is a grown man and he keeps thinking that he’s going to grow taller than five foot eight. He’s not. And you’re not. You were never going to grow into them.”
“They were mine, Mom!” Henry got close to her face. “I wore them! I liked them! You had no right to give them away!”
“I’ll buy you another pair.”
“I don’t want another pair!” Henry’s belly felt worse than on Valentine’s Day morning. “Take me to the police station now! I need to get those blue jeans back!”
“Henry, calm down—” Mom put her hands on Henry’s shoulders. He ducked down out of her grip and walked away. “We can’t go get them. They’re on the highway by now, honey, heading to New Orleans—”
The marble.
It was gone.
Henry had wanted to throw it into the woods, had wanted to get rid of it, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. He had kept it. And now it was in his jeans pocket, in a garbage bag, in a truck, speeding away down the highway.
marble journey part I
MARGARITA MONTERO
Margarita turned the radio down so she could hear better.
“Marco did what?” she asked into the phone. She couldn’t have heard Christo right. “He scored a goal?” She couldn’t believe it. How many hours had she and Christo spent in the backyard with Marco, showing him how to dribble, showing him the sweet spot on the side of his sneaker, taking turns standing in the goal as Marco shot soccer ball after soccer ball to the outside of the metal posts?
In this case it was like mother, like son. When Margarita had been five—no, maybe it was even earlier, like age four or even three—her father had taken her to the park almost every day to practice goal kicks. Margarita remembered him leaning against the white post, his hair back in a ponytail, smoking a cigarette, shaking his head, disappointed as she missed every goal.
At home, in Spain, everyone played soccer. Margarita’sfather played, her older brother, even her two younger stepbrothers played. It was expected that Margarita would too. But she didn’t want to. Her feet had no interest—or her feet had no skill—in kicking the ball, and her fingers always itched to fit themselves around the markers she had under her bed in her room. The ones her
abuela
had given her. She spent hours pulling the markers out of their plastic sleeve and rearranging their order.
Rainbow order—
rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde, azul, púrpura
.
Complementary order—
rojo y verde, anaranjado y azul, amarillo y púrpura
.
Favorite color order—
púrpura, verde, anaranjado, azul, amarillo, rojo
.
—
Margarita pulled her hand away from her ear to adjust the rearview mirror. She could barely see with all the garbage bags piled up in the back of the truck. She grinned. It felt good to be doing something useful. Taking these clothes to the kids down in New Orleans. Almost a year in Vermont now, and she was still trying to find a teaching job. She put the phone back to her ear. She had missed some of what Christo had said.
“Yes, I promise. I’ll let you know when I get there. I love you and Marco too,” she said. “Oh, and tell Marco I challengehim to kick a goal past me when I get home.” She clicked off her phone.
Margarita stretched her neck from one side to the other and saw a small green car pass her on the left. Two little kids were in the backseat, their heads close together, hunched over something, maybe playing a game. She checked the truck clock. 6:14 p.m. She decided she’d drive as far as she could. Until she began to experience that almost-asleep feeling. The truck driver at the Williston Police Department had left her with that one piece of advice.
“Stop driving as soon as you feel your eyelids get heavy. Even if it’s for a half second. Those half seconds can turn into seconds, and then those seconds can turn into sleep really fast,” he had said.
Margarita turned the radio back up. She tapped her thumb on the edge of the steering wheel. Right now she felt wide
“They were mine, Mom!” Henry got close to her face. “I wore them! I liked them! You had no right to give them away!”
“I’ll buy you another pair.”
“I don’t want another pair!” Henry’s belly felt worse than on Valentine’s Day morning. “Take me to the police station now! I need to get those blue jeans back!”
“Henry, calm down—” Mom put her hands on Henry’s shoulders. He ducked down out of her grip and walked away. “We can’t go get them. They’re on the highway by now, honey, heading to New Orleans—”
The marble.
It was gone.
Henry had wanted to throw it into the woods, had wanted to get rid of it, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. He had kept it. And now it was in his jeans pocket, in a garbage bag, in a truck, speeding away down the highway.
marble journey part I
MARGARITA MONTERO
Margarita turned the radio down so she could hear better.
“Marco did what?” she asked into the phone. She couldn’t have heard Christo right. “He scored a goal?” She couldn’t believe it. How many hours had she and Christo spent in the backyard with Marco, showing him how to dribble, showing him the sweet spot on the side of his sneaker, taking turns standing in the goal as Marco shot soccer ball after soccer ball to the outside of the metal posts?
In this case it was like mother, like son. When Margarita had been five—no, maybe it was even earlier, like age four or even three—her father had taken her to the park almost every day to practice goal kicks. Margarita remembered him leaning against the white post, his hair back in a ponytail, smoking a cigarette, shaking his head, disappointed as she missed every goal.
At home, in Spain, everyone played soccer. Margarita’sfather played, her older brother, even her two younger stepbrothers played. It was expected that Margarita would too. But she didn’t want to. Her feet had no interest—or her feet had no skill—in kicking the ball, and her fingers always itched to fit themselves around the markers she had under her bed in her room. The ones her
abuela
had given her. She spent hours pulling the markers out of their plastic sleeve and rearranging their order.
Rainbow order—
rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde, azul, púrpura
.
Complementary order—
rojo y verde, anaranjado y azul, amarillo y púrpura
.
Favorite color order—
púrpura, verde, anaranjado, azul, amarillo, rojo
.
—
Margarita pulled her hand away from her ear to adjust the rearview mirror. She could barely see with all the garbage bags piled up in the back of the truck. She grinned. It felt good to be doing something useful. Taking these clothes to the kids down in New Orleans. Almost a year in Vermont now, and she was still trying to find a teaching job. She put the phone back to her ear. She had missed some of what Christo had said.
“Yes, I promise. I’ll let you know when I get there. I love you and Marco too,” she said. “Oh, and tell Marco I challengehim to kick a goal past me when I get home.” She clicked off her phone.
Margarita stretched her neck from one side to the other and saw a small green car pass her on the left. Two little kids were in the backseat, their heads close together, hunched over something, maybe playing a game. She checked the truck clock. 6:14 p.m. She decided she’d drive as far as she could. Until she began to experience that almost-asleep feeling. The truck driver at the Williston Police Department had left her with that one piece of advice.
“Stop driving as soon as you feel your eyelids get heavy. Even if it’s for a half second. Those half seconds can turn into seconds, and then those seconds can turn into sleep really fast,” he had said.
Margarita turned the radio back up. She tapped her thumb on the edge of the steering wheel. Right now she felt wide
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