At first misty then drizzling now coming down hard like long, thin fingers reaching down to earth gray against the green of the pine trees combining with the fog that has rolled in from the sea. Many people prefer tropical islands or dusty deserts— but I like the wet and the fog and the mist and the gray skies of home because . . . to me, nothing is better than wet and mist and fog and gray fingers of rain against green trees. Natalie Lam, 12Bothell, Washington
May/June 2001
My Friend the Bull
Our power was gone again. The house was at least sixty years old, I say sesenta, but we moved in a few weeks ago. The rain was slamming into the earth like a fist. Trees outside bent their heads in awe of the storm. I thought, this was the kind of weather when my abuela, or grandmother, once sang songs and drank hot black coffee. But in the family room my parents and two older brothers sat around the newspaper like mosquitoes to a light with no words shared between them. I stepped out into the rain. The water met my skin in a burst of coldness, past the jacket and pants to the tender skin. Rain always makes me feel alive and I hear my heartbeat through the pattern of drops. But then I go back inside to the air-conditioning and rock ‘n’ roll music, and I am not so sure. My father calls himself a man of the times. He works in a city job and must watch the politics and the local events on the television or read of them in the papers. My abuela said that it is a changing world, but we must not forget those before us who were born and lived their lives in Cuba. Also she said that of the many things that will make me a man, one is conscience. One day I broke a mug while washing and, remembering this thing, I went to tell my father, but instead of thanking me for my words as I had hoped, he paddled me. Telling does not matter much anymore. Now my brothers always uncover what I have done wrong and tell for me. “Recuerdas, remember what I have taught you, my nieto. Adios” My brothers, they are the strong and handsome names of Juan and Padre, just as my father is Miguel. But me, the last child, I am only little Gabriel. But I remember my abuela always calling me her little nieto, which is grandson, but from the ways she spoke it with her heart in her lips and eyes I always imagined myself as loved one. Whenever I was with my abuela I was the loved one but now I am only Gabriel. I look back and see the yellow evening when she died. I sat on a chair beside her cheek but my parents and the doctor stood frowning far away at the foot. In the window above her head the sun settled like an old bird into its nest with a halo of red clouds, the sign of clear skies tomorrow. I heard her say in a voice as thin as a fallen leaf, “El sol sets on me today, my little nieto. But en la matiana, you will rise and see him, my darling. Many more of him you will see. Recuerdas, remember what I have taught you, my nieto. Adios.” “Adios, mi abuela,” I whispered. Her lids fell lightly across her cheeks and I knew the end. I sat for many hours memorizing each wrinkle of her face until my father called for me, “Gabriel!” Then I kissed her cheek and left her forever. * * * I went in for la comida, but I thought it did not deserve the Spanish name because it was pizza. The taste of grease rose in my throat with the taste of bile and I thought of my abuela’s fish and yellow rice. We are in her house which was given to us when she died, a few miles from Miami. My parents much prefer city life, but this house was all paid off and with much furniture, and they came for the cheapness. But they tore down all her paintings and memories and put up wallpaper with seashells. Think of it, I tell myself, trading a lifetime for seashells! “So,” my father told us, “the bull will be delivered tomorrow.” A sign was up for a bull for sale and my brother Juan saw it. “I want to be a matador,” he told my father. Juan has the temperament of a fighter. He is mean and cunning and has no mercy, and he played the games of fighting when a child. “Very well,” said my father, “but besides strength you must get education too.” Now the bull is coming. Probably Juan will try to ride its horns into me. * * * The bull was young and medium-size. His nostrils flared and he pranced near the walls of our pen. His name was Diablo, which is devil; however, as soon as I saw his hide I called him Rojo. His skin was red as blood or pepper. I liked to think of him as my own age and circumstance, only another prisoner in this great big world. That morning Juan stepped into the pen with his bullfighting cap and a red cloth and all his proud anger. Maybe it is angry pride; I do not know which. “Bull!” he shouted in an ugly voice. “Come and fight!” The bull in response charged across the dirt to him and he stepped aside just in time from the pointed horns. Then he ran and vaulted the fence. Now he is inside telling tales of how he conquered the mighty bull, on his first attempt. Only I saw him. Then I opened the gate and approached the bull. A sugar cube rested on my open hand, which showed my good intention. The bull, or Rojo as I thought in my private mind, pawed the ground anxiously. I thought, you are just scared and lonely like a lost kitten. Soon his curiosity overcame fear. Rojo approached me and consumed the sugar into his great mouth. I reached out one hand to pat his great horn. He was not afraid and he leapt away and did a bull dance all around the pen. The dirt was packed by his prancing hooves. When he returned he begged for more and I fed
Twisted Friendships
I had never had anyone my age who lived on my street. All of my friends lived at least ten minutes away. I had always envied those who could call up their friends whenever they were bored and say, “Hey, want to get together?” My mom told many fond stories of her adventures with neighborhood kids when she was little. When Jessica moved into the house across the street, I was thrilled. I had all of these great notions about what we could do together and how much fun it would be to have a friend living so close. For a while, it seemed as perfect as I’d pictured it, then, well, let’s just say that Jessica had a hidden personality that wasn’t nice at all. * * * I never really saw Jessica move in. Mom said there was a moving truck, but I didn’t see it. After a few days, I saw a girl come out of the house and walk down the driveway to the mailbox. I happened to be sitting on my porch, so I went to say hello. Secretly, I had been waiting to catch a glimpse of someone since I’d learned a new family had moved in. This girl, obviously close to my age, was what I’d hoped for. “Hi,” I greeted the girl. She had very light, almost white, blond hair and piercing blue eyes. She was wearing short jean cutoffs and a T-shirt. “I’m Beth—I live across the street.” The girl looked a little suspicious, then smiled. “I’m Jessica.” “Where did you move here from?” I asked, trying to strike up a conversation. Jessica seemed to jump at the question, then replied, “California.” “Really?” I was impressed. “How do you like the house? The garden in front is so pretty . . .” Jessica looked at the garden as if that was the first time she’d noticed it. “Oh—sure, it’s OK.” We talked for a little bit longer, or I talked and Jessica sort of put in a couple words now and then. I invited her over, but she declined, saying she had unpacking to do. It was a couple weeks before she finally came over. I thought she would be just like having one of my other friends over, but she proved me wrong. “This is my cat, Fluffy,” I told her, as we sat with lemonade in my bedroom. “I named him when I was three—Fluffy, because of his long fur.” I cuddled Fluffy and he purred affectionately. “Why are you hugging a cat?” Jessica asked, as if there was something disgusting about Fluffy. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Is it wrong to hug a cat?” Jessica pushed back her blond hair and shrugged. “It’s just strange.” She changed the subject. “Let’s go outside.” “OK.” We picked up our lemonade glasses, Jessica’s still had some left, and walked down the hall. Mom and Dad’s door to their room stood open, letting in air. “Oh darn it!” I turned to see Jessica’s glass on the floor, the pink lemonade on the rug. “I’m so sorry, I . . .” “It’s all right, Jessica,” I assured her quickly. “I’ll get a towel.” So I ran downstairs, returning with a sponge and a towel. It seemed like an honest mistake at the time, but it wasn’t. That night Mom and Dad were going to a wedding. It was a fancy one and Mom wanted to wear her diamond ring. She only wore it on holidays and special occasions because it was her great-grandmother’s. “Beth, have you seen my diamond ring?” Mom came into my room. “It’s not in my jewelry box, and I know I didn’t take it out. In fact, I remember seeing it this morning.” I shook my head. “No, I haven’t seen it since you wore it at Christmas.” “That’s what I thought.” After my parents were gone, and my grandma was washing the dinner dishes, I went into my parents’ room to see if I could find the ring. It was nowhere in Mom’s jewelry box, or on the floor, or behind the dresser. I knew Mom would never take the ring out unless she was planning on wearing it right away. Where could it be? No one had been at our house since that morning—except Jessica. * * * Jessica and I spent a large amount of time together in the next few weeks. I put the ring incident out of my mind—Jessica would never have stolen it! We went swimming, played games, and roller-bladed. I hardly ever saw Jessica’s family. She said that her stepdad worked all day and her mom was “around.” She mentioned an older sister, but I’d never seen her. I’d never been in Jessica’s house, either. Jessica never wanted to go to her house, only mine. I didn’t really care. My best friend Cathy came home from vacation in early July—she’d been gone since the beginning of June. I was happy to see her again and sure that she and Jessica would like each other. I invited them both over. Cathy was two years younger. That made no difference to me. She had been my friend forever. She was always smiling, plus very funny, but serious when the time was right to be. I thought Jessica was funny, too, and was eager for them to meet. The afternoon went well. Jessica and Cathy seemed to like one another, although Jessica was a little quiet toward Cathy. Once, when we were playing Monopoly, Cathy gave Jessica, who was banker, an extra $100 when she was buying a piece of property. Jessica gave it back to her, joking sarcastically, “Now what grade are you going into?” “Sixth.” Cathy smiled. . . . the game continued, but Jessica seemed to treat Cathy differently As if totally surprised, Jessica looked at her. “Sixth? I’m going into eighth.” She sounded smug. Then the game continued, but Jessica seemed to treat Cathy differently, counting to make sure that
