.

  “You don’t necessarily blend in,” I noted.

  “Exactly.” He chewed on his thumbnail, unfazed by my killer stare. “I don’t. I love being unique. Like you.”

  How did he have the ability to say the wrong thing all the time? Or the right thing, if his aim was to make me shut up. Not even Mamá had mastered this technique.

  Mrs. Santos, the microphone finally fixed, spoke again. “First of all, remember: you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.”

  What were we, in preschool?

  The teacher continued, “Now, I’ll go over the technical and set crews. Nothing would be possible without their hard work.”

  What she meant was that technical and set crews were the unwanted jobs. No one ever applied for them because who wanted to prepare a whole show and then work in obscurity setting up, dismounting, even cleaning up when the actors (even those without lines) received all the credit? Not me. When people noticed how well-behaved my sisters and I were, they always complimented Mamá, but it was me who did all the work.

  Mamá was gone.

  She was gone. What were we going to do?

  The dark blanket of doom pressed down on me, suffocating me. I bit my lip as hard as I could without drawing blood. Lately, this had been my only way to prevent myself from crying.

  “It’s not that bad,” Maverick said, and he grabbed my hand. “You’re cold as ice! Are you okay? What part did you try out for?”

  He knew perfectly well, but Maverick’s dark eyes lasered on me until I had to look away. Because he seemed like he cared, and that was the most ­dangerous part of all. If there was a way to share this hurt, I would. But he was just a kid from a good family. He didn’t need to have my worries thrown on his shoulders. I could carry my own burdens by myself.

  “I want to be Wendy. I know all the lines.”

  He shrugged, but instead of saying, “Not a chance, girl!” he said, “Whatever you get, you’ll be awesome.” He smiled, a sunshiny kind of smile, the kind that could light up a room.

  “I just don’t want a technical part,” I mumbled because Mrs. Santos was sta
ring at us, apparently waiting for us to stop talking.

  “Stop talking, you two!” Blessings said from behind us. He slapped Maverick’s arm playfully.

  “Can I start, Mr. Parker?” Mrs. Santos asked, and without waiting for a reply she started going over a list of names. When she said, “Maverick Sorensen,” my mouth dropped open. Maverick would have been the perfect Peter Pan. He even had a pointy nose. Most importantly, he had the personality — the flair, Mamá would call it. But he was brown, like me. Was that why Mrs. Santos had not cast him as Peter?

  Miss Santos continued firing off names, and I took the chance to lean close to Maverick and ask, “Why? Why are you on the set crew?”

  “I like creating,” he said, and winked at me.

  I glanced behind, over my shoulder. Painted on the faces of all the kids was the widest range of emotions I’d ever seen. Some didn’t look surprised at all; others were kind of bored, waiting for the announcement for the important roles. A few girls were squealing, apparently happy they were working with costumes. I envied them. I wanted a little group like that, someone to be happy with me when I got the part I wanted.

  I hardly knew Maverick, but after our first conversation, he’d made an effort to be nice. Having someone in my corner cheering for me was a dif­ferent kind of experience, and I kind of liked it.

  “Johnny and Michael: Luke Stacey and Spencer Howell.”

  An explosion of cheers startled me. A seventh and an eighth grader that were obviously friends jumped in their chairs and high-fived each other.

  “They’re on the same soccer team,” Maverick explained. “I went to elementary with them. But wait, I don’t remember you from elementary. Where did you go?”

  “We lived in Provo,” I said, not looking at him, my eyes glued to the celebrating people.

  “Ooh! Provo. How exotic!” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “All those college students from all over the world sure make it diverse.”

  “It was okay,” I said, trying to ignore that he’d said the E word. Maybe seeing I wasn’t in the mood for jokes, he shut up.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Santos went on and on with the unimportant parts. A bunch of pirates. The fairies. The Indians. Seriously. As if Native Americans were magical creatures. Didn’t Mrs. Santos realize how racist it was that there were still Indians in the play? The mermaids, at least, were mythical beings besides being stupid. They were in love with Peter, like everyone else.

  And pirates? Pirates were real, even today, but people could choose to be one or not. Not the same with Native Americans. The vice-principal, Mrs. Burke, was Navajo. She was new to the school this year too. What would she think when she saw kids playing Indians like her people were magical creatures?

  While these thoughts swirled in my mind, I sat still, listening with my whole body, and when I didn’t hear my name, I relaxed a little.

  “Now to the more demanding parts. Because we’re only doing three presentations, there is one person for each of the main roles. This requires commitment and integrity. If you can’t fulfill these roles with one hundred percent of your capacity, then please let me know at the end of the announcements and mention a possible alternate. This show is everyone’s responsibility, and if I’m not smart enough to cast it well, then let me know.”

  She took a long breath and finally said, “As Hook, Canyon Smith. Wendy is Bailey Cooper. Peter is Blessings Parker, and our Tiger Lily, Minerva Miranda!”

  If Mrs. Santos had punched me in the mouth, I wouldn’t have been more shocked.

  Blessings gave a loud hoot and hugged Maverick as if he’d been selected for the Broadway Peter Pan and not the tiny production at Andromeda Junior High.

  Of course Bailey Cooper was Wendy. She had it all. She was already perfect. Perfect face, perfect parents, perfect life. I could see her being a bright star all the way to adulthood.

  My dream of living in the White House and being the first Latina president dimmed. What had I been thinking? Someone like me, being Wendy? Being the president of the United States? I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid.

  Then it dawned on me. How would I tell Mamá when she came back? She’d hate for me to be Tiger Lily. She’d been right. I should’ve found another route to the White House. Why had I put myself in this mess?

  Mrs. Santos had cast a Black boy as Peter. She wanted to subvert stereotypes, but had she ­considered the message of a Black Peter Pan renouncing his ­eternal, happy childhood for a white girl?

  But then, why had she cast me as Tiger Lily? Because I was dark-skinned?

  The more people congratulated me for being Tiger Lily (You’re perfect! You look just like her!), the angrier I became.

  A storm brewed inside me. The kind that leaves only destruction behind.

  No,

  no,

  no.

  I was not going to be the subservient, silent princess. She was the Chief of the Indians, but in the play, she didn’t do anything else but love Peter!

  Her name was even more ridiculous than mine.

  Mrs. Santos was putting her papers away in a Super Mario bag. She had a smile of satisfaction, like she was a fairy godmother, pleased with the gifts she’d endowed upon her lowly students.

  Not me, though. I wouldn’t play her game.

  “Mrs. Santos,” I said, intercepting her escape.

  “Congratulations,” she said, extending a hand for me to shake.

  I took it because I was angry, not stupefied. A teacher was a teacher, no matter how wrong, how clueless, how cruel.

  “I didn’t audition for Tiger Lily.” I made an effort to control my voice, but I was having a hard time breathing evenly.

  “But you’re perfect for her,” Miss Santos said, handing me the script.

  I glanced down at it. Tiger Lily’s line — one line — was highlighted. She said only “How” and made some motions with her hands, and then she danced to that stupid song.

  Fifty dollars for this. Oh, plus the fee for costume rental. It wasn’t included in the audition fee.

  “Aren’t you excited?” Mrs. Santos asked.

  Maverick stood behind her, kind of to the side. I didn’t want an audience, but it was now or never.

  “I don’t want to offend you,” I said. “But I won’t play Tiger Lily.”

  “Why not?” Bailey Cooper asked as she came bounding in our direction. Mrs. Santos beamed at her, but Bailey’s eyes were trained on me. “Minerva, you’ll be perfect. And your mom can surely do wonders with your hair if you let her,” she said, brushing a hand over my puffy hair. “Her mom is wonderful doing hair, Mrs. Santos,” Bailey added, turning toward the teacher.

  Good thing, because every time Bailey even mentioned my mom, I wanted to go into Ursula-from-The-Little-Mermaid mode and destroy the world. Bailey had the nerve to talk about my mom as if she knew her. Did she know where my mom was? Should I have asked her?

  Oh, Mamá, come back home! I need you!

  A ringing silence alerted me that Mrs. Santos and Bailey were staring at me.

  “There’s no need to cry,” said Mrs. Santos, patting my arm. My sorrow would take way more than patting to go away. “It’s just a play, sweetheart. You don’t always get the part that you want, as we don’t in real life. We all need to compromise. I didn’t know you felt so strongly against sweet Tiger Lily. I do feel you’d be perfect, but if you disagree, I’ll let you drop out of the play if you find a replacement. That’s the rule.”

  Rules? What did she know about rules?

  There were real rules, like children shouldn’t have to play mom and dad when their parents disappear, or you shouldn’t have to constantly prove you’re worth playing the lead role even when you’re darker-­skinned.

  But Mrs. Santos knew nothing.

  First of all, I wasn’t about to cry.

  Second of all, I didn’t feel str
ongly against Tiger Lily.

  I. Did. Not. Care. About. Stupid. Tiger. Lily.

  I wanted to be Wendy. That was it.

  I’d already been cheated in real life, and now the play? I wanted to have a shot at the student body presidency elections, for goodness sake!

  And third, and most important of all, I wanted Bailey Cooper to stop talking about my mom as if she had any claim to her. Even if my mom had worked for her, she hadn’t belonged to Bailey. She was mine. My mom. Even if she was gone.

  “I feel strongly that there should be no Tiger Lily,” I said, trying not to shake. “She doesn’t even say anything other than ‘How.’ And the Indians? They act nothing like real Native people.”

  The silence in the room made my ears ring. Bailey Cooper avoided my eyes like I’d become a monster too horrible to look at. Mrs. Santos placed a hand over her heart and whispered, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  All around us, the sound of whispers escalated. “How can she say that?” “Everything has to be ­politically correct.” “Get over it!” “But it’s a classic. . . .”

  I couldn’t tell who said what.

  “What do you propose?” Mrs. Santos asked. She sounded like she meant it, like she was really ­interested in what I had to say. She was a good woman, but why was it me who had to come up with a solution? She was the teacher.

  As I thought of a solution, I remembered something Mamá had said weeks ago when we’d argued about the play. Something about a theater group destroying the stereotypes in Peter Pan, but I didn’t remember the details. I’d only been fixated on Wendy. I hadn’t cared about Tiger Lily.

  Now I didn’t even care about the play.

  My family had left the church because of a play, but I couldn’t leave the school, could I? No. No middle school dropout had become the president of the United States.

  “I’ll find something,” I said. It sounded like a promise.