Hope Girl (16 page)

“Sounds good.” Since I found the butterfly, everything is good.

When Rosa leaves, Dad says to Carlos, “You've got quite a mom.”

Dad, me, and Carlos hurry to finish. I clean our brushes and rollers in the sink and rinse the last “sunny rays of hope” down the drain.

Dad and I follow Carlos up his apartment steps when Rosa comes to the door. “Welcome!” she says. “You must be hungry.”

Dad pats his stomach. “Wow, whatever you're cooking smells amazing.”

Rosa blushes. “Thank you. It's tortillas stuffed with cheesy chicken and Spanish rice.”

Rosa looks so beautiful that I can't stop staring at her. She waves her hand in front of me. “Hello, River. Is everything all right?”

“You look different or something.” She's wearing jeans, a red and purple blouse, and long, dangly earrings.

Dad turns toward me. “You've probably only seen Rosa in her nurse's uniform.”

“Yes,” says Rosa, “that's it. Now come to the kitchen. We have food to eat.”

Once we're seated, Rosa says to Carlos, “Will you do the honors?”

He nods. “Dear God, thank you for new friends and for my
mom, who makes the best cheesy chicken Spanish rice tortillas in the world. Amen.”

Rosa looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “Carlos!”

After we eat tortillas, Rosa teaches us how to make Mexican
buñuelos
for dessert (that's the authentic name for dough fritters like the kind you get at carnivals).

Rosa takes a fistful of dough, forms it into a ball, and then rolls it with a rolling pin so it's as flat as a pancake and about the size of a Frisbee. She sets it aside. Then she breaks off three more pieces of dough—one for Dad, me, and Carlos—and hands Dad the rolling pin.

Dad shakes his head. “I don't know. I haven't used a rolling pin in years.” He forms his dough into a ball, then tries rolling it. When it sticks to the rolling pin, Rosa sprinkles flour on it. He tries again, but only half gets flat. Carlos and I laugh.

Even though Rosa looks like she's trying not to laugh, she says, “Carlos, you know better than to laugh. And you,” she says, pointing to me, “don't you laugh until you've had a turn. It's harder than it looks.” Dad's still trying to roll it evenly when Rosa puts her hands over his. “Like this, she says, “forward, backward, with nice, even pressure.”

Dad smiles at Rosa. “You have a magic touch.”

Carlos and I have a turn next (we don't have any trouble).

After we deep fry them, we completely cover them with powdered sugar. Mexican
buñuelos
are delicious.

When we finish, Rosa tells Carlos to show me the family room while she cleans the kitchen.

“Come on, River,” he says. “It's downstairs. It's like my personal hangout spot.”

Rosa laughs. “Just remember it's not,” she says, “but when someone keeps a room messy enough, they'll likely keep others away.”

Carlos grins. “Exactly.”

21

Red-Billed Firefinch

T
he family room's small but nice. There's a couch, two chairs, a TV, and a green Ping-Pong table pushed up against the wall. And except for the fact there are Ping-Pong balls all over the place, it's really not messy.

Carlos points to the couch. “Have a seat. Or sit on a chair.”

I choose the chair. But as soon as I sit, I jump up and reach under by bottom. “I just sat on a Ping-Pong ball!”

“Or you laid an egg!” Carlos says, laughing. “Seriously, sorry about the balls.”

“Yeah, what's up with that?”

“Playing Ping-Pong helps me keep moving. Most of my joints are stiff, so I can't move and react that fast.”

“Want to play a game?”

Carlos shakes his head. “I'm not ready for that, but I'll take a rain check. Right now I've got the Ping-Pong table against the wall and play against myself. If I don't hit too hard, I don't have to react as fast,” he says. “I'll show you.”

Carlos ties a carpenter apron around his waist (the kind with pockets to hold nails), but his pockets are filled with Ping-Pong balls. He bounces a ball once, hits it gently against the wall so that when it comes back, he can hit it again.

He counts the hits, making it to eighteen. “The most I've gotten is twenty-seven. I'm shooting for fifty by the end of the month.”

“You got it,” I say. “But I've got one question—why so many balls?”

“Honest answer—it's hard to bend down and pick them up. So
if I have a lot of balls, I can play all day and not have to rely on my mom to pick them up as often.”

“I'll pick them up,” I say. “That is, if you don't mind.”

Carlos tosses a ball up in the air to catch but misses. “You certainly don't have to, but that would be nice. Then my mom won't have to. She already does so much for me.”

“Do you have a bucket or something to put them in?”

Carlos points to the chair. “Just pile them on the chair. I can reach them.”

“Okay, but don't let me stop you from practicing.”

“You sure?”

I nod and then start gathering the balls.

It's when I dump the first load onto the chair that I see it—the framed photograph hanging on the wall. It's of three people. Rosa's one of them. Then there's a man (about Dad's age) with his arm around Rosa. And right between them is a boy (maybe about twelve years old like Billy) wearing a soccer uniform.

All of a sudden the rap-tapping of the Ping-Pong ball stops and I realize Carlos is beside me.

“That's my dad—” he says, “or was my dad.”

I look at the picture, realizing now who the boy is.

“And that was me,” he says. “I was pretty good at soccer.”

I try to think of something to say, like maybe, “I didn't realize that was you,” or “I wondered who that kid was,” or “you look so different now,” but thankfully Carlos says something.

He taps the ball against his paddle. “I know what you're thinking.”

I pick up a ball from the floor and toss it on the chair. “Not possible,” I say, “because I'm not thinking.”

Carlos laughs. “But you are,” he says. “You're thinking about how good looking I was.”

I turn to face him. “I wouldn't be so sure. Besides, I wasn't thinking—I was wondering. And if you really want to know what I was wondering, I'll tell you.”

Carlos grins. “Let's hear it.”

“I was wondering what position you played. And I was wondering about your dad.”

“First things first,” he says. “You're a horrible liar. You weren't wondering what position I played—you were seriously thinking about how good looking I was.”

I throw a Ping-Pong ball at him. “Will you stop? You have no way of knowing what I'm thinking!” I throw another ball at him.

Carlos puts his arms up. “Okay, okay,” he says, “I surrender! I played center forward, so not only was I good looking, I was fast!”

“I get it, hotshot, you can stop bragging.”

“And if you want to know about my dad, I'll tell you.” Carlos sits on the chair (the one without the Ping-Pong balls). I sit on the couch. “Okay, I'm done bragging,” he says. “A year and a half ago, my scout troop planned a father-son winter campout. Dad and I couldn't wait. But at the last minute, he got sick with a sore throat and fever. He said it wasn't a good idea to go, but I wouldn't take no for an answer, and so we went. The last night of the campout was especially cold, so we kept the propane heater on in our tent all night. We'd been sleeping for a while when I smelled smoke, but I thought I was dreaming. In my dream my dad was coughing. When I started coughing, my dream led me to believe that I was sick like Dad. I remember hearing him call my name between coughs—I tried answering him, but my throat was too dry. I felt hot, like I was burning up, but in my dream I just thought I had a fever.

“When I felt someone shake my cot, I knew I wasn't dreaming. Even though there was so much smoke, I saw Dad on the floor. It was him shaking my cot. He was trying to pull me onto the floor with him. Flames were all around us. I rolled off my cot and then crawled around the tent trying to find the door. It took forever since I couldn't see. But once I found the zipper, it was stuck. When I finally got it open enough for us to fit through, I wrapped my arm around Dad to take him out with me. That's when someone reached in, grabbed my other arm, and pulled me out so hard that I couldn't keep hold of my dad. The last thing I remember was the explosion. My dad was still inside.”

I sit motionless on the couch. My whole body is tight. “I'm sorry.”

“I know,” he says. “After everything you've been through with your mom and then losing Billy, I thought you'd understand.”

Carlos leans forward and rests his arm on his leg. “It's hard enough missing my dad, but on top of that, I have to deal with the guilt. It's like everything's my fault. Since he was sick, I shouldn't have begged to go. If I hadn't, he'd still be here.” Carlos leans back against the chair. “I try not to think about it.”

“I know what you mean. The day Billy died, everything would have been fine if it wasn't for me.”

Carlos raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Billy wanted me to go to the birding place with him that day—our plants were dry and needed water. But I did something with Gram instead. If I'd have gone with Billy, Robert never would have pushed him—I'd have stopped him.”

Carlos wipes his eyes. “How do you deal with it?”

“Pastor Henry helped me. When Billy died,” I explain, “I didn't know Pastor Henry was my uncle, so that's why I called him Pastor Henry. He helped me realize I'm not in charge of life and death, but God is. He said we all make choices, but in the end, God has the final say. So even though I think about how things could have been different if I went with Billy, I remind myself God knew what was happening every second. He could've changed things. So, if I believe God is God, then I have to believe he knows what he's doing… even if it's not what I would have done.”