The Red Umbrella (18 page)

Mrs. Brolin began taking attendance and had already called out three or four names when she got to me.

“Miss Lucía Álvarez?” she said.

“Present,” I answered in perfect English. I’d practiced so that there wouldn’t be a trace of a Cuban accent.

Mrs. Brolin paused and walked down the aisle toward me.

What was she doing?

She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Class, I want you all to take notice of Miss Álvarez …”

Everyone turned in their seats to stare at me.

“… and help her adjust to life in Nebraska. She’s from Cuba, and I’m sure you have all read in the newspapers about the situation there. If she needs help, I expect all of you to step in and assist her.” Mrs. Brolin patted my shoulder and strutted back to her desk.

She was acting all proud of herself. Didn’t she realize that being singled out was the very last thing I wanted?

I sank down in my seat, praying that everyone would go back to whatever they were doing before.

To my amazement, most of them did. Everyone except a tall boy with freckles who sat closer to the front. He smiled and gave me a little wave.

My reaction was to quickly look down at my notebook.

When I glanced back, he held up a piece of notebook paper that said, “Hi, I’m Eddie.”

I gave him a nod.

I was pretty sure that this was not the attention that Mrs. Brolin intended.

I stared at the crumpled pages that filled my bedroom wastebasket. Who knew that a simple five-hundred-word report on a book of my choice was going to be so difficult? I’d thought by picking something that I’d studied in Cuba, the whole thing would be easy to do, but it was hard to express myself in English when all my thoughts were in Spanish. It had taken me most of the evening to finish, but at last I was done. Now all I had left to do was my Algebra II homework.

“¿Qué haces?”
Frankie asked from the doorway to my room.

“Tarea.”
I pointed to my books.

“You want to play something instead of doing homework? My bedtime isn’t for another ten minutes.”

“Can’t. I’m busy.”

“You’re busy every night.” He peered over my shoulder to look at what I was doing. “Why does it take you so long? You used to be so smart.”

“I’m still smart. It just takes me longer because it’s all in English,” I answered.

“Isn’t that math?” He pointed to my algebra book. “Aren’t numbers the same everywhere?”

“Frankie, just go.” I gave him a shove toward the door.

“Do you want me to help you with your homework? I finished mine super fast and I had to write my spelling words … twice.”

“Frankie, please! Go!”

“Fine. I didn’t really want to play with you, anyway,” he muttered as he left the room.

Suddenly I felt angry. I hated having to struggle to do everything in English. I just wanted to give up. Maybe the teachers would give me a break and feel sorry for me. They would just let me go to classes, but not expect much else. I could pretend to be really dumb.

“Brought you something.” Mrs. Baxter interrupted my pity party.

“Oh, thank you.” I moved over some books so that she could put down the small bowl of strawberries she was holding.

“I walked by and saw you studying so hard that I thought you might want a snack.”

I faked a small smile.

Mrs. Baxter took a strawberry and sat on my bed. “So, how goes it? Are you feeling a bit overwhelmed by the schoolwork?”

“No. Why? Did Frankie say something?”

“Oh, goodness no. I just know that starting high school can be a difficult transition for any young girl. I can only imagine how much harder it is under your circumstances.” She took a bite of the berry, waiting for me to respond.

Math would have to wait for a few minutes. I put down my pencil. “I guess school is a little hard.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded.

I shrugged. “Trying to keep up with everything that the teachers say in English and take notes at the same time, it makes my brain hurt sometimes.”

Mrs. Baxter chuckled. “Oh, we all have days like that. I remember when I started secretarial school, how much pressure I put on myself. I was the first in my family to go past high school, and, well, I would’ve loved to have gone to college and been a teacher, but I wasn’t smart enough for that. So, I
had
to do well in secretarial school.”

“And did you?” I asked, reaching for one of the strawberries.

“Of course. But those first few weeks were real doozies. Late nights studying and worrying. Then I found a sort of rhythm and began to enjoy myself. You will, too.” She patted my knee. “You’ll see.”

“I hope so. I just want to get good grades, because Papá always said that what’s in here”—I tapped my head—“no one can take from you.”

“Your father is a very wise man.”

“Yes, he is.” My shoulders relaxed and seemed to drop a couple of inches. It felt good to talk things over with Mrs. Baxter.

“I’ll let you get back to your studying, but I have one thing to add to what your father said. I think they can’t take what’s here”—she touched her forehead—“or here.” She placed a hand over her heart.

I smiled. Next to my parents, Mrs. Baxter was the smartest person I knew.

In less than a month, crossing the Nebraska plains in the yellow school bus and going to school in Grand Island had become a familiar routine. Every morning, I’d sit with Jennifer in the fifth row of the bus and Frankie would head to the back with his friends. Most of the students had gone out of their way to be nice and help me if I didn’t understand something. Most … but not all. There were a few who were not happy with the attention I sometimes got.

“Did Alex Murphy just say hi to you?” Jennifer asked, waiting by her locker.

I giggled. “Uh-huh.”

Jennifer bounced up and down. “You see. Even the cute varsity football players know who you are. You are
so lucky. Next year, when we get to date, you’re going to have your pick of guys.”

“Ooh, this sounds like an interesting conversation. Does someone here have a crush?” Betty stepped from behind the library door, which was just a few feet from Jennifer’s locker.

“Why don’t you go and take your Betty-ites with you.” Jennifer pointed to the trio of girls who always followed Betty wherever she went.

“Jenny, dear, when are you going to learn that no one listens to you?” Betty cocked her head and flashed me a smile. “So, you
really
think that just because a boy says hello to you, he actually may like you?”

I stayed quiet. I wanted to have a smart comeback, but by the time I thought of something in English, most conversations had usually moved on.

“Look, girls, she’s blushing. Isn’t that cute?” Betty glanced around as the trio started giggling.

The first bell rang, letting everyone know that classes would start in two minutes.

“Don’t be such a jerk, Betty. Just leave us alone.” Jennifer slammed her locker door.

It had taken me a while to think of something to say, but I couldn’t be a doormat. “Jealous?” I asked, flicking my hair back as we walked past Betty on our way to homeroom.

“Of what? A little tamale like you?” Betty called out. “You’re just a pet project for the people around here.
Something to do while they wait for the corn to grow!” The hallway started emptying out as students went to their classes. “You’re nothing special,
Cubanita
, probably never were!”

“Ignore her,” Jennifer whispered as she pulled me down the hall. “She’s trying to get to you.”

But Betty’s words had cut me to the bone. Was I just something to break up the monotony of every day?

*  *  *  *  *

The rest of the morning, I could barely concentrate in class. All my insecurities felt exposed. As I walked through the cafeteria doors, the typical sound of a hundred chattering voices greeted me. I made my way to my usual table on the left side of the room. I could see that Jennifer was already there and my other friends, Rita and Susan, sat across from her.

“Hey, Lucía. How’d you do on Mr. Jennings’s deadly science test? Wasn’t the essay question nearly impossible to answer?” Susan asked.

I nodded and opened up my brown lunch bag. Mrs. Baxter had given me the usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich, potato chips, and apple. I twisted off the lid to my thermos filled with iced tea. It was a far cry from what I used to eat in Cuba, but like lots of things in America, I had grown used to it and now actually liked it. I was thinking about this and the morning’s events when Jennifer gave me a little nudge.

“Are you still thinking about Betty and her gang?” she asked.

“Me? No,” I lied.

“Good, because those girls are just mean, nasty idiots,” Susan said.

“Hope I’m not the nasty idiot you’re talking about, Suzy-Q,” Eddie said, stopping at our table for a minute.

“I said those girls. Are you a girl?” Susan asked.

“No, definitely not the last time I checked.” Eddie smiled, making his eyes twinkle a bit. “But since I am sometimes referred to as an idiot by you lovely ladies, I wanted to make sure.”

“You may be an idiot, Eddie, but you’re the idiot we actually like,” Rita teased.

“Ha! Good one, Rita-roo. Catch you all later,” Eddie said as he joined his own pack of friends at a table near the window.

Rita took a bite of the meatloaf that lay on her tray. “That Eddie, he’s one funny guy. You know, I think he has little bit of a crush on you, Lucía.”

I shook my head.

“No, really. You see how he’s always teasing all of us. Goofing around with our names. He doesn’t do that with you.” Rita looked at Susan and Jennifer for support.

“That is true.” Susan nodded.

“No, we’re all just friends. He knows that. I wouldn’t be interested, anyway.” I looked over as Betty and her
crew walked into the cafeteria and took their seats at the front table.

“Speaking of the real nasties, there they are,” Jennifer said.

Rita leaned forward and whispered, “You know, I heard that Betty had her eye on Alex Murphy and he gave her the brush-off. Didn’t even know who she was!”

“That’s probably why she was so mean when she heard him say hello to you, Lucía,” Jennifer said, taking a bite of her own sandwich.

“Seems that Betty learned that being popular in ninth grade doesn’t mean much to an eleventh grader.” Susan smirked.

“I guess,” I said, starting to replay the entire scene with Betty in my mind.

“Listen, Lucía, we’ve all been the target of Betty’s venom at one time or another,” Rita said. “Don’t let it get to you. Now you’re officially one of us midlevel girls.”

“Midlevel?” I asked, looking over at Jennifer.

“That’s what we used to call ourselves,” Jennifer explained. “Girls who aren’t part of the popular crowd, but are still friends with a bunch of people. We’re smart, but not as much as the brainy groups. We’re just in the middle. Average American teenage girls.”

I smiled and took a sip of the sweet tea.
Me
, an average American girl. Until I could go back home and be an average Cuban girl, this would suit me just fine.

My fifteenth birthday was nothing like I’d planned. Definitely not what I’d imagined the year before, when Ivette and I had started dreaming about our
quinces
.

All day at school, I thought about my parents. What were they doing? Was today as hard for them as it was for me? Turning fifteen had always been something I’d looked forward to, a day when I’d finally be considered a young lady. Now I just wanted it to be over.

On the school bus, I sat quietly and leaned my head against the seat back. The gray skies outside matched my mood, and Jennifer knew that my thoughts were far away, somewhere on a tropical island. There I would have celebrated my birthday by having a huge
party, where fourteen couples would twirl around the dance floor as I made my grand entrance. I’d be wearing a beautiful long dress, something made especially for me, copied from one of the latest Parisian designs. I’d look like a princess, and it would have been my official introduction into Cuban society. Then again, with the revolution I may not have had a party at all. But, at least, I would’ve spent the day with my parents, and we could’ve gone to the beach and celebrated with Ivette.

A shiver ran down my spine. I glanced down at the sweater, boots, coat, and scarf I was wearing. All these clothes and I was still freezing. At home, a light sweater was all I ever needed, even in the middle of winter.

“So, we’re on for Saturday?” Jennifer asked.

“Huh?” I looked out the window. We were getting close to my stop.

“For the matinee of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s?
It’s my treat, remember? For your birthday.”