From Ant to Eagle(48)

On Tuesday she wasn’t there again and I began to worry. I thought about her walking listlessly around at recess, her vacant stare during class, and my absence. I remembered the first time we’d met, the scars on her arms, and the worrying worsened.

I spent recess in my chain-linked chair thinking. By the time the bell rang I had decided on a plan.

Dad was already waiting in his usual spot after school, car fumes sputtering out the exhaust pipe while he left the car running. He was reading a newspaper over the steering wheel as I opened the door and hopped in.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I need to make a stop on the way.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“I need to bring Aleta her homework from today,” I lied. “She wasn’t at school. Can we stop by her house?”

“Sure, it’s not much out of the way.”

As we pulled into the Alvarado’s driveway I had an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. It felt like only the day before that I had walked that same driveway for the first time. Only back then I’d had my little lamb beside me, ready to sacrifice had anything gone wrong. I remembered Chloe’s slobbering attack and the fear of meeting Mr. Alvarado for the first time. Man, things had changed so much since then.

I had to knock twice before anyone answered. Soft footsteps, the clinking of dog tags on dog collar, the gentle swing of the door, then Raquel greeted me with a surprised look on her face.

“Cal,” she said, with an uneasy tone, “good to see you. I…I’ve heard about everything that’s been going on.” She looked like she might actually start to cry on my behalf. “I’m so sorry. I hope you’re doing all right.” She pulled me in and suddenly I found myself wrapped in the arms of someone I’d only met twice.

“I’m guessing you’re here to see Aleta?” she asked, letting me go.

“Yeah,” I said, brushing the hair from my eyes.

She stepped aside, letting me pass. “She’s in her room.”

And there I was again in the world of déjà vu. I walked up the same creaky steps, opened the same creaky door and saw the same sad wisp of a girl I’d seen in a dream long ago. Or at least that’s how it felt, like reliving a dream.

Aleta must have heard me coming because she sat cross-legged on her bed and was watching the door as it swung open. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain white tank top hidden beneath a sweatshirt that was more or less falling off her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was tied over one shoulder and she was staring at me with her green, green eyes, only they were red and puffy so I knew she’d been crying. In front of her lay the notebook she carried everywhere.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she said back.

“I wanted to come by and make sure you were okay since you haven’t been at school.” I waited for Aleta to say something but she just sat watching me. “So yeah, I also wanted to apologize. Ever since everything started happening with Sammy I just felt like I needed to be alone. But…I dunno…you know how you said some things are easier not to talk about? I feel like the more I keep everything inside, the more it just seems to hurt. I guess I just wanted to come here and tell you I’m sorry for what I said. I liked it better when we were talking.” I walked in and sat on the end of her bed. “I don’t think I’m really making sense, am I?”

Aleta smiled. “You are.”

“Good.”

For a while we sat there quietly thinking. I was thinking about Sammy, I think she was thinking about something else, but then she interrupted my thoughts.

“You know when I said some things are easier not to talk about?”

I looked at her and nodded.

“I was wrong. It is better to talk about it. And that’s what I’ve been doing—all summer.”

“You have?” I said. “You mean when you went to London on Fridays? When you talked to your mom?”

Aleta shook her head. “No, when I was with you at the Secret Spot.”

“Huh?” All I could remember was specifically not talking about the things that made her sad.

“With this,” Aleta said, holding up the notebook. “I was using this as a way to talk about my problems.” She put the notebook back in her lap and stared at it. She was biting her bottom lip like she always did when she was nervous. “I actually wanted to show you this a long time ago but I was…I guess I was self-conscious of it.” She held the notebook out toward me. “Here,” she said, “I want you to read it.”

“You sure?” I asked, hesitating.

“Yeah.”

I grabbed the book, feeling the cover beneath my fingers. It was soft and worn, obviously having had a lot of use.

“Just don’t be too judgmental, I’m not a great writer.”

I opened the notebook to the first page. There was a neatly written title in the centre with a short passage below.

Sarita Juana Alvarado.

This is a book about my mother. It contains all of the memories I have of the most wonderful woman this world has ever known. Though she is gone in person, these memories now written will stay with me forever.

By: Aleta Alvarado.

I looked up at Aleta. “But your mother,” I said, thinking this through in my head. “You said she was still in London.”