Marcus Vega Doesn't Speak Spanish Read online

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Oh, hey!” he says, dropping the twigs and walking over. “I was, um, I was playing Dragonlord. These are my fire sticks.” He points to the branches on the brown patch of grass in his yard.

  “Ready?” I say.

  “Um, are you sure that’s a good idea?” he says, putting the stick down. “Principal Jenkins said you couldn’t—”

  “Let’s go,” I tell him, starting to walk.

  “Really, I can walk myself. It’s not a big deal.”

  “You paid me,” I tell him. “No freebies.”

  I’m already late to pick up the other kids, so I hurry. Danny’s feet move faster to keep up. I map out a route in my head that will save me a few minutes. I make a plan to drop the kids off at the corner of the school and wait until they get in safely.

  “Hey,” Danny says, almost jogging to keep up. “I started a petition after you left yesterday to get you back into school. All the sixth graders signed it.”

  I ask him why he’s helping me.

  “I don’t have any siblings,” he says. “Or too many friends. Plus, I believe in justice.”

  We keep walking to the other kids’ houses, and one by one they come running out to greet me. They’re excited I’m walking them, but they’re also worried I’m going to get into trouble. I tell them the same thing I told Danny: a job is a job. They bounce around excitedly, asking what it felt like to punch someone and how many times I have knocked someone out. They’re surprised when I tell them it was the first time I ever did that. Then they’re surprised I’m actually talking to them.

  “You’ve never said more than three words to me,” one kid marvels.

  “I feel so important all of a sudden,” another one says.

  “Gentlemen,” Danny interrupts. “Give him some space.”

  Danny tells them that they have to keep petitioning the school to claim justice. He tells them that Stephen cannot continue to get away with this psychological torment.

  Danny talks like he’s forty years old.

  We’re about a block away from school when the kids stop. It’s Stephen. His mom gets out of the car with him and holds up the drop-off line. She puts her hand up at the other cars like she’s annoyed at all the honking. She walks him into school and gives him a kiss on the cheek and rubs his back. After Stephen goes inside, I tell the kids with me to go.

  “Meet me here at three,” I tell them. They all agree. Danny stays behind.

  “Thanks, Marcus,” he says.

  I nod.

  * * *

  It’s the weekend and the official start of spring break. Break is early this year, so it’s still cold outside. Mom hadn’t mentioned our trip in a couple of days, and it was looking more and more like we weren’t going to go. Suddenly she calls us over to the dinner table and does this whole special presentation for us.

  “Okay, my wonderful children, I have obtained . . . wait for it . . . wait for it . . .”

  “What is it, Mom?” Charlie says, bouncing up and down, hardly able to contain himself.

  “So,” she says, going through her purse. “I have obtained three tickets to . . .”

  “Disney?” Charlie jumps from his seat.

  “No, not Disney.”

  “Ah crap.”

  “Charles Antonio Vega! Mouth!”

  My brother sits and crosses his arms in protest. He’s not moving from there for a while.

  “We’re not going to Disney,” my mom continues, “but we are going somewhere. It is . . . Drum roll please . . .”

  “You got the tickets to Puerto Rico?” I say, standing up.

  She drops the envelope onto the table, a deflated look on her face.

  “Way to take the drama out of the surprise, sweetheart.”

  “It’s the only option we ever talked about, Mom.”

  She livens up again like I didn’t just ruin her reveal. “We’re going to Puerto Rico!”

  “You said that,” Charlie says.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “We’re staying with Uncle Ermenio?” I ask.

  “Yes, we are. And neither the flight nor the stay will cost us any Cookie Monster Cash!”

  I look at the ticket again and then at my brother, who is carefully poring over the information on it with me.

  “It says Miami on the ticket,” Charlie points out.

  “We’re connecting through Miami and then to San Juan. Cool, huh?”

  Charlie studies the itinerary a few more times. “Flight 1836,” he says. “We leave Philadelphia at six a.m., arrive in Miami at eight fifty-five a.m., then leave Miami at eleven thirty a.m. and arrive in Puerto Rico at three ten p.m.”

  “Yep. We’re going to be in Puerto Rico for five days. And here’s the best part: we leave in two days!”

  Charlie jumps up and down like he’s just won a million dollars. My mom takes him by the hands and they dance around the table.

  Then my mom starts chanting, “My kids and me fly for free! My kids and me fly for free! Well, we pay tax, but still! My kids and me fly free!” I don’t dance, but I smile. I definitely smile.

  For the next two days, Charlie gets busy checking maps of Puerto Rico and bus routes. I check the weather online and it’s eighty degrees in Puerto Rico right now. I can’t imagine the end of February being that hot.

  I ask my mom if she’s talked to Uncle Ermenio about my dad yet, but she keeps avoiding the question. I ask her for my dad’s email about a million times. Finally, she gives it to me.

  “Remember, this is our vacation.”

  “But I can still email him,” I say. “I mean, we’re staying at his uncle’s house. He’s gotta be in touch with him.”

  “If your father responds, we’ll go see him. Okay?”

  I nod.

  If I’m being honest, I’m a little excited about the idea of seeing my dad. He hasn’t been around, but maybe he’s been too shy to reach out. My mom gives me his email. I go to my room and sit at my desk. I turn on my computer and click on the tab to compose a new message. I freeze. How do you start an email to a father you haven’t seen in ten years?

  Dear Mr. Vega,

  Too formal.

  Hi,

  Hey!

  Too excited.

  Yo, what up, Father? It’s me, your son Marcus.

  Nah, that’s silly.

  Dear Dad,

  No. I keep deleting the email and rewriting. Finally, I settle on an introduction.

  Hello,

  It’s Marcus. Your son. We’re going to Puerto Rico in a few days. We’re staying with Uncle Ermenio. Your uncle, my great-uncle. You know that. Anyway, if you’re around, this is my email. I don’t know if there’s Wi-Fi in Puerto Rico. Is there? Well, anyway, if you get this before we leave,

  I look at the plane ticket.

  maybe you can scoop us up at the airport? If you’re free. We arrive at 3:10 p.m. Here’s the info.

  I type the flight number, the date we arrive, and the airline we’re flying on.

  Hopefully you can pick us up. It will be me, my mom, and Charlie. He’s twelve now. You probably know that. Anyway, this is my email. I’ll be checking it.

  Bye,

  Marcus

  I press send. I refresh a few times and then check my sent folder to make sure the email went through. I leave my computer on the rest of the day and check it whenever I’m in my room to see if he’s responded. My mom doesn’t say anything, because she’s busy preparing for the flight. I tell her my dad might pick us up.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” she says. “But don’t . . .”

  “I know,” I tell her.

  Look, it’s completely possible he’ll show up. He still hasn’t answered, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t read the email. I make a note to send him another on
e the day we leave. To remind him when we arrive. Maybe he’s just busy. He might have the email and decide that he doesn’t need to respond. He’ll just show up. I ask my mom if there’s Wi-Fi in Puerto Rico and she says yes but she doesn’t want to be using her phone while we’re there.

  I tell her we should bring the phone just in case we need it.

  * * *

  The day before we fly, I’m so excited about the trip that I somehow end up at Danny’s house. My dad still hasn’t emailed back, but it’s probably because he hasn’t had time to check. I don’t know why I end up at Danny’s house. I think maybe he would want to hear about the trip.

  “Make sure you wear plenty of sunscreen,” he says. “It gets very humid in Puerto Rico, and even though it’s raining, that doesn’t mean you can’t get a sunburn.”

  He tells me about the sustainable farms that are beginning to pop up in parts of the countryside. Danny’s a smart kid.

  “Take pictures,” he says.

  “I don’t have a camera or a phone with a camera.”

  He ponders this for a moment. Then his face lights up and he runs into another room in his house.

  He comes back and hands me a huge camera case.

  “Here you go!”

  “I can’t take this,” I say.

  “It’s just for a few days,” he insists. “And besides, my parents never use it.”

  “Danny, look, I’m—”

  He interrupts before I can finish.

  “Listen, this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip. You’re going to want to remember it.”

  I guess he has a point. I’m not used to someone giving me something just because they want to. Usually there is a transaction. I get something, they get something. Fear is generally a factor. This is a first.

  I take the camera and thank him. We say good-bye and he offers his hand. I shake it and head back home.

  “Hasta luego, Marcus.”

  “See you,” I say, clutching the camera bag.

  When I arrive at my house, my mom is pacing up and down the hallway, thinking out loud about all the things we need for the trip.

  “Okay, we’re going for five days, so that means we need five outfits, one for each day. Or do we need six? Plus extra underwear and shoes. How many pairs of shoes do I need? Oh, I don’t need dressy shoes; it’s not like I’m going out or anything. . . . And what else?”

  “Mom,” I say, stepping in front of her. “We’re not going away for a month.”

  I watch her put clothes into one large suitcase and then rush over to my brother’s room and come back with another haul. She carefully examines the clothes on her bed.

  “We’ll take one large suitcase, and each of us will have one carry-on. That way all of our stuff is in one place. Make sense?”

  “Mom, we don’t need that many clothes.”

  As my mom digs through her closet, she finds a box. The look on her face tells me she isn’t happy to see it. She makes her way back to the bed and sits down, the box on her lap. I sit next to her as she opens it. She pulls out a few family photos that are folded and wrinkled. There are some movie ticket stubs and letters. Then my mom pulls out my dad’s old driver’s license. This item seems to suck all the noise out of the air for a moment.

  “He just left everything behind,” she says. “Then I get a call one day from Puerto Rico. It was your father halfheartedly saying I should join him once he got his new business up and running.”

  My mom holds the box in her hands. She puts it down and looks at me for a moment before offering a smile.

  “And then you wake up and ten years have . . .” My mom trails off. “Do you get why I don’t want to see him, sweetheart?” My mom is quiet after she says this.

  “But he said to come,” I tell her. “And we are; we’re going. Maybe it’s all just been a huge miscommunication? Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he thought because you never went that you didn’t want to see him.”

  “Sweetie, I want you to believe that. I really do,” she says. “But that’s not how these stories end.”

  I feel the blood rushing to my neck, but I don’t say anything. I grab my dad’s ID before she can put it away. She may be done with my dad, but I’m not. I want answers.

  Charlie hasn’t looked up from Mom’s laptop the whole time. He’s been studying airport maps, flight times, directions to get to Uncle Ermenio’s house from the airport, and San Juan’s city layout. It doesn’t look like he’s listening to us, but I bet he is.

  My brother is smart. He doesn’t remember my dad, but he makes it his mission to learn everything he can about Puerto Rican culture. If he knows everything, he feels prepared. That’s really important to him. I came home the other day to some fast Spanish music blasting in my room and Charlie moving his hips like they were connected to supercharged batteries.

  “Salsa,” he said while he danced.

  * * *

  I go to my room and grab a few pairs of shorts and shirts and throw them into my backpack. I put aside my good pair of sneakers and lay out a large hoodie and some cargo pants for the plane. I put the camera bag next to my backpack and throw myself onto my bed, thinking about everything.

  By the time my mom finishes packing, it’s around midnight. Our flight is at six in the morning, and we have to get to the train by three. Charlie is already asleep. I’m not tired, so I stare at the water stains on our ceiling. They spread across the room like mountain ranges. I take my dad’s ID out of my pocket.

  MARCUS ANTONIO VEGA

  My father is about the same height as me. We have the same eyes. Wide brown ovals. We have the same skin that darkens in the sun. Not like my brother. He got my mom’s fair complexion. My dad has curly brown hair like mine, only his is longer. And he doesn’t smile. Another thing that makes us look exactly alike.

  I get up one last time to check my email. He still hasn’t responded. I write him another note.

  Hi,

  I have your ID. Maybe we can meet up when I’m in Puerto Rico? I can give it to you then.

  Bye,

  Marcus

  I look at the note a few times before finally pressing send.

  DAY ONE

  EIGHT

  TRAVEL DAY

  Charlie has the same headphones as I do. Except the music coming from his is some kind of salsa music.

  “Charlie, it’s three thirty in the morning,” my mom says. “Turn it down.”

  He pretends not to hear her. My mom scoots over from her seat on the train to take off his headphones, but he leans away.

  “Hey!” he says, clutching them. “My music!”

  “Turn it down. You’re going to blow out your eardrums.”

  “No.”

  My mom doesn’t back down. She plucks them off my brother’s head in one swift motion. I’m surprised. She usually doesn’t confront my brother like that. She usually tries to talk to him first.

  “Charlie, I said turn it down. You’re going to hurt your ears.”

  Charlie mumbles something about my mom getting stuck in a tube of chocolate.

  “Oh, now I’m Augustus Gloop?” She tickles Charlie to lighten the mood.

  Charlie sinks into the train seat as we ride to our connecting bus in Philly. By four thirty we arrive at the airport. Charlie recognizes the stop and tells my mom.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she says. Charlie never stays angry for too long.

  There are people already here even though it’s so early. There’s always somewhere to go, I guess.

  “Where are you flying?” asks the airline guy. My mom hands him our huge bag and then our tickets. He checks off my mom’s ID and looks at me.

  “Your ID, sir?”

  “He’s my son,” my mom says. “He’s fourteen.”

  The guy looks at me like he can’t believe what my mom just
said. But he returns our tickets and waves us on.

  Charlie asks to see his boarding pass and my mom hands it to him.

  “Boarding is at five thirty-five. Flight leaves at six o’clock. Gate B sixteen,” he says.

  We walk to the sliding glass doors, and my mom takes off Charlie’s coat and then her own. I leave mine on.

  Charlie examines the plane ticket and looks up at the signs.

  “We have to go to security check over there,” he says, pointing. We take the escalator up, following Charlie’s lead. Even though my mom works here, my brother takes pride in knowing where he is. (Like I said, he’s been studying the airport layout for days.)

  The security guy doesn’t make a comment about my size or look at Charlie funny. He just hands my mom her ID back and takes the next person in line. It must be cool to have a job like that. You don’t have to make a comment every time you see someone. You just do your job and carry on.

  Charlie moves exactly where a security lady directs him. I catch her smiling and winking at Charlie.

  Charlie approaches the body scanner and watches the guy in front of him step into the machine and put his hands over his head. The machine makes a whirring sound and Charlie’s eyes light up.

  “Awesome!”

  The guy steps out and continues to walk through security.

  “All right, baby,” the lady says to Charlie, “your turn.”

  Charlie puts his hands over his head and smiles from ear to ear as the machine scans him. I think I even see him bounce a little from excitement.

  My mom goes through and then I do. The lady tells us to have a good trip.

  We get our carry-on bags off the conveyor belt and head to the gates. I look around, completely shocked. The airport is like its own universe. There are restaurants and shops and sitting areas where people are just waiting to board. Charlie points because he wants to make sure we’re at the gate on time.

  “We have an hour and a half before our plane leaves, honey,” my mom says, but Charlie ignores her and tells us to hurry.