CHAPTER TWENTY

Where flowers bloom, so does hope.

—LADY BIRD JOHNSON

Mom is waiting for us at the bottom of an airport escalator after our flight lands in California on Sunday afternoon. She’s pointing her cell-phone camera at us. Maribel and I look at each other.

“What do you think she’s doing?” I ask.

“No idea.”

When we get to the bottom, Maribel complains, “Mom, please. We’ve been on an airplane for, like, six hours. I look like a zombie.”

“Oh, stop,” Mom says, still recording.

She takes a step toward Maribel and slips into her reporter’s voice. “Tell me, Miss Zaragoza, how does it feel to be the newest recipient of Alma’s Soul of Opportunity Scholarship?”

“Ugh.” Maribel pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her face.

“All right, all right,” Mom says in her usual voice, and lowers the phone so she can hug us. “I missed you two so much this weekend, I started watching home movies. And then I realized how long it’s been since I’ve gotten you girls on video.”

“We were only gone for two days,” I say. “You couldn’t have missed us that much.”

She puts one arm around my shoulders and one around Maribel’s, and we walk clumsily toward the luggage carousels to pick up our bags.

“Of course I missed you. It doesn’t feel like home without you. Speaking of home, remember to call your dad when we get there. I’m sure he wants to hear all about your trip.”

An hour later, we park in Nana’s driveway. Yet another toilet is sitting on the lawn.

“Where’d that one come from?”

“A neighbor? A garage sale? I don’t know, it just appeared this morning.” Mom shakes her head. “You know how Nana is. There’s no stopping her.”

“It’s not so bad,” I say, opening the trunk to take out my suitcase. “I was just wondering if she knows what she’s going to plant in this one.”

After I empty my suitcase and start a load of laundry, I call my dad like Mom suggested, only it’s not the trip I want to talk to him about.

“I’ve been thinking about the mint problem.”

“Have you?”

“We could smother it like we did our old lawn, but digging it up would probably be faster. Either way, we have to get rid of it or nothing else will be able to grow. Only, Nana won’t want to get rid of all of it.”

Dad is quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, “You could try replanting some of it in a pot or container. That way, she’ll still have the mint, but it won’t grow so out of control again.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” And I know just the container we can use. It is sitting on Nana’s lawn, never to be flushed again.

“Maybe this weekend, or the weekend after, I can drive up there. If you want some help with it?”

I think about it. “You should come March third,” I tell him. “There’s this thing at school I want you to see.”

We say goodbye, and I carry my suitcase back to the bedroom.

My new black heels are in their box next to the nightstand. All the clothes I didn’t take to Washington, DC, are still piled on the bed. Normally, I’d put them back in the suitcase. But this time, I fold the T-shirts and match the socks and put them away in the drawers Maribel left empty for me when we first moved in. I borrow some hangers from her side of the closet and get to work on my jeans and dresses.

Mom says I can stay home from school on Monday to catch up on sleep, but I want to go. I even wake up before the alarm clock starts bleeping.

Maribel is at the kitchen table, dunking the end of a gingerbread pig into her cup of coffee and working on a crossword puzzle with Nana. Her makeup satchel is on the floor next to her chair.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit next to her. “Give me a ride to school, since you’re up?”

Maribel swallows the last bite of gingerbread and shakes the crumbs off her fingers. “Sorry, Geez,” she says. “I’m on my way out. Alma appointment. Those college books aren’t going to buy themselves.”

Mom walks into the kitchen with a gray suit jacket draped over her arm. “I can drop you off.”

“Aren’t you on your way to Tía Carla’s?”

“No,” she says, leaning over Nana’s shoulder to grab a piece of pumpkin empanada. “I’m going to your school for a few hours this morning.”

“What for?” I hope it’s not another trip to Dr. Keckley’s office.

“Mr. Singh asked me to come visit with his journalism class. I’m going to help them out with a little videography project. No big deal. Should be fun, though.”

Maribel picks up her bag, reaches in, and takes out a tube of lip gloss. Carnation pink with flecks of gold.

“Here you go, Mom. Flatters everyone.”

“Just what I needed.” She kisses the top of Maribel’s head.

I finish breakfast and get ready for school. One last time, I zip a few Alma boxes into my backpack, hug Nana, and meet Mom out in the driveway.

Sophia is sitting three tables away with Daisy.

I check my watch again. Only five minutes left until lunch break is over, and I still haven’t talked to her.

“Geez, just go over there already,” Logan says. “What’s the worst she could say? You’re still friends, right?”

I think so. But I don’t know for sure, and I’m afraid to find out.

“Just go and get it over with. This is so boring.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

I take my backpack and walk over to her table. “Hey, Daisy. Hey, Sophia.”

“Geez. You’re back.” She says it as if I missed weeks of school instead of just one day.

I take the boxes out of my backpack. “I have some things for you.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “Not more makeup?”

“Sort of, but not exactly. You might actually like this stuff.” First, I give her a sample of sunscreen from Alma’s Overprotective line. “So your nose doesn’t get so burnt next summer.”

Next, a trial-size bottle of Clean as Crystal clarifying shampoo. “It’s supposed to keep your hair from turning colors after swimming. I thought you could try it. I mean, not that chlorine hair looks bad or anything.”

She grabs the bottle. “No, I hate having chlorine hair, and I’ve tried everything.”

Last, a tube of lip gloss. “The color is called Red Riding Hood. It’s for your Rita Moreno costume. I looked up a picture of her. I think this is the perfect shade.”

That was the easy part. I wish I could just stop there. But I remember something Lady Bird Johnson once said: “The way you overcome shyness is to become so wrapped up in something that you forget to be afraid.” It worked at the Alma Expo, so maybe it’ll work in the school cafeteria. I make myself keep going. I try to forget to be afraid.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you. I should have just told you about Dad and the house and everything. I was just scared. And sort of embarrassed.”

“No, I’m sorry. I felt so stupid afterward, and I didn’t know what to say to you.”

“Do you think your mom would let you come over after school? I’m working on a project and I need some help.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Maybe she already has plans with her other friends. Or maybe she feels weird about coming to Nana’s.

She squeals and claps her hands. “Yes! I’ll ask my mom when she picks up Lucas.”

Sophia hung out in my room—my old room—millions of times before. But this is the first time anyone besides my family has seen my new room, the one I’m sharing with Maribel.

I stop in the hallway, take a deep breath, and open the door.

“This is it.”

“It’s nice,” Sophia says, running her fingers over the daisy-chain wallpaper. “But why is it so empty? Where’s all your stuff? It almost looks like you don’t really live here.”

I don’t, I almost say. But I stop myself. I do live here, and that’s part of my story now, too.

“That’s what I need help with.”

I had gotten the idea from the toilets.

I take the Lady Bird Johnson teacup off my windowsill, and dump the loose change onto the desk. Then I reach under my bed for the rest of the collection. “Let’s go.”

I carry the box to the backyard and set it down on the grass. Sophia lifts a corner and peeks inside. “All your teacups?”

I take one of them out of the box, carefully unroll the bubble wrap, and set it aside. Sophia starts popping it between her fingers. “I love this stuff.”

I turn the cup around in my hand. Frances Cleveland. It’s white with a red band painted along the top. A wreath of orange blossoms and laurel leaves frames her portrait.

The next cup is pale blue with a bouquet of white dogwood at the center. Edith Wilson.

As we unpack the teacups and line them up on the grass, I hear Ms. Johnson’s car, and then the ba-bump, ba-bump of Logan’s handball bouncing off the driveway and against the garage door.

“Be right back,” I tell Sophia, and jog to the front yard. “Hey!” I call.

Logan catches the ball after the next bounce. “Hey.”

“Sophia and I are working on something. Do you want to come over and help?”

He rolls the ball back to his porch and follows me.

While Sophia and Logan unwrap the rest of the teacups, I go into the garage. There’s another box I need to find.

Most of the stuff in there is Nana’s—not-quite-empty paint buckets, Christmas ornaments in clear plastic bins, old furniture that she doesn’t want in the house anymore but also doesn’t want to throw away.

The boxes from our old house are all stored in the same corner, one labeled OFFICE and another KITCHEN. There is a pile of Maribel’s high school textbooks and trophies, and a lumpy trash bag that’s filled with my old stuffed animals. Next to the bag is the box I’m looking for: GARDEN.

I slice open the packing tape with the edge of a screwdriver and start searching. My hand shovel and trowel are on top. I set those aside. We might need them later. I find dozens of seed packets and a bag of Spanish moss.

I keep digging, all the way down to the bottom of the box, until I get to the summer-blooming bulbs I wrapped up in dishtowels: ranunculus, dahlia, and begonia.

It’s after the last freeze now. The timing should be just right.

I hold the bulbs and hand shovel under my arm and drag a bag of Nana’s potting soil to Sophia and Logan. I sit down between them and spread the bulbs out on the lawn. Sophia pokes at a ranunculus with a twig. It looks a little like a brown crab with fat, wriggling legs. But it will grow into a flower as vivid as the sunset.

Logan picks up three begonia bulbs and tries to juggle them. They look like dirt clods now, but someday they will open up red and frilly and full of joy.

I choose one of the dahlias.

“Is it… a potato?” Sophia asks.

“No, it’s not a potato.” I laugh and show them what to do next. I use the hand shovel to scoop soil into one of the teacups. With my finger, I hollow out a shallow hole, press the bulb inside, and then cover it with dirt.

It’s hard to tell right now, but buried underneath is the promise of something beautiful getting ready to grow.