Tortilla Sun
Authors: Jennifer Cervantes
by
Jennifer Cervantes
For my daughters,
Alex, Bella, and Jules.
I love you more than
all the stars
in the sky.
Pink and Joy and the Guy Behind the Wall
Unfinished Stories and Squished Tomatoes
Some Threads Are Shorter Than Others
Bella and the Marshmallow Ghost
El Cuentito
This is a
cuento
, a story about magic, love, hope, and treasure. If you read this under the glow of the moon or by the light of the summer sun, listen for whispers in any breeze that passes by. Then close your eyes and let the
cuento
take you to where magic still exists and spells of fear and hope are told through the heart of the storyteller.
The Magic Baseball
I stared at the glossy image. Six-year-old toothless me holding Mom’s hand as white waves broke on the shore behind us. A strand of dark hair blew in Mom’s face, hiding what might have been a small smile.
I turned as Mom appeared in the doorway. “Look at this. I was so little.” I held up the picture, smiling.
When Mom’s eyes found the box I had opened, confusion swept across her face. “Where did you find that? I thought we’d unpacked everything.”
“It … was in here,” I said.
She stepped into the spare room of our new apartment. We’d moved all over San Diego. From 4
th
Street to 10
th
Street
and from Mulberry Road to Elm Road. The last place we lived was on Paradise Place. That had a nice ring to it. Now, we were living at 1423 M Street. “M” for
maybe
this will finally be home.
“I haven’t seen this in ages.” Her eyes danced as she traced her long fingers over the photo. “I think you had just lost that front tooth.” She chuckled at the memory.
A soft breeze crawled in through the window, tickling my face. That’s when I caught sight of something else in the box.
A baseball.
I took the baseball from the box and rotated it in my hand. The words
because
and
magic
were written across the front. “Whose is this?”
Mom looked up and yanked the ball from my grasp.
“Wait. I want to look at it. What do those words mean?” I said.
“I … It’s nothing. Help me fold up this box.”
“Is it Dad’s?” I asked barely above a whisper.
Mom turned to me. “I said never mind, Izzy. It’s just an old nothing.” But I knew it wasn’t a nothing. Dad died before I was born and Mom never wanted to talk about him. But I imagined we were just the same. That he hated moving from place to place, never finding a home. I bet he hated packing too, unless it was for vacation.
Mom grabbed the box and marched down the hall. I heard the closet door slam. Then she reappeared and leaned against the doorframe. “We don’t need to unpack that one. Just leave it alone.”
“But …”
She put her palm up. “I said leave it alone.”
That night, I sat at my desk beneath the window to write down some ideas for a story. “Because magic,” I whispered. Did my dad write those words? And why was there a gap between the words like something was missing?
The June moon hung low in the sky like it was attached to some invisible string. Its brilliant yellow light filtered through the palms outside, creating dancing shadows on the bare white walls of my room.
I tapped a pen against my cheek and stared at a blank index card. I had a whole stack of them with the beginnings of my unfinished stories. Mrs. Barney, my fifth grade teacher, had turned me on to them. She said small cards weren’t so intimidating for “budding writers.” I’d asked her what budding meant; she just laughed and told me I was growing. But what did me being tall have to do with writing? I doodled little hearts on the
card while I thought about a new story.
One day, a girl named Sara
… No, not Sara. Something more interesting.
Pushing my long dark hair from my face, I grazed my silver hoop earring and stared at the empty moving boxes on the floor. Gypsy. Yes, a girl named Gypsy.
I scribbled the beginning of the story.
One day Gypsy opened a secret box. Inside she found a ball. And
… And what? With my pen in hand, I leaned back and spun my swivel chair in slow circles. “That’s it!” I said.
And it was magic. It
…
I scratched out the word
it
and wrote:
But her mother said the ball was worthless and buried it.
“Where would she bury
it
,” I whispered. “Maybe in the backyard?” No, Gypsy lived somewhere amazing, like a castle.
Her mother buried it in an orchard outside the castle walls.
But why would her mother bury the ball? What was she hiding?
Frustrated, I laid my head on the desk. I was good at starting a story. It was the finishing that was hard. Like trying to finish a puzzle without all the pieces.
When the phone rang, I snapped upright. Mom answered before the second ring like she was expecting the call. I tiptoed toward the closed bedroom door. Who could be calling this late? I quietly opened my door and pressed my ear to the crack. Mom’s voice, coming from the living room, was hushed.
“No I haven’t told her yet. I will.”
Silence.
“Maybe this will be good for her. I just worry … she is bound to find the truth and—”
Mom sighed at this point, and I pictured her rubbing her hand back and forth across her forehead. “I know. Maybe it’s the best way. Do you think she’ll forgive me?”
Can’t talk about what? Forgive her for what?
“If she asks, take it slow.” Mom paused for a long minute then whispered something into the phone I didn’t catch because a car horn honked right outside my window. The last thing I heard was, “Thanks, Mama.”
Nana? Why was she talking to Nana? She hardly ever talked to her. All of a sudden the night felt heavy.
I glanced back at my story card and imagined Gypsy sneaking into the orchard to unbury the ball while her mother slept. I told myself if I could get the ball without waking Mom, it would be a sign that it was meant to be mine. And if I didn’t, it would stay locked away.
Finally after half an hour, I heard Mom close her bedroom door.
I inched toward my bedroom door and slowly pressed it open. I could hear the low hum of distant traffic as I stood waiting
in my doorway. I counted to one hundred slowly, achingly, then crept into the hall.
The wind outside pushed against the walls, making them creak and groan. I opened the closet door directly across from Mom’s bedroom and quietly climbed onto the bottom shelf to reach the box at the top. Reaching my arm inside, I pushed through stacks of paper until my fingers brushed the long, bumpy stitches of the baseball.
One Wish
Clang cla-clang, clang clang
. The next morning, I found Mom in the kitchen with a chisel and hammer, chipping away at the kitchen counter. Little flecks of white flew through the air like ceramic snow, landing softly on her olive-colored cheeks.
I ducked as a piece of tile flew at me. “Hey!”
She turned toward me with a look of surprise. “Morning, Izzy. I didn’t see you standing there.”
“Wha … what are you doing?” I asked.
She stepped back and surveyed the half-demolished counter the way someone stands back to study a newly hung photograph. Wiping her cheek with the back of her hand she said, “There was
this”—she searched the mess on the floor—“this one broken tile poking out and I thought I should fix it and …”
I pushed past her to get the broom but she grabbed me by the elbow. A feeling of nervousness swelled inside me.
“Izzy, wait. I have something to tell you.”
There it was. My heart buckled in my chest. Something was wrong.
Mom leaned back against the counter and sucked in a great gulp of air. “It’s strange actually. I wasn’t expecting it, but then at the last minute the funding came through.” She folded her arms across her waist. “I’m going to Costa Rica to finish my research.”
Her words buzzed around me like a swarm of confused bees. “When? For how long?”
“I’ll be gone for most of the summer. I leave Tuesday.”
Mom wouldn’t leave me. We’d go together. Right? “But that’s only three days away.” I stepped away from Mom and the shards of tile.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“But what am I supposed to do? That’s three whole months.”
“Two. I’ll be home at the end of July. And after this I can finally graduate. Our lives will change then.” She reached over and stroked my hair. “For the better.”
I rolled those three words around in my mind:
for the better.
Suddenly last night’s phone call made perfect sense. I inched closer and pushed at the broken tile with my toes.
“Are you sending me to Nana’s?” I asked. “In New Mexico?”
A flash of surprise crossed Mom’s face. Like she knew I had heard her phone conversation. “She’s so excited to have you and …”
“What happened to all your talk about you guys not seeing eye to eye?” I asked.
“It’s not that we don’t see eye to eye. We just don’t see the world the same way.”
“Why can’t I go with you?” I said.
“Izzy …”
“New Mexico is worlds away from California. And what am I going to do for two whole months with someone I haven’t seen since I was six? That was half my life ago. She’s a stranger!” I felt a sudden urge to bolt for the front door and run.
Mom rolled her eyes. “Oh, Izzy. She’s hardly a stranger. She’s family. I already have your ticket. You leave Monday.” Mom opened the refrigerator and took out a diet soda, pressing the cold can against her face before opening it.
I stared at the mess on the floor. “Why can’t I stay here? Alone.” My voice quivered.
Mom took a swig of her soda, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, she spoke slowly and deliberately.
“You’re going to New Mexico and that’s final.”
I swallowed hard and tried not to cry. “Why do you always get to decide everything? We just unpacked and I—I had plans.”
She raised her eyebrows, surprised. “Plans?”
Mom was always bugging me to make friends, which I didn’t see the point of, considering we moved every few months. And we moved for all sorts of reasons: closer to the university for her, better school for me, quieter, prettier, bigger, smaller.
“I was going to try and find some girls my age here in the complex so I wouldn’t have to be the new kid in school
again
,” I said, trying to sound believable.
“Honey, you can make friends at your new school in the fall. Besides, this is a wonderful opportunity for you.”
“Opportunity? For me? Or for you?”
I stormed off to my room and threw myself onto my bed. I ached inside. Like the feeling you get watching a lost balloon float far into the sky until it becomes an invisible nothing.
I reached for a story card and scribbled:
Gypsy was sent to prison for stealing the magic ball. And when she was tossed into the dungeon below the castle she found the word “opportunity” written across the stone wall
.
Staring at the card, I wondered what should happen next. Maybe a daring escape or a sorceress could rescue her. When nothing came to me, I scratched out the word
opportunity
until it was a big blob of blue ink and tossed the card on the floor.