Confetti Girl (14 page)

“I
really
don’t want to see that movie,” I say, deciding that getting tricked into being a tagalong gives me the right to insist on
my choice.

“Okay,” Vanessa says. “You can go to your movie, Carlos and I can go to mine, and we’ll meet in the lobby afterward.”

“You want me to go to the movie by myself?”

“You won’t
technically
be by yourself. Lots of other people will be there.”

Is this the same girl who lives across the street? My “best” friend? I can’t believe she’d send me away so she can be alone
with Carlos. Where’s the fun if you can’t make sarcastic comments about the characters or share a popcorn or laugh and repeat
the funny parts? The best thing about watching a movie is talking about it afterward. How can I talk to Vanessa about a movie
she hasn’t seen?

I grudgingly buy a ticket to the romance, and now I
really
feel like a tagalong. If you ask me,
Carlos
should be the Hollywood extra, not me. He doesn’t know Vanessa as well as I do.

When Vanessa, Carlos, and I get to the auditorium, Vanessa sits in the middle and raises the armrest so she can scoot close
to Carlos. I might as well be in another aisle—or another planet. That’s how far away I feel. We’re early, so we get stuck
with the elevator music and the advertisements. Between the ads are movie trivia questions. Vanessa and Carlos guess at the
answers. Not once do they ask for my opinion. I couldn’t get their attention if I stood and sang the national anthem.

“I’m going to get some popcorn,” I say.

But instead of the concessions bar, I go to the rest-room. Maybe shredding paper towels will help me work out my anger. Too
bad this restroom has electric air dryers instead. What I need is a stress buster, a squishy ball to squeeze. I reach into
my purse where I find an extra thick sock that lost its partner last week. I make a sock rock, then I squeeze it with all
my might. It works wonders.

After I’ve calmed down, I buy my popcorn and return to the theater determined to enjoy myself, but every time Vanessa whispers
to Carlos or giggles like a lovebird, my blood pressure rises. I squeeze and squeeze my stress buster sock, but I’m still
mad. When I get to the bottom of my soda, I purposely make slurping sounds with the straw.

“Stop making those noises,” Vanessa complains.

“What’s that?” I turn toward her and “accidentally” spill popcorn onto her lap.

“Hey, watch what you’re doing!” she says, picking the kernels and throwing them at me. Normally, we’d call this a friendly
food fight, but not today.

When the movie ends, we go outside to wait for our rides. Carlos’s older sister is already there. He jumps into the car and
as it drives away, he turns to Vanessa and mouths the words “Call me.”

When his car disappears, I say, “I can’t believe you dragged me on your date.”

“How else could I get to the movies? You know my mom can’t drive, and even if she could, she’d never let me go to the movies
by myself.”

“So instead of telling me your plan, you
use
me?” I say. “And you use my dad too? It’s not my fault your mom won’t let you have boyfriends till after menopause.”

“Calm down,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal. You tricked me. And then you practically ignored me for three hours. Maybe I should tell your mom.”

“No, don’t,” she says. “You’re supposed to keep my secrets. You’re my best friend, remember?”

“I remember, but obviously you don’t. My life is all messed up, but you haven’t even noticed. You’re too busy with Carlos.”
Before I can say more, my dad drives up. The last thing I want is to discuss my issues in front of him, so I’ll have to finish
this conversation later.

When I get home, I remember my promise to Miss Kathryn. I still think it’s a silly idea, but maybe she’s onto something with
this rabbit story. So I take out a sheet of paper and title it “The Next Hazel/Fiver Chapter.”

“Fiver doesn’t hear anything Hazel says,” I write. “He’s still waiting for his ears to grow back after getting them whacked
off by the beanie cap propellers, but even if he
did
have ears, he wouldn’t listen. He doesn’t write notes to Hazel or send telepathic messages anymore. Hazel’s not sure if he
wants to keep traveling with Fiver. What’s the point? Maybe the journey would be easier if he traveled alone.”

Donde hay gana, hay maña –
Where there is desire, there is ability

T
he holiday concert is scheduled for the Friday before winter break. Luís has been practicing double-time. He’s asked me a
zillion times if I’m going. My dad gives me permission since it’s a school thing. I’m supposed to call when the show’s over
so he can pick me up.

I put on velvet green slacks and a black V-neck sweater. For the occasion, I wear Christmas socks with glittery poinsettias.
They look cute with my black ballet-style shoes. When my dad sees me, he smiles. Then he runs to his bedroom. After a lot
of scrambling, he comes back with something in his fist.

“I want you to have this,” he says. He unfolds his hand and shows me Mom’s favorite necklace, a gold chain with an emerald
pendant. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry. He kisses my forehead, and then puts the necklace around my neck. It’s beautiful.

I feel a sudden gush of appreciation for my dad. Sometimes he can be strict, silly or embarrassing, but every now and then,
he does the perfect thing like giving me this necklace.

At Baker, all our events are held in the school cafeteria, which always smells like food. For the holiday concert, the art
class made hundreds of snowflakes, which hang down from the ceiling. All the teachers wear Santa caps, and Dr. Rodriguez,
the whole outfit, even the belly and beard. The shop students show off their wooden toys, brightly painted. I
love
the train cars and doll furniture.

“Hey, Lina!”

Goldie waves to me. She’s saved a seat, so I grab a program and join her.

“Where’s Vanessa?” she asks.

“She’s with her dad this weekend.”

Goldie nods. Then she opens the program. “Look,” she says, pointing to the choir section and the “Holy Night” song. I can’t
believe it. I have to read it twice.

“Luís is singing a solo?” I ask.

Goldie sees the worry on my face and says, “I’m sure he’ll be great.”

Something tells me a disaster’s about to happen. My dad’s always saying “
Donde hay gana, hay maña,
” which means “Where there is desire, there is ability,” but I’m still doubtful. Letting Luís into the choir is one thing.
He can always stand in the back and lip-synch the words. But giving him a solo? Hasn’t his choir director noticed? Luís stutters!
What can be meaner than forcing a shy, stuttering student to sing by himself in front of an audience? If people laugh at him,
he’ll be crushed, just crushed. But maybe he’ll surprise us. Maybe he won’t stutter. After all, this is the season for miracles.

I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m so stressed I crumple the program.

Soon the lights dim, and the curtain opens. The orchestra’s on the stage. The musicians are supposed to be playing “What Child
Is This?” and “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” but their music doesn’t sound any different from the noise they make when they’re
tuning their violins. A wind chime could do a better job. I feel sorry for them.

The curtain closes and out walks the mariachi group. What a difference! They’re great! They’ve got trumpets, guitars, violins,
a
guitarrón,
and tight pants with silver buttons up the legs. They’re not nervous at all. They’re pros. They sing
“Las Mañanitas”
and
“Cielito Lindo”
and, since it’s Christmas,
“Noche de Paz.”

When the mariachis finish, the curtain opens again. The band has set up its stands and instruments. Even though the trumpets
and bassoons sound like they’re burping, the band plays better than the orchestra. At least I can recognize “I’ll Be Home
For Christmas” and “Little Drummer Boy” without having to look at the program.

When the curtain closes this time, the elf squad comes out. It’s made of teachers dressed as Santa’s helpers. A CD of “Grandma
Got Run Over by a Reindeer” plays and the elf squad does a line dance that cracks us up.

Then the curtain opens again. A cool, silvery glow lights the stage. The choir stands on bleachers. The first thing I do is
look for Luís. He’s on the end in the boys’ section. He looks so handsome in his tuxedo.

The piano plays a few notes, and the choir follows with something that sounds like ghosts and waves and birds all at once.
There are layers and surprise melodies that come and go and come again. I get goose bumps. I almost forget to worry about
Luís’s solo.

Sure enough, the choir director nods to Luís. He steps down from the bleachers and stands alone in the center of the stage.
Then he takes a deep breath and begins. Believe it or not, Luís has a beautiful voice. Some people sing from their throats
and others from their guts. Luís is a gut singer, which means his voice comes from a deep place—deeper than sadness or love.
And I’m not saying this because I’m his girlfriend. I’m saying this because it’s true. Not once does he get stuck on a word.
Every syllable is perfectly placed and as rich as the best fudge. He makes us forget we’re in the school cafeteria.

When he finishes, the audience needs a moment to return to Earth. Then someone in the back claps, then a second person claps,
then a third, and soon the whole audience is clapping and letting out
gritos
, whistles, and shouts of praise.

Everyone joins the choir onstage—the orchestra and the band members, the mariachis and the elf squad. They sing a hearty
“Feliz Navidad.”
The end.

When the concert ends, I don’t call my father right away. If I do, he’ll show up before I can talk to Luís. So I wait in the
parking lot.

When Luís sees me, he comes over and says, “Just a sec.”

He runs off, talks to a lady, and points in my direction. She nods, says a few words, then walks away, her hand on the elbow
of a
viejita,
a little old lady, with a cane.

“My mom,” he explains when he returns, “and
A-Abuela.
”

I make sure his mom and grandma are looking away, then I kiss Luís’s cheek.

“You were terrific,” I say. “I wish I had a recording so I could listen to you sing over and over again.”

He smiles. Then he takes my hand and starts walking me home. There are lots of cars on the streets around the school, but
Casa de Oro is empty. Once we get to where it’s quiet, Luís pulls me to the side of a garage, but a dog starts barking. We
hear a man say, “Who’s there?” Then we hear the banging of two metal trash lids. The man must think his dog is barking at
possums. We run to the side of the next garage, but this time a security light turns on. I feel like a fugitive caught by
a cop’s flashlight. We run again. By the time we reach the third garage, we’re laughing.

But we settle down. Here it’s quiet, dark, and private. Luís leans against the wall, pulls me to him, and kisses me. Luís
and I don’t exactly meet the Hollywood standard. First, the boys in movies never have to look up to reach the girls. Second,
movie couples always close their eyes. And third, they
never
say “ouch!” when their lips clash.

Still, Luís’s kiss is nice, and it’ll get nicer with practice, something I’m really looking forward to.

“I have to hurry back,” he says. “My mom’s picking me up after she drops off
Abuelita.
”

“Okay,” I say. Then I realize something. “You didn’t stutter.”

He smiles. “I’m doing better,” he admits before hurrying off.

When I get to my house, it’s dark. I ring the doorbell. No answer. Strange, I think, because the car’s in the driveway. My
dad must be at Ms. Cantu’s.

I know it’s nosy, but I decide to spy on them. Truth is, I’m worried. My dad’s been spending too much time with Ms. Cantu,
no thanks to Vanessa.

I sneak to the side of the house where the kitchen is. I tiptoe through the bushes, and when I get to the window, I very carefully
peer inside. My dad and Ms. Cantu are sitting at the table making
cascarones.
There’s a mess between them. Ms. Cantu is pouring confetti into eggshells and my dad’s gluing tissue over the holes.

He looks… how do I say this?… he looks like he’s having fun.

As Ms. Cantu hands my father an egg, I remember something I learned about
cascarones.
They came from China, but instead of confetti, the Chinese filled them with perfume and gave them to their lovers. So instead
of a dozen roses, people gave their sweethearts a dozen eggs.

I sneak past the window, go to the kitchen door, and knock.

When my dad answers, I tell a bold-faced lie. “I called,” I say. “But no one answered. So I had to walk home by myself. In
the dark.”

He winces, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Girls get kidnapped,” I explain.
“All the time!”

“It’s true,” Ms. Cantu adds. “There was a movie about that on Lifetime last week. A true-life story. But don’t believe the
TV, Lina. For every bad guy, there are a hundred good ones.”

“Why didn’t you call over here?” Dad asks.

“Because I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Ms. Cantu says, “Well, you were at school and Vanessa with her father, so Homero and I decided to grab a bite from Water Street
Oyster Bar.”

“She made me eat calamari.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Squid. Can you believe I ate squid?”

My stomach gets a knot. Fast-food joints are for people eating because they
have
to, but restaurants—especially with wine lists and squid—are for people eating because they need an excuse to talk. The knot
in my stomach grows when I notice that Ms. Cantu isn’t wearing an oversized T-shirt tonight. Instead, she’s got a fitted sweater
and a skirt. My dad’s a little dressed up too. They planned this, I realize. They went on a
real
date. Now I know why my dad let me go to the concert. He wanted me out of the house so he could be alone with Ms. Cantu.