Confetti Girl (8 page)

Más vale solo que mal acompañado –
It’s better to be alone than in bad company

A
nother week goes by. After dinner every night, I go to my room. My dad thinks I’m reading
Watership Down
, but I do everything
except
read. As long as I listen in class, I can get away with
not
reading. Every day, Mrs. Huerta asks us to summarize a few chapters, and I always have something to say.

“
Watership Down
,” I wrote on the first day, “is about a rabbit named Hazel.” I got this detail from the book cover. “He’s got two buck teeth
and likes to say, ‘What’s up, Doc?’ When he stands, he’s as tall as a man, the tallest rabbit in his village. Sometimes the
other rabbits make fun of him. He lives in a room underground, complete with a sofa, lamp, big-screen TV, Xbox, and everything
a real house has except books. Hazel’s not into books. He’s into carrots. He’s always getting in trouble because he steals
them from a bald man’s vegetable patch. Last year, Hazel’s mom died, and his dad ran away because he felt so sad. So now Hazel
needs to find his father.”

It’s so easy to make stuff up when my dad gives me clues all the time. I’m not even worried about my grade. I figure I’m doing
great because Mrs. Huerta still has my quizzes. She likes to make copies of the best assignments to share with the class.

Besides, I think the whole book’s silly. Whoever heard of rabbits having intelligent conversations?

So, instead of reading the book, I rearrange my sock drawers, this time by theme instead of color. Then I take one of my lonely
socks, slip it over my hand, and with a black marker, draw glasses and a nose on it.

“Hi, Luís,” I say.

“Hello,” my hand answers back.

I’m going to buy some yarn and add curly hair when I get the chance. For now, I put “Luís” next to my sock rocks.

I don’t ignore
Watership Down
completely. In addition to my coaster, it’s been my doorstop and weapon of mass destruction for every fly, moth, or ant that
sneaks into my room. By now, the cover’s got more squished bugs than the grille of my dad’s car.

On a sheet of pink stationery, I write “Luís and Lina.” Right when I draw a big heart around our names, I’m hit with a new
revelation! Could it be more perfect? Luís and I have a fifty percent twin trait rate, which is my mathematical way of figuring
out how much a couple has in common. Fifty percent is perfect because I don’t want to be
exactly
like Luís. We need a few differences to spice things up. Then again, being too different makes for lots of fights while being
too similar makes for too much boredom. So how did I calculate our twin trait rate? “Luís and Lina”—eight letters total divided
by a twin factor of four (for the twin
l
’s and twin
i
’s in our names), which equals two—one hundred divided by two equals fifty percent.

On another sheet of stationery, I draw a T-chart, something my history teacher calls a graphic organizer. I write
same
on one side of the chart and
different
on the other. I’m about to make a list when Vanessa appears at the door.

“What are you doing?” she asks, hopping onto the top bunk and promptly checking her watch.

“Making a T-chart to list how Luís and I are alike and different.”

She giggles. “Do you turn
everything
into homework?”

“Well, if this were a normal house, I’d be watching TV.”

“Believe me, there’s nothing normal about TV when your mom thinks Lifetime is a documentary channel.”

“Is she watching another male-bashing show?”

Vanessa glances at her watch again, then nods. Just then, the phone rings.

“Aren’t you going to get it?” Vanessa asks. “It’s probably Luís.”

She’s right. Suddenly my heart starts racing.

“Well?” she says.

I pick up the receiver. “Hello.”

It’s a boy all right, but not Luís.

“Lina?”

“Yes.”

“Is Vanessa there?”

“Who is this?” I ask. Then it dawns on me. Now I know why Vanessa kept checking her watch. This whole visit is a setup. “Is
this Carlos?”

“Um. Yes.”

Vanessa peeks over the edge of the bed and reaches for the phone.

I cover the receiver. “I can’t believe you’re using me for phone services,” I say.

“Just hand it over.”

She takes it from me and turns toward the wall. It’s 7:45 p.m. At 7:55, I tell her to say goodbye.

“Just another minute, Lina. We’re doing our homework.”

Why is she lying? This is definitely a social call.

I try working on my T-chart, but I’m too mad. According to the best-friend code, it’s okay if she uses my phone. I don’t care.
And I don’t care if she lies to her mother, but I
do
care if she lies to me.

I write “Vanessa and Carlos” on a sheet of paper. Thirteen letters with a twin factor of four. Thirteen divided by four is
three point two-five. One hundred divided by three point two-five equals a twin trait rate of thirty-one percent. They’re
doomed. It’s in the numbers. They should hang up right now and save themselves the trouble.

I look at the clock again. Ten more minutes have passed.

I say, “We don’t have call waiting, you know.”

She peeks down at me again. “So? Are you expecting a call?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you for real?”

“I’m
for real
about getting my phone back.”

She rolls her eyes. “Hey, Carlos,” she says. “I have to go now. Lina’s turning this place into a whiner diner.”

I can’t believe she used “whiner diner” to describe me. That’s what we say when there’s a bunch of crybabies around. We use
it when our classmates complain about homework or when our teammates complain about workouts, but we never use it for each
other. Our motto is
NO PAIN, NO GAIN
.

“There,” she says, handing me the phone. “Not that you’re going to use it.”

“You never know,” I say. “Luís might call. He’s been walking me home, remember?”

“Earth to Lina,” she says. “He won’t call because
he can’t talk.
”

“He talks just fine.”

“If you want to wait ten minutes for two words!” she says sarcastically.

Sometimes this friendship stinks like a rotten egg.

“Here’re two words for you,” I say. “Get out!”

Vanessa knows she’s crossed the line with me because she apologizes right away and swears she didn’t mean to pick on Luís,
that it just came out. But I’m too hurt to forgive her. I grab
Watership Down
and decide to use it on the biggest bug in the room.

“Get out!” I say again, swatting her legs.

She hops off the bunk, runs out of the room, and I slam the door behind her.

Cada cabeza es un mundo –
Inside each head lies a different world

T
he next morning, I walk out my door and straight to school. I admit it—I hold grudges. If only I weren’t so lonely walking
by myself.

Vanessa beats me to science. As soon as I enter, she says, “Lina, I’m sorry. I’m really,
really
sorry.”

“Tell it to your boyfriend,” I say, looking toward Carlos.

She lets out a little huff and leaves to sit by him.

I hardly look up from my desk when Luís walks in.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I got in a fight with Vanessa.” I’m not about to tell him she made fun of his stutter, so I say, “About some girl stuff.
You know how it is.”

“I do?” He makes a big show of looking at his arms and legs. “Because the last time I looked, I wasn’t a g-g-girl.”

That does it. He wipes the frown right off my face.

When class begins, Luís and I trade notes. He asks me things like what’s my favorite music video, my favorite movie, the funniest
thing I ever spotted on eBay.

“A wedding dress,” I write.

“Why’s that funny?”

“Because a guy modeled it, and he had a really hairy back.”

Luís cracks up when he reads my note.

“Did I make a joke?” Mr. Star asks.

“N-n-no, sir,” Luís says.

Before I know it, class is over and I’m feeling one hundred percent better. With Luís on my mind, I don’t walk but
float
to fourth period.

Too bad I have to go to English. Mrs. Huerta squashes my good mood the minute she returns the vocabulary test—mine with a
big fat zero
!

“Please see me after class,” she says.

“Okay,” I say. “But while you’re passing out papers, can you give me back the quizzes from that book we’re reading?”

“No. I don’t have them with me.”

“You don’t? Where are they?”

“Now, Lina, you know where they are.”

But I don’t know where they are. How can I concentrate with this mystery on my hands? Why should I bother summarizing the
final section of
Watership Down
when all my other quizzes are floating in the cosmos somewhere?

Maybe I haven’t read the book, but like I said, I
do
listen in class. I take notes too. I get enough details for my Fiver and Hazel adventure. Fiver is, or was, Hazel’s best
friend. Last time, they had to wear disguises. Hazel got mad when Fiver and a bunny named Carlita paired up as the munchkin
lollipop kids from
The Wizard of Oz.
They sucked on helium to get funny voices. Then, they put on beanie hats with whizzing propellers that chopped off their
ears. For today’s assignment, I decide that Hazel and Fiver are going to fight, a big fight like the one Vanessa and I had.
“The Final Blowout,” I call it.

After class, Mrs. Huerta waits for everyone to leave. Vanessa hangs around, but Mrs. Huerta tells her to go too. I’m still
mad, but I have to admit, I wish I were walking out with Vanessa.

Once we’re alone, Mrs. Huerta tells me to return the vocabulary test tomorrow.

“With corrections?” I say.

“Now that you mention it, that’s a great idea.”

Why did I open my big mouth?

She goes on, “Return it with corrections
and
with your father’s signature. I think he’d be interested to see how you’re doing in my class and curious about why you won’t
be playing any sports for a while.”

“What do you mean?” I say, secretly hoping Mrs. Huerta’s using scare tactics. That’s what teachers do when they see a student
slacking off. They throw out empty threats.

“I had to give Coach Luna a progress report for the new soccer season,” Mrs. Huerta says. “You know the rules. House Bill
72—No Pass, No Play. It’s the law.”

“I know. I’m really sorry I messed up, but…”

“No ‘buts’ and no ‘sorries.’ I don’t accept excuses and I don’t accept apologies. The only thing I accept is a change in behavior.”

Her voice is dead serious. Oh, no! This isn’t a scare tactic at all. I can’t sweet-talk my way out of this. Today’s the first
day of practice, and already I’m getting kicked off the team! I get this big lump of fear at the base of my throat, and my
ears and neck get hot with shame.

“But, Mrs. Huerta, I
have
to play. I have to keep in shape for the volleyball team next year.” I’m trying not to cry, but a few tears leak out.

“No, sweetheart. You have to study. I know it’s hard to accept, but you’ll thank me in the long run.”

“But I have to play,” I say again. This time I don’t care how kindergarten I sound. I start bawling. “Can’t you give me extra
credit? I’ll do anything. I’ll read a bunch of books. I’ll wash your car. I’ll babysit your kids for free.”

“That’s not extra credit,” she says. “That’s bribery.”

Asking for sympathy from Mrs. Huerta is like asking for sympathy from an ironing board. She offers me the box of tissues,
but I shake my head because in my purse is a “sockerchief,” a white sock I use as a hankie.

I can’t go to the cafeteria in tears. Everyone will ask what’s wrong, and I’m not ready to tell the world I got kicked off
the team. So I return to my desk. I try to calm myself using the positive self-talk my dad taught me. “You’re okay, I’m okay,”
I tell myself, and “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

And what does Mrs. Huerta do while I’m sobbing? She eats a sandwich, munches on chips, and grades papers! She should be gassing
cute puppies at the dog pound, not teaching.

I have to walk home by myself. Luís is rehearsing for the Christmas concert, and Vanessa’s practicing soccer (not that I’d
be with her if she weren’t). I notice that all the kids who go home early are Hollywood extras, and then I realize… without
soccer, I’m an extra too. I can’t even be the water girl till I’m passing English again. The way I see it, I’m
lower
than a Hollywood extra.

I drop my backpack by the door and go to my room. It’s been a bad twenty-four hours, the worst. I take a blanket, tie it around
the posts of the top bunk, and let it hang off the edge, making a wall for the bottom bed. This is what I do when I want to
disappear. I call my little hideaway “the cave.”

Thirty minutes later, I hear my dad come in. He walks by my room and stops.

“Lina?” he calls. “Are you in there?”

“Yes,” I say.

I hear him approach. He pushes aside the blanket and looks down at me.

“Why aren’t you at soccer practice?” he asks.

“I’m not going to play after all. I don’t really like soccer.”

“Why not?”

“My legs are too long. I’ll just trip over the ball. What’s to like about that?”

I start to believe myself and why shouldn’t I? It’s true. All of it. Soccer and long legs don’t mix.

“I wish you’d reconsider,” Dad says. “Don’t you think it’s boring moping around while your friends are at practice?”

“No. I’m not bored.”

“Hmmm,” my dad says. I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but he decides not to ask any more questions. After a few seconds,
he lets the blanket fall and steps out.

Then I hear the phone. It’s probably Carlos, but I don’t budge. I want my dad to answer. Maybe he’ll casually mention Vanessa’s
boyfriend to Ms. Cantu.