Hope Girl (17 page)

“Wow,” says Carlos, “that's what I do. But I have to remind myself every day.” Then he smiles. “But you know what?”

I sneak a ball in my hand just in case he starts bragging again. “What?”

“It won't be so hard now, knowing I have a friend who understands.” He takes a deep breath. “Did you ever wonder if your whole life was planned out even before you were born?”

“I don't think so, but I'm guessing you have.”

“I have, and here's what got me thinking about it. Do you know my last name?”

“Okay,” I say, “that's a random question, but yes, it's Amaranta.”

Carlos leans toward me. “And do you know what Amaranta means in Spanish?”

I shake my head.

“It's the name of a bird that lives in Africa—the
Amaranta Senegalesa
, also known as the red-billed firefinch… and the male firefinch has bright, red plumage over its entire head and breast.” He looks at me. “Now tell me that isn't strange. So if my life wasn't planned from the beginning, how likely is it that I'd end up with a last name that means firefinch?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Somehow it seems my life was destined to be affected by fire.”

“That is strange” (so strange I've got goosebumps on my arms).

“What's your last name mean?” he asks, and then he hits himself on the head. “Wow, I don't even know your last name.”

“It's Starling, but you don't have to hit yourself over it. And I don't know its meaning, except that it's a type of bird too.”

“Let's find out.” Carlos goes to a bookshelf and grabs a book. “This book's incredible. It has all the information you'd ever want to know about birds.” He brings it to the couch. “Okay,” he says, flipping through the index, “page one eighty-seven. Starling… an old world songbird with a straight bill.” Carlos turns and looks at my nose. “Yep! Nice straight bill—or nose,” he says. He keeps reading, “Typically with dark, lustrous plumage.” He takes hold of my braid and wiggles it. “Yep!” he says, “dark plumage.” Then he reads the last bit of information, “Often considered a pest.”

Since I still have the ball in my hand, I take aim.

“Hold on there,” he says. “I didn't say you were a pest. The book said a starling is often considered a pest.” But before I can stop him, Carlos grabs the ball from me and laughs. “Actually,” he says, “I haven't known you long enough to know if you are a pest.”

“Well, I assure you, I'm not!” Then I jump up, grab a handful of balls, and dump them over his head.

Carlos scrunches his nose at me. “On second thought,” he says, “Starling suits you well.”

I give it right back. “Well, how about you—reading a book about a mouse?”

“Ahhh,” he says, “so you're not only a pest, you're a snoop.”

I shove my hands on my hips. “I am not! It's not snooping when you read something right in front of you! You left your book on the table!”

“But you felt like you were snooping, or you wouldn't be so defensive.”

“I'm not a snoop, and I am not defensive!”

Carlos laughs. “Not defensive? Look at you! With your hands on your hips, yelling at high decibels, eyebrows pushed against each other—that's defensive.”

I sit down and take a deep breath. “Well, I'm not,” I say calmly. “Besides, you're using an avoidance tactic, trying to avoid my original question as to why you're reading about a fictitious mouse.”

“Okay, River-Starling-the-pest,” he says, “I can see where this conversation's going. If you were well read, however, you would clearly know that Abel is not just any mouse. He's a character who portrays worthy virtues. And he's actually had a significant impact on how I've dealt with life since the fire.”

After I think for a moment, I say, “That being the case, please forgive my ignorance. And if you'd be so inclined, I'd like to learn more of this so-called mouse you call Abel.”

Carlos nods. “Very well,” he says. “When I was in the hospital, my favorite nurse gave me that book. But since my hands were covered with burns and skin grafts, I couldn't hold it. My mom read it to me. It was like therapy for both of us. It helped get our minds off our sadness. And funny as it might seem, Abel helped me feel like I could get through anything.”

I smile. “He must be quite a mouse.”

“He is,” says Carlos. “He helped me realize I could survive. So every now and then, I reread it to remind myself.”

Just then Rosa yells down the stairs, “Carlos, come on up. River and her dad have to leave.”

“Okay, Mom.” Carlos leans toward me. “You know, River,” he whispers, “I think our parents like each other.”

“What are you talking about?”

Carlos seems surprised. “You seriously don't know?”

A rush of anger bursts through me. “Yes, I'm serious!”

“Come on, River, they've been hanging around each other and I haven't seen my mom this happy in a long time. Did you see the way she put her hands on your dad's when he rolled the
buñuelos
dough? Tell me you didn't notice.”

“I didn't. Besides that's impossible—my dad's still in love with my mom, and they're getting married again. So you can tell your mom to like someone else!” I run to the stairs.

“River, hold on,” he calls. “I'm sorry! I didn't know.”

I reach the top of the stairs probably before Carlos has managed to get off the couch. Dad's standing there waiting. I grab his hand. “Okay, Dad, let's go!”

Dad pulls me back. “Whoa, where are you going? Aren't you going to say goodnight to Carlos? And what about thanking Rosa?”

I pull Dad again. “I already said goodbye.” Then I turn to Rosa, who I hate right now. “Thanks for dinner.” But what I'd like to say is, “Stay away from my dad! There's no way you're ruining everything—not when I'm so close to having everything I've ever wanted.”

Dad and I go to the car. I get in, slam the door, and whip my seat belt across my lap.

He shifts into drive. “Okay, River, would you mind telling me what that was all about?”

My jaws are clenched so tight I can barely talk. “Actually I would.”

“Actually?” he says. “Well, actually, you'd better. That was embarrassing.”

My heart pounds in my chest. “Why do you care? Are you trying to impress her?”

Dad takes a deep breath. “What is going on?”

I squeeze my hands together, digging my nails into my skin. “Carlos said you and Rosa like each other.”

“River, there is some truth to that.”

I glare at him and shout, “How could you? I see the look on your face when you talk about Mom. You're still in love with her! We're supposed to be a family, and it's not too late!”

Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “But it is, River. It's too late.”

Even though I never cry, I can't help it and cry all the way home.

When Dad pulls in to Gram's driveway, I jump out and run as fast as I can to the birding place. I sit on the log and cry about everything. I cry because Billy died and because I miss him. I cry because Gram's not home and because I want things like they used to be. I cry because I want my mom and because she doesn't remember me. I cry because I need a friend and because I almost had one. I cry because I'm supposed to be full of hope and I don't think I am anymore. I cry because it hurts inside. And I cry because God stopped caring about me when I thought he always would.

Pretty soon I hear sticks crunch on the trail as someone walks toward me. I can tell by the silhouette it's Dad. “Mind if I join you?” he says.

I wipe my nose on my shirt. “Do whatever you want.”

He sits beside me. “River, if I could have anything, I'd choose to be with your mother so the three of us were a family again. But life moves forward—rarely does it offer the opportunity to go back. But I tried, River. I really tried. And you're right,” he says. “I'm sure you can see that I still love your mom. There will always be a part of me that does. But she moved on. She's married and has children.” He picks up a rock and throws it toward the river. “I know it's hard to understand.”

Then with everything I have, I say the words, trying to make Dad believe them too, “But she'll want to be with us as soon as she remembers. And she will as soon as she gets the letter.”

Dad turns toward me. “What letter?”

“The one I mailed this morning. She just needs to remember the lily of the valley and the return of happiness and how her life was complete when we were together. She's just forgotten, Dad. You'll see. Once she reads it, she'll want everything the way it was.”

Dad puts his arm around me and pulls me to his side. “I'm sorry, River. She has a new life.” He squeezes my shoulders. “You know,” he says, “you are one incredible person. And if I had to choose to be someone else, I'd choose to be you.”

I fiddle with a piece of bark on the log. “You would?”

“Yep,” he says, “I would.”

“Why?”

“Because you never give up.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too.”

I climb into bed with Zoey, but before I lay down, I grab my pen and update my calendar. I cross off today, Thursday, July fourteenth, which was a very long day. In the corner of the box, I write, “Mailed Mom letter.”

I lay back on my pillow. “Okay, God, in case you haven't noticed, my life is pretty messed up. I'm trying to get my parents back together, but it's not going so good. Don't you want my parents back together too? Isn't that what you want? If you still care, please work things out like they're supposed to be. I could use a little help.”

Zoey snuggles close. Her motor puts me to sleep.

22

Ms. Honey Bunn

T
he phone wakes me. I check my clock. Seven forty-five a.m. Who's calling this early? It can't be Ms. Ruddy. I don't volunteer on Fridays. Then the sunniest ray of hope splashes over me—maybe it's Mom. She wouldn't have gotten the letter yet, but maybe she remembers me anyhow.