Happy Families (2 page)

Starr gestures at me frantically to stand again as the group of judges comes toward my table. All of them shake my hand and say something nice. A woman with a blond-frosted afro and a massive silver and turquoise medallion hanging around her neck beams at me, and I’m almost blinded by her grin. She shakes my hand and says, “Great job, young woman!”

“On behalf of The Crucible,” Starr says as she puts a small glass phoenix in my hands, with its wings outstretched and curlicues of glass flames beneath it. She gives me a hard hug, and I can only grin. Suddenly my family is visible at the front of the crowd, and Dad and Justin are directly in front of me. With a carefully choreographed move, the two of them lift up bouquets of roses and toss them. At my feet. In front of everyone.

I can’t decide if I should laugh or run. I put my hands to my face and groan.

It’s not possible to die of embarrassment. But as I hastily scoop up the bouquets and scuttle back to my seat, to the amusement of everyone around me, I’m almost positive you can at least have a coronary, or a stroke or something.

“It could have been worse,” Mom says, tucking me against her side as we walk out into the parking lot. With my boots on, I’m almost as tall as she is. “Your poppy wanted us all to throw the roses one by one. I reminded him that your father and I didn’t have the insurance to cover the potential breakages and eye injuries.”

“Think of it this way,” Sherilyn says, grinning. “The next time you get that many roses, you’ll be doing a solo show. This is just practice.”

“A solo show. I wish,” I say, watching as Dad stands the hard-sided pink case that holds my torches and glass behind the driver’s seat in Mom’s van and closes the door securely. For tonight, she’s removed the Wild Thyme Catering magnetic signs from the doors, and I’m glad. She gives me one last squeeze, then heads for the driver’s seat. Sherilyn hops in the passenger side, and I slide in back, next to my case, and lean forward between
the front seats. We’ve done this so many times, we all three go to our spots without any thought.

“See you at home,” Dad says, and we wave as he and Poppy join Justin and Grandmama at his car.

“So, did you see the cute blacksmith instructor?” I ask Sherilyn. “Levi?”

“Ysabel, he’s, like, thirty,” Sherilyn complains. “What’s with you and the geriatrics?”

My mother laughs, a particularly loud hoot, and shakes her head. “Geriatrics?”

“Well, just because he doesn’t have fangs or skin that sparkles,” I strike back, teasing Sherilyn about her latest vampire romance craze. “Levi might be thirty, but at least he’s alive.”

“Don’t knock the vampires,” Sherilyn says defensively. “You know they’d be way more mature than any guys
we
know.”

“Mature, Sherilyn? Really? Let’s just say
ancient
.”

Sherilyn and I keep laughing about nothing in particular as my jitters dissolve. By the time we get home, I’m starving and just about on the verge of collapse. We could have stayed at the Phoenix Festival and eaten there, but I know my parents have something better planned. Sure enough, as soon as I come into the house, I can smell it. In the dining room, a pan of stuffed mushrooms sits over a chafing dish, and I head straight for the table and pop one into my mouth, savoring the garlic-and-cheese stuffing.

Sometimes it’s really great to have a caterer for a mother.

“Madam?” Poppy, Mom’s dad, motions me back to the door. Now swathed in a long apron over his black suit pants and white shirt, he holds out his arm to Sherilyn like a waiter, his silver-lined hair giving him an elegant appearance. “Your wrap?”

I kick off my boots and scrunch my toes in the wool rug in the entryway as Mom hurries into the kitchen, checking on all of the things she has prepped. “It’s just a little bit of this and that,” she explains apologetically to Sherilyn as she reappears carrying a platter of fresh veggies and dip, “but these are Ysabel’s favorites.”

“It looks great,” Sherilyn says, examining the spread on the candlelit table.

“Mom, yum! You made a torta!” I cry, mouth watering as I see the thin layers of pesto, potato, goat cheese, and bell pepper. “Yes!”

“And deviled eggs, and corn cakes,” Grandmama adds, bringing out a pitcher of iced tea, “just so we could be sure to have no theme to this meal whatsoever.”

“But it’s what I wanted,” I sigh, reaching for another mushroom. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”

“Belly-Bel, can’t you wait for the blessing?” Dad asks, swatting at my hand.

“Well, let’s pray already!” I exclaim, dodging him and snagging another bite.

When Dad calls me Belly, I don’t say, “Don’t call me that,” as I usually do. Tonight, I don’t care if Dad drags up all of my baby nicknames. I have everything I want right now, everything I need.

“People, I have things to do,” my brother announces, coming down the stairs. He’s changed into his blue
Humpty Dumpty Was Pushed
T-shirt and jeans. “Let’s eat.”

“Justinian,” my mother sighs, and Justin rolls his eyes. Though he’s only six minutes younger than I am, sometimes my brother just seems like he’s six. He’s this huge brain and all, but occasionally he has zero social skills.

“What? I’m hungry!”

“Can’t you at least greet our guest of honor?” Poppy asks reprovingly.

Justin snorts. “Sherilyn doesn’t count as a guest.”

“You know that’s not what he meant,” my mother murmurs, swatting my brother with the flat of her hand. He glares at her, then turns to me with exaggerated attention.

“Greetings, Ysabel, beloved Twin of Awesome Artistic Ability. Hey, Sherilyn, Mom; hi, Grandmama, Poppy, and Dad. Can we eat now? Finals are in three weeks and I’ve got papers out the wazoo.”

Dad snorts, cupping his hands to disguise it. He coughs. “Justin …”

“What? I could have said something worse.”

“Oh, spare me that,” Grandmama mutters, rubbing her forehead. She eyes Justin’s smirk and raises the back of her hand to him mock threateningly.

“I’m ready,” Mom says, sliding a covered dish onto the table and wiping her hands.

Dad puts his long-fingered hands on my shoulders and looks down at me, his brown eyes crinkling on the edges as he smiles. “I’m proud of you, Belly,” he says softly. He raises his head and smiles around the table as we all join hands. “Everybody ready? Then let’s pray.”

As my father’s voice rumbles out behind me, I open my eyes a crack and look around the table at my mom, who is still wiping her already-clean hands on the dish towel she was carrying; at my brother, who actually looks peaceful, standing between our grandparents, holding Grandmama’s hand; and at Sherilyn, whose hair is hanging forward, shielding her face while she chews
the mushroom she snitched. Even without a whole bunch of aunts and uncles or a second set of grandparents like most people have, my family, including Sherilyn, is complete. I close my eyes again and exhale, feeling my shoulders droop as my muscles relax.

I love this feeling, of having done a good job, of being nice and tired and faced with amazing food and all the people that I love. If I could, I’d put us all in a snow globe and keep everything as good as it is, right now, to hold on to when I need it.

“Amen,” says Dad, and around the table we echo the word.

I whisper it again.
Amen. So let it be
.

“Alacrity. Conciliatory. Ineffable.”

“So, you ready for this, Justin?” Andre Wang’s white shirt and suspenders suddenly loom in front of my face, blocking my view.

“Move.” A halfhearted shove gets him out of my way so I can continue to study my reflection in the mirror in the green room backstage of our school auditorium. I look myself in the eyes and drop my chin, trying to appear like a confident news commentator.
I deepen my voice and continue to enunciate from the list of SAT vocabulary words taped to the mirror.

“Mitigator. Penurious. Recrimination. Salvageable.”

“I don’t know how that’s supposed to help,” Andre comments, slouching against the wall and crossing his arms. With the navy and yellow bow tie he’s wearing and his black hair all gelled into place, he looks like some weird old-school politician. “Reciting SAT vocab won’t do crap for your interpretive event. You’ve got forty minutes before you even get your topic.”

I roll my eyes at the short junior. “Wearing that Kentucky Fried bow tie and those suspenders won’t do crap for your interpretive event, and yet, every single tournament, you show up in them.”

“And I win,” Andre reminds me smugly, his dark eyes narrowed. “You know I do.”

“And so do I.” I shrug. “So, don’t mess with what works, right? Lester says I should read this stuff to keep my brain focused, so I’m reading. There are six thousand two hundred and twenty-eight SAT vocabulary words, and I’m going to blow through all of them before the year is out. I’m going to ace my SAT
and
blow your skinny butt out of the water on the interpretive event today.”

“Dream on,” Andre snorts. “You seen Raymond?”

“Lee’s around,” I mutter.
Unfortunately
. If possible, Leland Raymond is a bigger pain in the butt than Andre. As senior class pastor and chair of the student senate, he’s kind of a big deal at Medanos. He’s nice enough on the surface, always slapping me on the back and saying he’s glad I’m on the team, but he’s basically just a big act. I’m only a freshman, and I can tell he couldn’t
care less about me, but when Mr. Lester’s around, he’s my very best friend.

He wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so … serious. He makes a big deal out of praying before every single event, as if God could possibly care whether Medanos Valley Christian beats out Walnut Academy in a Lincoln-Douglas debate. He takes all of his stats, all of our points and stuff, way too personally. He’s not even satisfied if we win, and he’s also really quick to point out any mistakes he thinks any of us have made. Last week, he even said, “There is no
I
in
team
,” and he was
wasn’t joking
. Mr. Lester is always telling him to ease up, but Lee’s just not an “ease-up” kind of guy. Fortunately, neither am I. I’ve been able to keep out of his way so far.

A moment later, Lee, along with fellow senators Missy Girma, Diane Edwards, and Elena Melgar, wander in. Diane, fluffing up her curly blond hair, has her usual can of energy drink, its caffeine-and-sugar-rich formula she claims to be the secret to her speed-talking abilities.

“Where’s Mr. Lester?” Missy asks, straightening the scarf around her long braids.

“Not here yet,” I say, pulling my list of words from the mirror before anyone else can comment on it. “He had to pick up his kid from day care or something.”

“Seriously?” Diane looks tense. “Medanos is hosting; how can he not be here? We’ve got fifteen minutes before we’re on.”

“He’ll get here.” Elena shrugs, adjusting her ponytail and looking unconcerned. “He always does.”

“Picking up his kid.” Lee rolls his eyes. “And his wife couldn’t do that? You can see who wears the pants in
that
family.”

I wince, thinking what Mom would say to that. All the girls take a breath, but Missy speaks first, her mouth twisted in scorn. “You are such a pig, Lee,” she says, her eyes narrow. “Only you could be so full of yourself.”

“What, it’s not
macho
to pick up your own kid?” Elena adds, hands on her hips.

I’m not surprised to see how fast Lee backs down. “I was just joking,” he complains. “Don’t get so uptight, people.”

“Uptight? You’re the one complaining Lester’s not here yet,” Andre points out.

Missy just freezes Lee out again with one of her ice-eyed glares.

Mr. Lester arrives just about the time Lee’s got us all gathered for a team huddle and prayer. He throws down his briefcase and jacket and rushes over to us. I’m relieved, but I try not to show it, as I feel his hand on my back. I give him a nod. I’m ready for this.

There’s only time for a few quick instructions and then it’s showtime. We troop into the auditorium for the first event, the team debates, for which we’ll get forty-five minutes each. Leland, Elena, and Diane are up first, and I’m half disappointed, half relieved that it isn’t Andre, Missy, and me. Sitting in the front row, my back to the packed auditorium, I can feel sweat prickling faintly in my armpits, and it’s hard to know if it’s nerves or eagerness.

The judge, an anonymous-looking blond woman in a dark suit, introduces herself, states the topic, and sits down. Relief floods through me as I hear that the opposite team has to debate against the resolution that the federal government should change its policies toward India. Obviously, we got the easy side of this
question. I study the competition for this round, two boys and a girl from Calvary Chapel High School. In their uniform of navy blazers and white tops, they look take-no-prisoners professional. Lee’s white shirt and dark tie, Elena’s red sweater and white blouse, and Diane’s black turtleneck look less put together somehow, and I have my first moments of worry. Calvary’s first speaker is actually really good, and her opening arguments are sound. I find myself taking notes along with Lee and Diane, even though I won’t be able to pass them to Elena for the rebuttal.

Despite some of the best persuasive speaking I’ve heard, and what I thought would be an easy topic, our team loses by a single point. The girl from Calvary Chapel turns out to be not just good, but brilliant. Diane is sucking down another drink, and Lee is pale and tense, but it’s only the first event, Mr. Lester reminds us, and everyone has done well.

“It’s up to you, Nicholas,” Lee says, cornering me during the ten-minute intermission. “Wang’s going to blow away the team event, but we need you in the individual.”

“The individual doesn’t go for team points,” I remind him, keeping loose in spite of wishing I could clock him one. Why is he piling on the pressure?

“You’re right, it’s not team points, but good individual stats makes Medanos look good overall. Pointwise, we can blow away Valley Jewish Day School and Calvary. Now, Diane’s got some good chops, but you’re the freshman everybody watches. We’re counting on you.”