Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green (30 page)

As Vivi strides onto the stage, radiant and green like a jungle goddess, murmurs of delighted surprise pass through the crowd, followed by applause way, way louder than any Patricia Chevalier received—applause plus screams of excitement, whistles, and hoots and howls. Who knew such an elegant crowd could make such a ruckus?

But that ruckus doesn’t even come
close
to the ruckus inside my
own body as Vivi grabs the microphone, as she steps forward and I spot a flash of tan (Oh my god! I was right! I was
right
! I
knew
Vivi wouldn’t wear those silly stilettos!), as Patricia Chevalier (after looking out uneasily toward the back of the dining area, almost as though seeking instructions from someone) wilts aside and fades back into the shadows behind the line of seated men.

“
Hola y
hello,
damas y caballeros
, ladies and gentlemen,” Vivi says in her low, rich voice, the words ringing out loud and forceful through the microphone.

“
¡Hola!
Hello!” the audience shouts back. They all love her so much! They’re all hanging on her every word—but no one’s hanging on her every word as much as I am. I’m dying to know what she’s going to say, what she’s going to do, if she’s on our side or if she’s not. I can hardly breathe in the long seconds while she gazes powerfully out over the crowd, waiting for the applause to fade.

“I would like to invite some very special guests up—” Before she can finish her sentence, her words are overwhelmed by applause. Vivi spreads her gazillion-dollar smile over all of us and puts one hand up to quiet the crowd. “Some very special guests up to the stage. Please help me warmly welcome Madeline Flynn Wade!”

From the stage, Vivi’s gaze is fixed on me, so now the entire audience is staring at our table. In a matter of seconds, I notice that (a) Mom’s Yoga Smile is stretched to the point of breaking as she looks back and forth between me and Vivi, shocked, (b) Ken/Neth is grinning the world’s goofiest grin right at me, (c) Señor V is winking gently at me, (d) Señora V is giving me a thumbs-up, a gesture that looks kind of bizarre coming from her veiled form, (e) Kyle is glancing at me with a sharp, confident nod, as though he knew all along I would get Vivi on board, and (f) Roo is already standing up. I feel dizzy.

When the applause quiets a tad, Vivi continues: “Madeline Flynn Wade, along with her sister, Ruby Flynn Wade … the daughters, I might add, of Dr. James Wade.”

More applause, more eyes boring into us. Amid the massive clapping, I’m struck by two thoughts: (1) The time has come. Now’s the exact moment when we have to leave our table and rush up to the stage before anything else happens. Before we miss our chance. (2) I can’t do it. I’m too scared. Filled with dread. I don’t want to go up there. I don’t want to stand in front of all these people, exposed. And who knows, who knows, what La Lava will do to us. It’s all happening too quickly. I’m too terrified, too self-conscious, too unbrave.

“And, finally,” Vivi announces, “Kyle Nelson Villalobos!”

I grab Roo’s hand and mouth at her “
I CAN’T!
” but she’s already stepping away from our table, heading toward the stage, her fingers slipping out of mine. She looks back at me and mutters, “Whatever, dude,
relax
.” I’m sitting there frozen, watching Roo go, when suddenly I feel something: the warm, solid sensation of Kyle’s hand in mine, squeezing, pulling me up. My terror loosens its grip a little. My heart is still doing acrobatics, mainly panic-related but now also partly Kyle-related. And I can’t believe my mind is actually able to have the thought,
Gosh, I hope my hand doesn’t feel clammy to him
, and also the thought,
His hand is super clammy, but I really don’t mind
.

And then here we are, walking through applause so deafening it seems like an actual substance, like walking through water or something, and all those eyes too, hundreds and hundreds of eyes—you can practically
feel
them touching you.

Pressing on toward the stage, toward Vivi (smiling her gorgeous, ferocious smile at us), toward Dad (the happy-peaceful-calm expression quickly draining from his face), I take a deep breath and try to get brave. I think about Miss Perfect, about her bloodred eggs out
there alone in the jungle, about me and Mom and Dad and Roo sitting around the table together at home, in Denver, laughing about something. I think about the jungle, how green and amazing it is, all its weird flowers and animals, and the chameleon Kyle showed me (was that really
today
? because it feels like ages ago).

Roo is the first one to reach the stage, the first one to prance between the bodyguards and up the steps, followed by Kyle, who turns back to smile at me as he goes—is it just me, or was that a nervous quiver I spotted on his lip before he dashed up the steps?

And I—I follow.

Roo skips over to Vivi and tugs on the movie star’s hand. Vivi bows as though Roo is the Queen of England, and the audience laughs. The three of us line up like a row of ducklings beside Vivi. It seems the applause is getting louder by the second, making my ears ring.

“It is with great excitement,” Vivi says, “that I turn the stage over to my young friend Madeline Flynn Wade and her
amigos
, who have something very important to tell you.”

And I’m going:
Wow. I can’t believe Vivi just called me her friend. Wow. I can’t believe we’re really on the stage at La Lava and the crowd is going wild and Vivi is smiling at me
. So many impossible things all at once.

Vivi steps backward and hands the microphone to me.

“You,” she whispers, very close to my ear, “are an extremely odd child. But,” she adds, “I like you.”

Then she strides away and I’m left there with the hot-potato microphone, which I quickly pass off to Kyle.

And now. It’s just us. Me and my little sister and a barely teenage boy, looking out over the vast expectant crowd, the clapping finally quieting down as everyone awaits whatever it is that Vivi’s baby-faced friends have to tell them. I glance back at Dad, hoping
for something—I don’t know, a thumbs-up or
some
thing, anything to make this stage feel less terrifying. But he’s staring at us with a furious, stunned look on his face, slowly shaking his head in this way that makes me feel extra terrified.

Kyle takes a step forward. Raises the microphone to his mouth. And doesn’t speak.

My stomach plummets as I remember his quivering lip. Kyle with stage fright! Who could have guessed? And—
what now?

An awkward silence falls, everyone waiting for Kyle to say something. As the seconds pass I begin to hear the buzz of the audience’s impatience.

I stand there blushing and blinking in the stage lights, unsure what to do with my hands, unsure how to help Kyle, and meanwhile Roo bends over and starts fussing with the strap of her patent leather shoe, and I tap her back in a way that means
Seriously? You’re worrying about your
shoe
right now? Get a grip!

“THE LAVA-THROATED VOLCANO TROGON,” Kyle suddenly booms, his voice way too loud in the microphone, “IS
NOT
EXTINCT.”

The hum of the expectant crowd drops and suddenly it’s dead silent. My relief that Kyle has finally spoken is followed immediately by a shiver passing down my spine: He said the bird’s name aloud! And doesn’t a fourteen-year-old still count as a child? Won’t the volcano goddess react? I look out at the volcano. It’s glowing bright red against the purple evening sky. Right then an orange flare swells upward. My stomach clutches, flips.

“FOR GENERATIONS,” Kyle continues, “THE BIRD HAS BEEN RUMORED TO POSSESS THE POWER TO RESTORE LOST YOUTH.”

Part of me is freaking out about the volcano, wondering if it’s
acting up because Kyle uttered the name, or because the last LTVT is approaching death, or both. And the other part of me is gazing at Kyle, feeling amazed that he can stand there looking so strong and certain even in his absurd suit, and I’m thinking the audience must be feeling amazed by him too, when I notice that Roo is still fussing with her feet, wedging her right foot to remove her left shoe.

“
Stop drawing attention to yourself!
” I hiss almost silently at her.

She rolls her eyes at me like I’m stupid and continues to wiggle her foot out of its shoe.

“THIS IS WHY LA LAVA HAS BEEN PRETENDING THE BIRD IS EXTINCT, AS IT WAS OFFICIALLY DECLARED FOUR YEARS AGO, WHEN IN FACT THE SPA HAS BEEN MURDERING THE LAST REMAINING MEMBERS OF THIS LAZARUS SPECIES IN ORDER TO MAKE ITS TREMENDOUSLY LUCRATIVE SKIN PRODUCT.”

I wait for it, the gasp of horror from the audience, the noise of outrage, but the crowd remains dead silent. Roo’s left shoe pops off her foot and a small spray of yellow toe-flowers lands on the stage. She bends down to work on removing her right shoe.

“Roo,
what
are you doing?” I mutter under my breath. Does she really want the whole world to see her personal fungus?

“IN ADDITION, LA LAVA HAS CO-OPTED” (
co-opted
—what exactly does that mean again?) “THE SKILL, EXPERTISE, AND TALENT OF THE BIRD GUY, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS DR. JAMES WADE, IMPRISONING HIM AND FORCING HIM TO ENTRAP THESE EXTRAORDINARILY RARE CREATURES, THREATENING TO HARM HIS WIFE AND HIS DAUGHTERS, THESE TWO YOUNG CHILDREN YOU SEE BEFORE YOU” (I pretend Kyle didn’t just call me a
young child
) “IF HE DOES NOT COMPLY.”

I glance back to check on Dad’s reaction to this … and discover that Dad is no longer on the stage! The five chairs are empty, and Patricia Chevalier is nowhere to be seen. How could all that have happened without me noticing?

Roo kicks off her right shoe and a second bunch of toe-flowers showers the stage. Then she starts pulling her dress up.

“I KNOW THIS ALL SOUNDS IMPROBABLE, VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO BELIEVE,” Kyle continues, and right then the thought hits me: Hey, wait a sec, why isn’t anyone from La Lava trying to stop Kyle? Isn’t it sort of
impossible
that La Lava isn’t doing anything about this situation? I start counting the seconds until someone comes to grab the mike away from him.

Roo’s fighting against her layers of taffeta in an attempt to get at Miss Perfect. She glances over at me like
Hello, want to help?
and I feel bad I wasn’t already on it, so I kneel down beside Roo and reach for Miss Perfect’s pouch and work to tug it open.

“SURELY ALL OF YOU ARE SITTING OUT THERE DEMANDING PROOF FOR THESE OUTRAGEOUS CLAIMS. SURELY YOU NEED TO BE CONVINCED THAT THE LAVA-THROATED VOLCANO TROGON IS NOT YET EXTINCT. WELL …”

Kyle’s
Well …
is hanging in the air above us when Miss Perfect’s body drops out of the pouch and falls onto the stage with a flat thud.

She lies there, shrunken, limp, dull, like any old brown bird. Like any old
dead
brown bird. And Roo crouches over her.

Horror swells inside me, along with that saliva-rush feeling that comes right before you throw up. I look up at the volcano, which continues to radiate red and orange. What revenge will the volcano goddess take now that her bird is dead?

“WE HAVE JUST SUCH PROOF!” Kyle announces victoriously. Since he’s facing the crowd, he doesn’t yet know that Miss Perfect is dead.

This
is the moment, the exact moment, when she should be soaring over the tables.

“JUST SUCH PROOF!” Kyle repeats the cue before turning around to see what’s causing the delay. And his face falls.

So. This is it.

Roo gathers up her yellow toe-flowers and starts sprinkling them over Miss Perfect. I’m stunned, extremely stunned, that Roo can move this quickly onto the funeral stage of things.

The silence of the crowd takes on its own weight. I can feel it pressing down on us, on me and Kyle and Roo and Miss Perfect, or rather on Miss Perfect’s body, as Roo runs a toe-flower along the bird’s beak. I look up at the fiery tip of the volcano and wonder what the heck we should do now and how many seconds we have before the crowd starts booing and before La Lava separates Kyle from the microphone and before the volcano does whatever it’s going to do.

But then—get
this
!—Miss Perfect’s beak opens, just the
tiniest
bit, like at first I wonder if maybe I’m imagining it, and Roo drops the toe-flower into Miss Perfect’s mouth. And then she drops in a second, a third, and Miss Perfect blinks and rolls over and stands and pecks up all the other toe-flowers lightning-quick, and then she steps onto Roo’s outstretched hand, and Roo stands up with Miss Perfect on her palm, whispering something into the bird’s ear, and I’m thinking,
Dang, that is one sick-looking bird
, but at least she’s alive, she’s definitely alive!

Miss Perfect spreads her wings and pushes off from Roo’s hand. With just a few flaps, she rises high above the stage, hovering there for a moment before swooping dramatically toward the crowd. As
she passes, I see her chest glinting, her feathers gleaming, her body expanding. In the candlelight her throat looks truly golden, glimmering as though her feathers are creating their own radiance. She glides over the audience, proud and potent and alone, looking exactly like the last member of a magical species.

For once in my life something is actually happening the way I imagined it, or even better than I imagined. Miss Perfect
is
perfect, soaring over La Lava, bright! breathtaking! larger-than-life!, silhouetted by the red light of the volcano. I have this feeling almost like my heart is attached to her tail feathers, like with each beat of her wings my heart is being lifted up above everything until I’m no longer scared, until I can finally believe that the good things in the world will overcome the bad, that we’re going to bring La Lava down and get Dad back and be happy again.
We did it!
I shout inside myself, looking at Kyle and Roo with my best smile. But their thrilled eyes are fixed on Miss Perfect as she approaches the end of the dining area, magnificent.

It suddenly strikes me, though, that something is off about this whole scene, and a cold anxiety cuts through my exhilaration. The crowd remains strangely, uncomfortably silent—not the silence of awe, none of the oohs and aahs you’d expect at a time like this. Maybe they don’t realize Miss Perfect is an LTVT because of the female plumage … but even so! Isn’t it wildly obvious that the bird soaring above them is something special?