mushrooms we were looking out for: black trumpets. In Spanish theyâre called las trompetas de la muerte , death trumpets, even though black and dead isnât the same thing. You just canât trust English: it translates stuff all wrong. And theyâre not even really black; more like very dark brown. I know because Emma gave me a trumpet all of my own in a sandwich bag. Iâve been dragging it along behind me and the bag is so covered in mud already that you canât see anything inside. My death trumpet is camuflashed. Itâs happy, too, I can tell. Emma said that itâs my guide specimen. A specimen is something thatâs like a mention of its species.
The boys are my dad, Pinaâs dad Beto, and my two brothers. They took the canoe and theyâre going to sleep on an island in the middle of the lake. I wanted to go with them, but then I saw Theo putting a bunch of straws in his backpack and I thought best to go with the girls. Yesterday, Pina made us breathe through straws with our heads camuflashed under the water in the lake and it felt horrible. Only Theo lasted a long time, and now he thinks heâs king of the straws and he wants to play at straws all day long.
The grown-up girls are my mom and Emma. The little girls are me, my sister Ana, and her friend Pina who has a woolly dead pilot sweater that doesnât belong to her tied around her waist. She doesnât have her own one because sheâs not part of the family. We call her Pi, and when she annoys us we call her Pee-Pee and Ana gets real mad. Pi is sad because her mom left her a letter. If my mom left me a letter Iâd be happy, but when I said as much to Ana she said, âThatâs because youâre dumb.â
Ana is ten and she thinks sheâs the queen of the forest.
When my mom lent Pina the sweater I instantly wanted mine. Mama said that I could only put it on if I took everything else off. Thatâs why under my sweater Iâm only wearing my swimsuit, and thatâs why the mud feels scratchy against my knees as I crawl along. And thatâs why I try to stick to the mushy parts, where I can slide along and nothing hurts.
I find a river of mud and follow it, even though it leads me off the track, even though there isnât really a track because the trees in the grove are planted in rows, and if you look at them from the right spot they hide behind each other, and between the rows everything thatâs not a chestnut tree is empty space, and everything thatâs empty space is track.
My woolly dead pilot sweater is yellow and tickly, but the sleeves are too long for me and I have to fold them up to my shoulders like an accordion. This morning Theo said that thereâs such a thing as a giant slug, and theyâre yellow and black and called banana slugs. He said I look like one in my sweater. I liked that. But Olmo said if anything I look like a rotten banana. I told him he has the face of a porcupine and Theo said, âLuz está right.â
They all start talking weird when we come to the lake. And thatâs why Iâm not going to speak English. Iâm never ever going to speak English. English makes you weird.
I sit down at the end of the sort of river and rub mud in my face, because everybody knows mud-masks make you pretty. Mud-masks and also drinking tomato juice, but tomato juice is trick juice because it isnât sweet at all. Then, just next to my foot, I spot something, and that something is a black trumpet. I donât move. Apart from my eyes. I spot another one, three, four, seven, all together. I take out my guide specimen to check and yep, theyâre like twins. According to Grandma, when you find one youâve found a ton. I turn around, get on all fours again and start singing to them even faster so that more appear.
âFlashy flashy flashy flash.â
And it works.
Where before there were none, suddenly I can see millions of them. Itâs
The boys are my dad, Pinaâs dad Beto, and my two brothers. They took the canoe and theyâre going to sleep on an island in the middle of the lake. I wanted to go with them, but then I saw Theo putting a bunch of straws in his backpack and I thought best to go with the girls. Yesterday, Pina made us breathe through straws with our heads camuflashed under the water in the lake and it felt horrible. Only Theo lasted a long time, and now he thinks heâs king of the straws and he wants to play at straws all day long.
The grown-up girls are my mom and Emma. The little girls are me, my sister Ana, and her friend Pina who has a woolly dead pilot sweater that doesnât belong to her tied around her waist. She doesnât have her own one because sheâs not part of the family. We call her Pi, and when she annoys us we call her Pee-Pee and Ana gets real mad. Pi is sad because her mom left her a letter. If my mom left me a letter Iâd be happy, but when I said as much to Ana she said, âThatâs because youâre dumb.â
Ana is ten and she thinks sheâs the queen of the forest.
When my mom lent Pina the sweater I instantly wanted mine. Mama said that I could only put it on if I took everything else off. Thatâs why under my sweater Iâm only wearing my swimsuit, and thatâs why the mud feels scratchy against my knees as I crawl along. And thatâs why I try to stick to the mushy parts, where I can slide along and nothing hurts.
I find a river of mud and follow it, even though it leads me off the track, even though there isnât really a track because the trees in the grove are planted in rows, and if you look at them from the right spot they hide behind each other, and between the rows everything thatâs not a chestnut tree is empty space, and everything thatâs empty space is track.
My woolly dead pilot sweater is yellow and tickly, but the sleeves are too long for me and I have to fold them up to my shoulders like an accordion. This morning Theo said that thereâs such a thing as a giant slug, and theyâre yellow and black and called banana slugs. He said I look like one in my sweater. I liked that. But Olmo said if anything I look like a rotten banana. I told him he has the face of a porcupine and Theo said, âLuz está right.â
They all start talking weird when we come to the lake. And thatâs why Iâm not going to speak English. Iâm never ever going to speak English. English makes you weird.
I sit down at the end of the sort of river and rub mud in my face, because everybody knows mud-masks make you pretty. Mud-masks and also drinking tomato juice, but tomato juice is trick juice because it isnât sweet at all. Then, just next to my foot, I spot something, and that something is a black trumpet. I donât move. Apart from my eyes. I spot another one, three, four, seven, all together. I take out my guide specimen to check and yep, theyâre like twins. According to Grandma, when you find one youâve found a ton. I turn around, get on all fours again and start singing to them even faster so that more appear.
âFlashy flashy flashy flash.â
And it works.
Where before there were none, suddenly I can see millions of them. Itâs
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