Chapter 4

Raquel Hits a High Note

The next morning, groggy and out of sorts, I went to the bathroom, washed up, and checked the mirror. A zit had sprouted on my forehead overnight. My uniform shirt was wrinkled. I pinched a roll near my waist, sucked in my breath to flatten it out. I felt crummy for a moment, then remembered not falling to my death the night before and felt better.

Perspective, I told myself.

At breakfast, Mario and Fernando took the last of the good cereal and left me with granola, and I was so tired, I didn’t care. Why did weird dreams have to be so exhausting, anyway?

“¿Qué te sientes?” my mom asked over breakfast.

“Strange dreams. It’s nothing,” I said.

My mother narrowed her eyes at us. She took a bite of her buttered Cuban bread and a sip of her café con leche. Then she cleared her throat. “I know that your father’s news may have left you a bit shaken.”

“Shook, Ma,” Fernando said.

“And we aren’t. Shook, I mean,” Mario added.

I glanced at him, and he kicked me under the table.

My mom continued. “He won’t love you any less because there’s a new baby on the way,” she said, though it didn’t seem like her heart was in it. The news was hard on her, too, I knew. It wasn’t like Mami had kicked Papi out, after all. He left us.

“We know, Mami,” I said. “We’ve got this.”

“Yep,” Mario said. “Worry not, dear Mother.” He raised his spoon like a sword when he said it.

If I had a knack for making things weird, then my brothers had a gift.

Mami took another bite of her bread, another sip of coffee. “Okay, you three. If you need to talk about it—”

“No talking. More eating,” Fernando said, slurping his cereal. Honestly, that could be his motto. He could get a tattoo with “No talking. More eating” across his chest and nobody in the family would be surprised.

My school, Miami Palms Middle, serves free breakfast in the cafetorium every morning. Today it was silver dollar pancakes, and I got in line for some, even though I’d already eaten at home. Because who can resist tiny pancakes?

I slipped in line behind Violet Prado, Max Pascal, and Alain Riche, who were just as irritating as they’d been in the third grade. Max and Alain were two of the most popular boys in school. Violet was popular, too, and Cuban-American like me. We’d been in classes together since kindergarten, but she didn’t seem to like me very much, or have very many actual friends besides Max and Alain. Violet was in the choir at church, and participated in a local theater, and she told anyone within earshot that she was going to be famous someday. Alain was the class clown, always cutting up, with a smile so charming the teachers let him get away with anything. Max was tall and athletic, and got really good grades.

I kept my eyes on my cell phone as the line shuffled forward, hoping not to draw their attention. I’d almost made it to the front when Violet turned around, pulled my phone out of my hand, and clicked the button that showed the home screen.

“Aw, isn’t that cute,” she said as her eyes locked on the selfie of me and Raquel. “A perfect ten.”

Max and Alain laughed, and Alain said something to Max in Haitian Creole.

“Um. Thanks?” I said, and held my hand out for my phone.

Violet plunked the phone down hard on my palm. “Get it? A perfect ten,” she said, and formed a zero with one hand and a one with the other.

I didn’t get it.

“Hey!” Raquel called out from the front of the cafetorium, waving wildly at me to save her a space in line.

“There’s the one,” Violet said, and now I understood. Slender, elegant Raquel was shaped like the one. And me—round and zit-faced—was the zero.

“Grow up,” I said.

Violet rolled her eyes. She, Max, and Alain loaded their trays with pancakes and walked off together, laughing.

Raquel made her way to me, cutting in front of half the line. “Sorry, sorry,” she kept saying.

Our science teacher, Ms. Rinse, shouted at Raquel from across the cafetorium. “No cutting in line, young lady.”

Violet, Max, and Alain snickered loudly.

“I’m suddenly not hungry,” I said, my eyes following Violet and her crew.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Raquel said, loading up a tray for me. “Come on. My manager needs her strength.”

I laughed, took the tray from Raquel, and left the line in search of a table. “Your manager?”

“Sure. I’ll need one when I’m on Broadway,” Raquel said. After classes were over, she was going to audition for the lead role of Belle in our school’s musical rendition of Beauty and the Beast. Actually, I’d been the one to sign her up. I faked her handwriting on the sign-up sheet, putting her name just underneath Violet’s. Raquel didn’t talk to me for three days afterward, but then I caught her singing the opening bars of Belle’s first song. Raquel was a great singer, though she didn’t believe it.

She’d put on some rosy lip gloss that morning, and a set of press-on nails, which she clicked against the table as I ate.

“I thought you’d be nervous,” I said through a mouthful of pancakes.

Raquel was thoughtful as she chewed. “Me too. Maybe I got it out of my system on the Metrorail? That was so scary.”

“Speaking of scary,” I began, then I told her about my dad and the new baby.

“I don’t know. I’ve always wanted a baby brother or sister,” Raquel said.

I tapped my spork onto my tray. “It’s just that we never see him. A new baby makes it harder to get away. Airline tickets aren’t cheap, and neither are diapers, I think, and . . .”

“Maybe don’t overthink it just yet,” Raquel said.

“Coming from you? The number one overthinker on the planet?”

“Liar,” Raquel said, laughing.

I got up to put my tray away just as the first-period bell rang. “Come on. Ms. Rinse will kill us if we’re late to science,” I said.

“Don’t exaggerate, Cal. She won’t kill us. Maim us, maybe,” Raquel said.

“You’re right. Ms. Rinse is not the murdering type,” I said. “Now Ms. Fovos on the other hand.” We both looked to the front of the cafetorium, where Ms. Fovos stood, glaring at all the students. A pad of detention slips stuck out from her pocket, and she had a pen tucked behind each ear, ready to give out detentions with both hands if necessary.

Raquel pretended to shiver at the sight of her.

“Let’s go,” I said, and the two of us walked quickly past her.

“Uniforms!” she screeched at us, and we tucked our uniform shirts into our skorts rapidly before she could write out a detention.

I sighed. Weird dreams. Violet, Max, and Alain being rude. Having to see Ms. Fovos first thing. Some mornings were just plain stressful.

Raquel really is an overthinker, but I do my best to help. Sometimes, that means I have to lie to her. I don’t lie often, but when I do, I make sure it’s at least a helpful lie.

“Raquel Falcón,” I said, “you’re the best singer at Miami Palms Middle School. You are basically a Venezuelan Beyoncé.”

Raquel knew it was a lie. We were sitting in the cafetorium before the auditions. Whatever confidence she’d had that morning had evaporated.

“That’s it. I’m not auditioning,” Raquel said. She twirled a pencil over her fingers like a tiny majorette’s baton. As she did so, she groaned.

“I thought you said you weren’t nervous.”

“I am now,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“I’m not. It was the pizza at lunch. I’m lactose intolerant,” Raquel said.

“Since when are you lactose intolerant? You snarf down cheesy arepas like you need them to live,” I said.

Raquel stopped twirling the pencil. “Callie. I can’t do it. Violet Prado is going to wipe the floor with me.”

Raquel was not exactly the best singer at Miami Palms Middle, and we both knew it. She was good, though. Really good. But so was Violet. Maybe Violet was going to wipe the floor with her. But Violet was also kind of a jerk. Besides being a talented singer, Raquel was kind, patient, and a good friend—everything Violet wasn’t. She deserved that part.

Raquel covered her face with shaky hands.

“Look at me,” I said, taking hold of Raquel’s shoulders. “You are Raquel Falcón. You’re on the honor roll every quarter, you’re a starter on the volleyball team. You know all the lyrics to at least four Sondheim musicals, and—”

“But, Callie—”

“And,” I said, putting my hand across her mouth to shush her, “aaaaand, you have a really sweet voice. You will be Belle. Belle will be you. Everyone else out there is just a beast. Get it?”

Raquel blinked a few times but still had a startled look on her face. Well, I tried, I told myself.

The cafetorium was packed with kids from the afterschool program noisily playing board games in the back of the room, while the theater kids amassed up front, lounging on the stage, sitting at tables and either poring over lyrics or scrolling through their phones. Other kids had shown up just to watch. Over at a nearby table, the class triplets, two girls and a boy, were drawing on one another’s arms with markers as they waited for the auditions to start. They’d recently moved to Miami from Tampa and walked around school with coffee mugs, like grown-ups on a break at work. They each had a name that began with L—Letty, Lisa, and Leo. Max and Alain were thumb-wrestling at another table, while four eighth-grade girls bobbed their heads in time to the music blaring from their headphones.

An inflatable turkey, the kind people put up on their lawns for Thanksgiving, wobbled in one corner of the room under a rush of air from the AC. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving break. You could feel that familiar buzz among the students—vacation loomed. The drama teacher, Mr. Gomez, stood next to the turkey. He wore suspenders over his big belly, his frizzy white hair was uncombed, and he held a red pen in his mouth, even as he spoke.

“Belle auditions first,” he barked. “Then Gaston. Princesses and villains, in that order, LINE UP!” he shouted. The pen trembled in his mouth like a twig in the breeze. The inflatable turkey wobbled some more.

“You’ve got this,” I said to Raquel, giving her arm a little squeeze.

She nodded, her cheeks pale.

“No, you definitely don’t got this.” I felt a shove. “Move, hippo,” a voice growled in my ear, and I watched as Violet, carrying a huge garment bag, pushed Raquel out of the way.

“Don’t listen to her. You aren’t fat,” Raquel whispered to me, letting Violet sashay past her onto the stage.

My feelings were stinging a little, but I took a deep breath. Then I turned to my best friend. “Nope, this isn’t about me. Just ignore her and do your thing.” Raquel nodded and followed in Violet’s wake, her arms crossed over her stomach.

“She’s awful,” a little voice squeaked beside me. It was Maya Rivero. We were both in the sixth grade, but she wasn’t like anyone I had ever known. Tiny as a fourth grader, Maya wore her long hair in two thin plaits every day, the part down the middle of her head so straight and tight that it seemed to glow in the fluorescent lights of the cafetorium. Her mouth was full of very crooked teeth, covered in braces. A metal contraption against the roof of her mouth flashed whenever she talked, and it gave her a slight lisp. “ItTH for my narrow upper archTH,” she told me one day during class. Today she was wearing a denim jumper over her uniform shirt, a flagrant abuse of the uniform rules, which no teacher ever called her on.

That was because Maya Rivero was a genius.

She could have skipped middle school altogether, but she didn’t want to miss out on any “developmental social milestones.” At least, that’s what she told my science class on the first day of school, when we had to introduce ourselves. Everyone else sat at their desk while they talked about their favorite color, or the sport they played, or what they did over the summer. Not Maya. She stood up, her rainbow backpack still on, her hands on her waist in a “hero pose.” She told us that she wanted to go to Space Camp, but that she couldn’t afford the trip, and that a never-before-seen species of lizard had moved into her backyard (“Probably an invasive species,” she said, except she pronounced it “invaTHive THpeeTHees”), that she loved orca whales, and that they were in danger of extinction thanks to global warming. Then she started to sob, right there in front of everyone, using a pigtail to wipe her eyes. Our homeroom and science teacher, Ms. Rinse, had to tell her to sit down. Twice.

It was a scene.

Speaking of scenes, I asked her, “So, Maya, are you auditioning?”

“I’m auditioning for the narrator,” Maya said.

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know this play had one.”

Maya then began to narrate, Once-Upon-a-Timing with gusto, her hands dramatically moving through the air, as if she were doing a hula.

“Okay, Maya,” I said, but she kept going. “Maya. Maya. Okay. You’re . . . you’re great. You can stop practicing now.”

Maya froze, her eyes on the stage. The entire cafetorium had gone silent.

There stood Violet in a yellow gown. It was off the shoulders and embroidered in gold thread. The stage lights bounced off the dress, which sparkled when Violet turned around.

“We were supposed to bring costumes?” Maya asked nobody in particular.

Mr. Gomez clapped his big hands. He has one of those loud claps, the kind of applause that makes my ears feel as if I’ve gone too far with a Q-tip. “Brava, Violet!” he said, before hearing a single note.

“Merci,” Violet said, curtseying. “Belle was French, so I’ll say it again, MERCI, MONSIEUR GOMEZ!”

A couple of groans from the afterschool kids snapped Mr. Gomez out of it. “Okay, Violet. Sing your song,” he said, and sat down beside me. He pressed Play on his phone, the music started, and Violet sang.

I hate to admit it, but Violet really does have a nice voice. It’s the kind of voice you expect from a princess—lilting and nonthreatening. It’s a voice that’s nothing like her personality.

Halfway through the song, Maya tapped Mr. Gomez on the shoulder, asking, “Can the narrator audition be next? I have a SAP meeting.” He ignored her. Maya glanced at her watch. “I suppose I can be a few minutes late to SAP,” she whispered, except she pronounced it “THAP.” Then, she sat back down again.

“Sap?” I asked. What kind of club calls itself Sap, I ask you?

“Scientists Are People,” Maya said very seriously. “It’s an anti-science world, Callie. We’re fighting a good fight.”

“Oh. Right. Of course,” I said.

Violet was curtsying again, her song finished. It was Raquel’s turn next. Violet faced the wings of the stage and said, “You can all go home now,” before relinquishing the spotlight.

“Come on, Raqui!” I shouted, jumping up and down. Mr. Gomez gave me a look, so I sat again.

Raquel emerged from the shadows slowly. I watched as Violet passed Raquel. Violet’s yellow-slippered foot reached out to trip Raquel, who fell in slow motion, her hip hitting the stage floor first, her face crumpling.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, I said in my head, because Raquel was close to bawling, I could tell. Lazily, Mr. Gomez asked, “Are you okay?” from where he sat. Raquel sat up and dusted off her legs and butt. She blinked pathetically, looking like a lost kitten with a double eye infection.

That was my best friend up there. She was bombing her audition in a big way and here I was, powerless to help. I was so mad, my skin started to buzz, like I might explode.

Suddenly, Maya stood and shouted, “Fight the good fight, Raquel!” Everyone turned to look at her—quiet, mousy Maya, with bared teeth and her hand raised in a fist. My mouth dropped open, making me look like a stunned fish.

Everyone got quiet. Violet snickered.

“It’s our SAP rallying cry,” Maya whispered, sitting down.

Raquel was on her feet again, eyes dry. She set her jaw and took a deep breath. In the wings, Violet was swishing her voluminous dress skirt back and forth, mouthing the word loser in Raquel’s direction, in time with her dress swishing.

Lo-ser, swish-swish, lo-ser, swish-swish.

That’s when IT happened. The more Violet swished, the stronger the feeling got, too—every single strand of hair on my ponytail lifted up a little bit, sort of like when someone rubs a balloon on your head and the static electricity makes your hair go all frizzy. Like that, but more. My fingertips and toes tingled, too, like when your limbs fall asleep. And finally—this is the worst part—I wanted to cry. My throat felt thick and my eyes prickled. I hate crying.

All those sensations surprised me at first, but then I remembered that I’d felt this on the Metrorail. Maybe the feelings were a reaction to fear? Except this time, I wasn’t afraid. I was angry at Violet for having tripped Raquel. I shook my hands to try to get some feeling back into them.

Then, boom. All those feelings went away at once, as if they’d been washed off somehow. I looked up and Raquel was suddenly . . . beautiful. I mean, she’s always been my beautiful best friend, with long dark curls and big brown eyes, and freckles on her nose. But this was different. She was glowing a little. Her cheeks were pink. Her lips looked like she’d just refreshed her lip gloss. She was . . . taller. How could that be? And when she opened her mouth to sing . . .

“You’re an angel!” Mr. Gomez shouted. In his excitement, he fist-pumped the air, accidentally punching the inflatable turkey, which folded in half with a whoosh before filling up again.

The afterschoolers went quiet, dropping their board games and leaving their homework behind. They surged forward, hugging the stage like fans at a concert. Raquel sang and sang. Maya, beside me, was transfixed. Even Violet leaned against a wall and gazed dreamily at Raquel, who was, at the moment, utterly stealing the lead role right out from under her.

What was happening? My scalp tingled again, just a little this time. The prickling in my eyes started up again. I touched my fingertips and found that they were numb once more. Raquel went for the high note of the song, which she lengthened and stretched as if the music were Play-Doh. Louder and louder she sang, the note rising, rising.

I don’t remember what happened after that, because my world turned black, and when I woke up, I was somewhere familiar—and a little frightening.