The Other Half of Happy by Rebecca Balcárcel

Author:Rebecca Balcárcel [Rebecca Balcárcel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chronicle Books LLC
Published: 2019-09-04T16:00:00+00:00

WALKING HOME FROM THE BUS, I turn “Quijana + Jayden” over in my mind like a Rubik’s Cube. I line up colors on one side, then mess it up trying to line up another side. His actions never form a pattern I recognize.

At home, in my hour of freedom, I pull down the guitar from its hook and pour my heart into “Tears in Heaven.” My fingers have learned what to do now. Sometimes I move them to the next chord without even looking at the frets. Then the chords are like friends singing right along with me.

When I get tired of how sad the song is making me, I sing one version of my Jayden song, using the words I have so far. Then I sing another variation, but no new lines come to mind. How do people write songs? The first lines came to me so easily. But now what? I send Grandma a selfie of my hand on the guitar strings. She sends a Love it! right back.

Like usual, I hang up the guitar when I hear a car in the driveway. Dad and Memito come in with corn on the cob, which is almost as good as spaghetti in my opinion. “Yes!” I cheer and get out the butter so it’s nice and soft by suppertime.

“Quijana?” Mom’s voice carries from the living room. “Come see what else we bought.”

She and Dad stand side by side behind huge plastic shopping bags, smiling broadly.

“¡M’ija! What do you think?” Dad unveils four wheeled suitcases. Two stand as tall as Memito, one is smaller, and one is tiny. All are red with black zippers.

Memito squats down and inspects them from a distance.

“Watch this,” Dad says. He pulls a telescoping handle out of the littlest one. Memito understands immediately and starts pulling his suitcase around the room.

I lay mine down and unzip each compartment. The biggest section has a new-car smell. I’m already picturing rolling it to the bus station. I see a handy pocket for socks and another for my phone-charger cord. The stiff canvas feels durable. “These are nice, Dad.”

He beams, and a twinge of guilt weakens my smile. He has no idea that my plans for this suitcase are very different from his.

Mom says, “Plan to bring a backpack, too, for books and snacks on the plane. That’s your carry-on. These, we’ll check through as luggage.”

I nod, thinking how I’ll use her advice for my own trip.

“Guess what else.” She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a manila envelope. “Our passports came!” She pulls out four booklets bound in blue covers. Each has a bald eagle embossed in gold on the front and PASSPORT above it. She hands me mine.

Behind a rigid cover, the first page shows the non-smiling picture we took over a month ago, then my personal information, and at the bottom, a long string of characters that must be my passport number. Across the top, it says The United States of America in fancy letters.

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