Shine on luz veliz, p.1
Shine On, Luz Véliz!, page 1
Copyright © 2022 by Rebecca Balcárcel.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available.
ISBN 978-1-7972-0967-8 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-7972-1769-7 (epub)
Design by Jay Marvel.
Typeset in Fazeta and Mabry Mono Pro.
Chronicle Books LLC
680 Second Street
San Francisco, California 94107
Chronicle Books—we see things differently.
Become part of our community at www.chroniclekids.com.
To Azucena, my Guatemalan sister,
a luz and a sol for me and this world
“We are very, very small, but we are
profoundly capable of very, very big things.”
—Stephen Hawking
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
So there’s before it happened. Before I learned to use crutches. Before I needed physical therapy. Before, before, before.
Welcome to After.
I grab a trash bag that’s almost as tall as I am. LAWN AND LEAF, the box says. Perfect for raking out the whole soccer section of my closet. Perfect for clearing out Before.
Soccer shoes? Into the bag. Shin guards? Into the bag. White-and-blue uniforms? The bag. Three trophies, one for being the top scorer in the whole Tri-Cities Junior League? Bag. I can’t look at this stuff anymore.
Then there’s the ball. Am I keeping it? No way.
Well?
No.
Okay, fine. I can’t let go of my soccer ball yet.
I’m not supposed to dribble it in the house, but I pop it into the air with the toe of my shoe and bounce it on my good knee. The knee that bends easy as a Slinky. Clean joint, perfect tendons. I’m thankful for one healthy knee. Really, I am. But I’m sad, too. I used to have two of them.
I shove the ball to the very back of my closet, behind a wall of cardboard bricks I used to make forts with.
Now for the posters of my soccer heroes.
I yank out each pushpin. Down falls Abby Wambach, top scorer of the US Women’s Team. Down goes the World Cup team photo, every neck with a gold medal, and captain Megan Rapinoe raising the trophy high. I crumple the posters into big wads and stuff them into the trash bag.
Mom says to stop looking back, so here I am trying, but it’s hard to forget. Sometimes I flash into the past. A memory will photobomb my brain. Like that run. That last-day-on-the-soccer-field run.
It plays over and over in my head, a YouTube video on continuous autoplay. Legs pumping, feet churning up the grass, my body a missile speeding toward the goal …
I know the accident happened. Obviously. But at the same time, it’s like I’m still running. The goal getting closer, and Mom cheering in the stands. Dad shouting, “Pour it on!” which makes me run even faster.
Some “me” kept on running, but I couldn’t go with her. It’s like she went on without me, to where I was supposed to go. Now we’ll never find each other.
Instead of scoring, I felt a leg sweep under me, my body spinning backward, the blur of another jersey, and pain spiraling out from my knee and ankle. Doctors would later tell me my anterior cruciate ligament tore, my shin broke, and my patella fractured. All I knew then was a dark tunnel, my vision gone, and the screaming pain growing louder.
So maybe I am almost used to it now. The leg, I mean. The pain meds and the therapy and the discussions about whether to do surgery. At least I can walk. No more crutches or canes. I’m left with a “wobbly” knee, they say.
Which means I can’t play soccer this spring—or maybe ever. I lost the thing I was best at. The thing that filled three evenings a week and Saturday mornings; gave me automatic friends, at the local league and at school. The thing that made me special.
Now I’m plain Luz. Bran muffin girl instead of blueberry cinnamon.
And now Mom and Dad freak out if I race someone to the bus or charge up stairs two at a time or even walk fast, if you can believe it. They say my knee could “give.”
So yeah, I’m getting used to the knee. The thing that bothers me is Dad. He hardly talks to me anymore. It’s like he can’t get over it. I guess I’m not surprised. He coached me my whole life. I held a soccer ball before I held a spoon, they tell me. Eleven years is a long time, even to a grown-up.
I haul my trash bag of soccer stuff to the living room, where Dad’s up a ladder, putting a new light fixture on the ceiling fan. Does he see me at all?
“Can I help?” I ask. “Maybe hand you some tools?” I’m kind of good at mechanical things. I installed my own kitty-cat light-switch plate, and I can build anything from LEGO bricks, with or without the directions.
“All I need is this screwdriver,” he says.
“Can I just watch?” I say, remembering how he used to let me help replace a door handle or change a light bulb.
“If you really want to, Lucita.”
Which is my nickname. He doesn’t say it with a smile, though, and my heart wilts a little. He doesn’t notice the trash bag in my hands, though it’s right in front of me and big as a Texas sage bush.
Before, before, before, he was the head coach of Tri- Cities Youth Soccer. After, after, after, he’s just Dad the landscaper. He quit coaching the day I got hurt; another parent took over. He works his landscaping design business, Véliz Verde, even on Saturdays now.
So fine. I didn’t want to help with some old ceiling fan anyway.
I pull on my red jacket and head outside with the trash bag. My plan? Put my soccer life on the curb, let the garbage truck haul it away, and dump the past into the past.
“Luz!” Mom shouts. “Be careful on the driveway.”
Be careful, be careful, be careful. I know.
I face sideways and take our super-steep driveway slowly, good leg first. I hoist the trash bag with both hands. It lands with a satisfying thump.
A voice carries from across the street. “A little early for trash day.” It’s Mr. Mac, pulling winter covers off his bushes. He points to his wristwatch as he says “a little early,” but his eyes smile.
“Yup,” I say.
“Never known you to be early. Must be important. Or smelly!”
That’s what I like about Mr. Mac. He figures you know what you’re doing. He figures you’ve got your reasons.
Mr. Mac isn’t his full name. It’s Mr. MacLellan, but we’re buddies, so I get to say Mr. Mac. He was the first neighbor we met when we moved in, and guess what he brought as a welcome gift? Not cookies, not tuna casserole, not some boring welcome card. He brought a lamp that turns on when you clap. It also works when I snap. Practically magic!
Mom calls him Gadget Santa because he’s always giving us gadgets, like a motion detector that chimes when Zigzag goes out her cat door. Plus Mr. Mac knows stuff. When I graduated from crutches, he showed me his banged-up knee and how to use a cane.
Turning my back on the trash bag, I call over, “It is important. It’s my old soccer stuff.”
He nods his hatted head, and the sun glints off his round glasses. He’s quiet for a second. “That’s a prickly one to swallow, all right.”
It sure is. It won’t be easy looking at my bare bedroom, but it’s better than looking at a room that makes me sad. “That’s a fact,” I say.
“Do you remember Stephen Hawking, Luz?”
“The physics guy who talked through a computer?”
“That’s him. He said something about intelligence. And he was a smart guy. Test scores, or even high grades—that’s not what intelligence is. Hawking says, it’s being able to adapt to change.”
I let that sink in. “You mean my leg?” I glance at my trash bag. “So is this me, um, ‘adapting to change’?”
“As best you can, right? And life is change, I’ve found.” He resets his hat, which has a solar-powered fan built into the top. “Not that it’s easy, of course.”
I think about the soccer ball still in my closet, and I know
Mr. Mac points to his open garage. “Look what I found,” he calls.
He picks up a large remote, extends the antenna, and a red toy car zips out. I love that little thing. Little Red, we call it. He lets me drive it sometimes. Now it crosses the street, zooms right to my feet. Welded to the roof is a shallow box, kind of a tray. Mr. Mac made that part himself. Inside the box tray sits a black electronic device—maybe an old, old phone?
I turn it over in my hands. Rectangular buttons line one edge, four black and one red.
“Explore it. See what you can make of it,” Mr. Mac says, zooming Little Red and its empty tray back across the street.
“Will do!” I give him a wave and climb back up the driveway, turning the mystery object over in my hand.
Mom meets me at the door. “What do you have there?”
“I don’t know.” I push one of the buttons and a whole side of the device springs open.
“I haven’t seen one of those in a long time,” she says.
“Mr. Mac said to explore it.”
“Mr. MacLellan’s always got something interesting for you, doesn’t he?” Mom says, pointing at my bare head. She always wants me to wear a hat if it’s the least bit sunny.
I ignore her gesture and hang my jacket on its hook.
“So, come here a minute. We need to talk.”
“What about?” I say, pressing another button on the black thingamajig.
She disappears into the house, her words fading as she goes. “We’ll talk about it as a family.”
As a family? There’s only three of us. Mom, Dad, and me. What’s the big deal? This is not what I want to do with my Sunday afternoon.
From the black gadget, I pull out a plastic rectangle—sort of a cartridge. It has two holes in it, with tiny teeth, like gears. “Can this talk-meeting-thing wait?” I call as I head toward my bedroom.
“No, Luz,” Mom says from the kitchen. “Dad’s already in the dining room.”
I set the black device on my bedside table and turn back. Then I stop. I stand at my bedroom doorway. I let a second go by. Then two.
Dad’s been so quiet lately. So gone all the time. So busy, busy, busy. Part of me wants to stand here and make him wait. Make him think about me. Make him wonder where I am and if I’m okay. But of course he knows I’m in my room. He knows I’m basically okay.
Except I’m not.
I plop myself down in a wooden chair at the dining table. I’m guessing Mom set up this meeting, because Dad’s clearly not into it. He’s fidgeting, reaching for his phone, then pulling his hand back. Somehow the air feels crackly. Zigzag is nowhere nearby; she’s probably lazing on a pile of warm laundry.
Mom leans toward me. “I had a call from the school counselor.”
My whole body tenses. Ms. Martin? Am I in trouble?
“She just needs to know whether to keep soccer on your schedule for the last nine weeks of school.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. I lean back. If I know one thing, it’s that I’m staying in Athletic Hour even if I’m not playing. I like getting outside, smelling the grass. Watching how the ball rolls and rolls and never gets tired.
Dad blows air with puffed cheeks. His eyes look red around the rims. Does it make him that sad that I’m not playing soccer right now? Or fútbol, as he calls it when we’re watching a match on the Spanish-language station. He used to whistle as he kneed the soccer ball up and bounced it off his chest, keeping it in the air for minutes. He’d grin when I outran a defender on the field or when I cheered our favorite players on TV. These days, he seems to have two settings: quiet and sad.
Mom goes on. “She said you can stay in soccer if you want. It’s not a problem with your grade or anything. Now that you’re off the cane, Coach will give you things to do.”
Wait a second. Things? “Like pass out water bottles?” I ask. Suddenly I remember the girl who used to do that. I don’t think I talked to her before she switched to a different class. Maybe she felt left out? I’m not sure why she was there, actually.
“Or maybe something more interesting?” Mom’s face looks hopeful. She’s got her look-on-the-bright-side eyebrows going on.
“Everyone I know is in soccer,” I say. That’s the main thing, right? Although I wouldn’t call them friends. I mean, we’re sort of all friends, but I don’t go over to their houses or anything. And in Athletic Hour they’re on the field the whole time, and I’m—well, not. Not anymore.
“It doesn’t matter to us,” Mom says, looking at Dad for confirmation, who doesn’t respond. Doesn’t he care what happens?
Anyway, I don’t believe her. I know it matters to them. I’ll never forget the first time I scored a winning goal. I was only five, but I knew I’d done something special. They were on their feet, shouting, “That’s our girl!” I haven’t felt that glow since I left the field.
“You could take another class.” Mom searches my face for the answer, but I don’t have one yet.
“Like what?” I’ve never thought about any electives but soccer.
“Ms. Martin has some ideas. Photography, art. Or what about band? You could dust off your trumpet.”
I try not to roll my eyes, but I can’t help it. Mom’s a band director, so she thinks everyone loves music. I like hearing it, but playing it? Not so much. I quit trumpet two years ago.
“Let Luz do what she wants,” Dad breaks in.
“Of course,” says Mom, glaring at him. “That’s why we’re sitting here.”
Dad sighs and runs his hand through his hair. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he annoyed this might break my last link to soccer? Or does he want to jump in and say something but can’t? Why is he making Mom handle it all?
This isn’t the first time they’ve growled at each other. Something’s off between them recently. They think I don’t notice, but they misunderstand each other more, like they’re on the same team but executing two different plays. They talk in sharp voices behind their bedroom door, and when they come out, Dad’s too quiet. Some kind of softness between them has stiffened, like when taffy gets cold in the refrigerator. Instead of stretching, it can snap.
Now it seems like it doesn’t matter if I stay in soccer class or not. Somehow, Dad not fighting for it makes me want to give up, too. Everyone knows I’ll just be putting in the time. Getting an A for showing up. I can’t picture Dad high-fiving me for that kind of A.
Mom leans in farther, pulling my gaze to her. “For tomorrow, go to soccer. Ms. Martin says you can change your schedule all the way up until Friday if you want to.”
Mom’s trying, I’ll give her that. I can tell she wants me to be happy. But she also wants life to flow like one of her symphonies. Everything timed right, everything harmonizing. My accident threw in a bunch of wrong notes. She keeps trying to fix it, but let’s face it: We haven’t found the new song yet. Nothing’s like it was.
I slouch to my room and look at the empty walls. The truth is, I thought I’d play soccer forever. At least make the high school team someday. Earn one of those letter jackets maybe? I know now that can’t happen. Yet I always planned to stay in the class.…
Maybe that was dumb.
Or maybe it’s dumb to think I’d fit in anywhere else.
If my brain were a dump truck, I’d raise the dump bed high and let a bunch of stuff slide out: soccer, the school counselor, the family meeting, and Dad acting half bored, half angry. I’d leave it all in a big pile and drive away.
Instead I perch on the edge of my bed and pick up the black thing Mr. Mac sent over by remote-controlled car. Maybe this will clear my head.
A lump moves under my covers. It’s Zigzag. As usual, she’s burrowed to the middle of the mattress, taking up all the room. “Can I borrow your bed?” I say, teasing her. She meows before settling back into her nap.
I turn over the device in my hands. It’s about as heavy as a phone, but bulkier. The buttons look like a row of Starburst candies standing on edge, except their color. The writing has almost worn off, but I make out PLAY, FF, REW, STOP, and next to the red one, REC.
REC has got to mean record. I press it and say, “Testing. Testing. This is Luz Véliz, formerly of Tri-City Soccer League.” But when I press PLAY, no sound plays back. The little wheels spin silently inside the cartridge. I check the volume, turning the dial all the way up. Still nothing.
