Confetti Girl (11 page)

“Are we still meeting at noon tomorrow?” Carlos asks Vanessa.

“If it’s still okay with my dad.”

“It’s okay,” Mr. Cantu says.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Carlos and I are going to Target to buy some stuff for our project.”

“Oh, great,” I say. “I need to buy some film and a poster board.”

“You mean you want to go?” she asks, glancing at Carlos. “Because it’s not really a shopping trip. It’s homework. You know,
for our science class.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Vanessa and I
always
go to Target together.

“Maybe we can go next weekend,” Vanessa says.

“Sure,” I say. “Next weekend.”

I try to act like I don’t care, but I do. When her dad drops me off, I say goodbye and pretend everything’s okay even though
I’m feeling like a sitcom that’s been cancelled for a snazzier show.

Panza llena, corazón contento –
Full belly, happy heart

L
ast Thanksgiving, my dad and I nuked turkey potpies in the microwave. We ate alone even though Vanessa and her mom had invited
us over. We should have joined them, but it was our first Thanksgiving without Mom, and somehow my dad and I knew we couldn’t
let ourselves have fun. I still miss my mom’s turkey stuffing with the celery and mushrooms. But if she saw me moping around,
she’d be mad. She’d say life’s too short for so much sadness. So this year we accepted Ms. Cantu’s invitation to celebrate
at her house.

“I guess she wants to show her appreciation for all my help,” Dad says.

He’s talking about the errands he’s been running for her. Ever since Ms. Cantu broke her leg, my dad’s been driving back and
forth from the high school, the grocery store, and the post office. He even delivered some of her Avon products. And now,
every time he cooks eggs, he saves the shells, and when he has a dozen, he delivers them to Ms. Cantu.

We cross the street to Vanessa’s house around three in the afternoon.

“Come in. Come in,” Ms. Cantu says.

She’s got crutches under her arms, but she still manages to greet me with a smothering hug—the kind where I’m stooped over
while she pats my head and says
la pobrecita
over and over again. Today, her oversized T-shirt has a cornucopia with glittery fruit.

Ms. Cantu has set the table with candles, flowers, and her best china and silverware, which surprises me because even on special
occasions, Ms. Cantu’s a paper plate kind of person. She hates washing dishes and so does Vanessa.

“You two sit down,” she says. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

“Maybe we should help you,” my dad suggests.

“No, no. We can manage.”

When she leaves, my dad whispers to me, “Go and help them anyway.”

I nod, happy for something to do. I go to the kitchen where Vanessa’s taking a pie plate from the oven.

“I can’t believe what we’re eating,” she says.

“What’s wrong with the food?”

Ms. Cantu interrupts before Vanessa can explain.

“Okay, girls, take the bowls to the table,” she says.

One by one, we take mashed potatoes, marshmallow yams, green bean casserole, cranberries, and biscuits to the dining room.
Vanessa follows with the pie plate. Then Ms. Cantu comes in with some matches to light the candles.

“Well, that’s everything,” she says. “I hope you have big appetites.”

“It looks… um… different than I expected,” my dad says.

It
does
look different because there’s a key item missing. “Where’s the turkey?” I ask.

“Right there,” Ms. Cantu says, pointing to the pie plate.

“That’s turkey?”

“It’s turkey quiche.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Vanessa says. “Everyone else is having a
normal
Thanksgiving, but not us.”

“Well,” Ms. Cantu explains, “there’s no way four people can eat a twenty-pound turkey by themselves. Plus, quiche is a great
way to get eggs into the menu.”

“But I’m sick of eggs, Mom!”

I have to take Vanessa’s side on this one. I really like to eat weird stuff, but not on Thanksgiving. Couldn’t Ms. Cantu make
the quiche another day?

Once we’re all seated, we hold hands to pray. “
Gracias, Señor…
,” Ms. Cantu begins. Then we eat.

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

T
he 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,” Vanessa 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.