Miracle Girls: A Novel Page 2

Ms. Moore bites her lip for a long moment. “I don’t think I’m going to answer that question,” she says finally, her short brown hair bouncing as she nods. “I gave the assignment and I want to see what you’ll do with it.” She crosses her thin arms over her chest.

  I look around, but everyone else seems to be as confused as I feel. “This isn’t for a grade,” Ms. Moore says quickly. “There are no right or wrong answers.” She scratches her forearm. “Two pages will suffice. Let’s get started right now.”

  We all stare at her for a moment until she gestures with her hand to indicate that we should pull our desks closer together.

  “Now,” Ms. Moore says, clapping. “No thinking. Just write.”

  We each take out notebook paper and a pen or a pencil and stare down at the blank pages. Ms. Moore is a little disorienting. Other teachers would have specified plain, college-ruled paper, front-side only, no pencils, please double-space, write your name and date at the top, remember to use topic sentences. But she apparently just wants us to go for it. I chew on the end of my pencil and think. Zoe crunches into Doritos while she writes.

  What is Ms. Moore looking for here? I guess I could write about the day my dad came home and announced that he was starting his own law practice and we were moving to Half Moon Bay. My mom had always wanted to live on the beach, and he decided he could make more money in this town because there are a lot of rich people here. Mom thought the town was charming, so here we are. That was a pretty big day.

  But somehow I don’t think that’s interesting enough to get a good grade on this. Ms. Moore said it wouldn’t be graded, but you can’t trust teachers on this kind of stuff. Everything you turn in counts for something.

  There was the time I fell out of a tree and broke my arm. Hm. That doesn’t seem right either. Maybe I could make something up? No one here knows I was a baby when my parents left Mexico. Maybe I could pretend I was older and remember it. That’s the kind of thing Ms. Moore would love.

  I glance up at Ms. Moore, and we lock eyes. I smile at her, as if to say, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” But she gives me one of her piercing stares. For a moment, I could almost swear she’s digging through the secret memories in my mind. My heart beats a little faster, and my fingers feel icy and numb. Finally she smiles at me and gives me an encouraging nod.

  I look back down at my paper. Okay, fine, I’ll write the truth. What’s the harm in writing it down in detention? Only Ms. Moore will see it, and she’s always saying you have to be true to yourself and stuff. I take a deep breath and begin.

  I was born in Mexico and had a serious heart deformity. My family rushed me to a hospital in San Diego, where the American doctors performed open-heart surgery on me when I was four days old. My parents prayed and prayed that I would be okay, but the odds of my surviving were less than ten percent. But God was merciful and he saved me. Even the doctors said it must have been a miracle. Everything that has ever happened in my life is because God spared me that day. We moved to the United States for good. My parents, who weren’t very religious, started going to church. And I grew up with a sense of purpose. I was given a second chance at life so that I can go to Princeton and eventually become a doctor myself. I am called to save others just as God saved me.

  I go back through and check my essay, making sure I’ve got the commas and the spelling right and re-reading different sections. The hair on my arm raises. It’s kind of humbling to know you aren’t really supposed to have made it.

  “Okay, everybody. Let’s stop right there,” Ms. Moore says, looking up from the beat-up copy of The Grapes Of Wrath she’s been reading.

  A few people groan because they haven’t finished yet.

  “It’s doesn’t matter where you are. That’s not the point of this assignment. The point is that it’s always important to recognize the big moments in your life and share them with others.”

  I take a deep breath. Did she say share them with others?

  “Humans must stay connected with one another for society to work. You must care for your neighbor.”

  Now we all groan in unison. Ms. Moore has really lost it now. There is no way on earth I’m sharing this essay with anyone. She tricked us. She made me be honest. I cross my arms across my chest.

  “Go on,” she says, looking around the room at us. “No one is leaving this classroom until every single person has read their story to their group.”

  We continue to stare back at her, unmoving.

  Ms. Moore smiles at us a little crookedly. “I wouldn’t make you do it if I didn’t think it was good for you.” She walks around to her desk. “And I’ve got all day.”

  A few people look around to see if anyone is moving.

  Ms. Moore opens The Grapes of Wrath. “Say, isn’t American Idol on tonight?”

  We look at each other. Can she really hold us here as long as she wants? There must be a rule about that or something. Slowly, people around us begin to move, and the room hums as people start to read.

  3

  “Let’s just get this over with,” Riley says. She carefully avoids my eye. “I’ll go first. We all wrote one, so it’s no big deal.” She nods, as if to convince herself.

  Christine, Zoe, and I nod back, and she begins to read her essay. I can hear other people around me reading cute stories about summer camp counselors and first kisses, and I want to shove my story into my mouth and swallow it so that no one can see what I wrote. How could I have been so stupid?

  Luckily, Riley’s story is kind of like mine. “I am one of the strongest swimmers I know, and I’ve been surfing since I could walk. My dad would take me out into the ocean, and I would lose myself in the wonder and the power of the waves,” she begins. Her face is pink, and she keeps her eyes trained on her paper. She reads quickly. “A few months ago, just after school let out for the summer, I went out surfing by myself one morning. I promised my mom that I would never surf alone, but Ashley didn’t show up, and the ocean was calling me. The waves were perfect—big and round and fast. There were a few college-age guys down the shore a little ways, but I was perfectly and peacefully alone where I was. I had caught a couple great breaks, and I was getting tired, so I was just about to come in for the day when a big wave came up behind me and pulled me off my board.”

  Riley coughs. She takes a deep breath, looks around, then rushes on. “It hit me on the head, and I went under. I was stunned and disoriented as the wave tossed me around, but I tried to kick my way back to the top. I made it to the surface, but the undertow was pulling at my feet, like someone was yanking me down, down, down. I fought for a long time, bobbing up and down, but after a while, I knew it was useless. When I couldn’t fight anymore, I let the frothy water take me under. The last thing I remember is saying a prayer and shutting my eyes. It’s not like I’m so religious, but my parents taught us to pray and I guess it was just natural. And the next thing I know, I’m waking up on the shore. My board has washed up down the beach a little ways from me, broken in half, but I’m fine. I should have died, but I didn’t. God saved me.”

  Riley puts her paper down and looks at her hands. Riley is so bossy and confident that I guess I assumed she never really got embarrassed. And she’s actually a really good writer. We sit in silence for a moment.

  “I’ll go next,” Zoe says quietly. Zoe’s red hair cascades around her face, and she begins to read. Her voice is soft and soothing, and at first I can’t understand her because she’s reading so fast. I lean in closer.

  A year ago, Zoe is saying, she was horseback riding with her parents. She and her father went off on one of the trails through the redwoods when her horse heard a clap of thunder and reared up on its back legs. Zoe held on, but the horse kept bucking. She knew she was in for it. She’d been around horses her whole life and knew that people can die or be paralyzed when they get thrown. Her foot caught in the stirrup, and when the horse took off running, Zoe was dragged along behind him. Her dad said the horse ran for almost a quarter of a mile before h
e caught up to them, but Zoe blacked out. All she remembers is lying on the ground, dazed and disoriented, then getting up quietly. Her father called 911, assuming she was in a state of shock when she couldn’t tell him what hurt, and she walked to the ambulance and sat still while they examined her. They rushed her to the hospital only to find . . . nothing. Nothing was wrong with her. Her father called it a miracle, the doctors called it a miracle, and it must have been.

  Zoe puts down her essay and shrugs. I watch her, trying to catch her eye, but she won’t look up. Something strange is going on. I look at Christine the freak girl. She glares back at me.

  “Okay, I’ll go now,” I say. “But let’s hurry up because I really need to get home.” The others nod.

  I start to read. I try to speak slowly and clearly, enunciating each syllable. I finish my story and immediately start playing with my pen to give my hands something to do. Suddenly I feel like I don’t have any clothes on.

  When I finally look up, I see they are all staring at me with their mouths hanging open. I take a deep breath and nudge Christine. “Your turn,” I say, trying to play it cool. “It’s not that bad.” I figure if we move on, they’ll forget about my essay.

  Christine looks at me and cocks an eyebrow. “Trust me, you have no idea.”

  Christine’s story is only half a page long, but in the margins she has drawn amazing cartoons to illustrate her story. I can see them through the paper as she holds it up to read. She recites her words as if she’s reading a police transcript.

  Christine and her mother were riding in the car. Her mother was wearing her seatbelt. Christine did not have her seatbelt on. It was raining. The car’s brakes locked up. The car skidded off the road into a ravine. Christine flew through the windshield. She doesn’t remember that part, but she saw the shattered glass later. Her mother hit her head on the steering wheel and died upon impact. Christine walked up to the road and flagged down a passing car. Now it is just Christine and her father. That was the day her life changed.

  I watch Christine’s face as she reads. She carefully controls herself, as if she’s not even reading about her own life. I want to give her a hug, but she won’t look at us. Zoe has a tear running down her cheek.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say weakly. Riley and Zoe nod. Zoe puts her hand on Christine’s forearm, and Christine lets her keep it there. I hold out a pack of Kleenex, but no one reaches for it.

  “You guys, do you realize that all of us are, like, these freaks of nature?” Zoe asks, her eyes wide.

  “We should be dead,” Riley says quietly.

  I try to lighten the mood. “At least we wouldn’t be in detention if we were dead.” Christine smiles.

  “Okay, please let me have your attention,” says Ms. Moore. I look up, startled. Our little world had grown so private over here that to hear someone else’s voice is strange.

  “I’m very proud of everyone today. You all did great work. When your group is done, please quietly excuse yourselves and turn in your papers on the way out. Have a great evening,” she says.

  I turn back to my group. I’m glad to finally get out of here, but . . . I somehow don’t want to go.

  “So, I guess I’ll see you guys around,” I say. It sounds lame, but nothing I can think of seems appropriate right now.

  Christine and Zoe are still frozen in place. Riley shrugs and starts to get up.

  “What are you doing?” Zoe hisses at her. She grabs Riley’s arm.

  Riley shakes free. “Um, going home? You?”

  Zoe stares at Riley in disbelief. “Don’t you see? This is huge. We’ve been thrown together for a reason.” She looks around to make sure we all see this.

  I glance up at Ms. Moore. She has her eyebrow raised at me again. What is with this lady? Is she some kind of magician? Can she read minds?

  “Look,” Riley says, letting her bag fall against the desk. “We all have similar stories. That’s strange. It’s a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” Zoe says. “You think this is a coincidence? You’re so smart, and you can’t figure this out?” She shakes her head. And as much as I hate to admit it, I think Zoe might be right.

  Riley looks at us. Zoe is staring at her intently, her face pale.

  “Everyone else wrote an essay about their stupid hamster dying,” Christine says.

  “Okay, fine,” Riley says. “It’s pretty weird. I get it. But what do you want from me?”

  I stare at Christine, then look at Zoe. Neither of them moves.

  Riley’s phone begins to vibrate, and she reaches to shut it off. “See you around.” As she turns to go, I swear I see a trace of bewilderment on her face.

  “I’d better go too,” Christine says. She stands up slowly and begins to pack her things away. Zoe stares at Christine.

  “We need to talk more about this, guys,” Zoe says, and Christine shrugs, then tosses her book bag over her shoulder and walks toward the door. I watch her go, and for some reason I feel sad as she walks away.

  Zoe shakes her head at me. “Jeez, some people.” I shrug. What can you do? Did she honestly think a cheerleader and a freak were going to hang out with us? “Do you want to get together sometime?” she asks. I look at her long tie-dye skirt and her hemp backpack. She smells a little weird, like patchouli. She’s an outsider too.

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” Zoe stands up and abruptly grabs her backpack and walks to the front of the room.

  I am left sitting alone at my desk for the second time today. “Thank you, God,” I whisper, although even as I say it, I’m not really sure what I’m thanking him for.

  4

  When Papá asks how school went today, I don’t know what to say. I look at him chewing his chicken and notice that he’s staring over my shoulder, out the back door. Okay, good. Sometimes he gets on these “I’m an involved parent” kicks where he tries to really care, but most of the time he just asks because he doesn’t know what else to say. Thankfully, this is one of those times. I can probably get out of here and onto my homework in under ten minutes.

  “Fine,” I say, then quickly stuff ginger chicken into my mouth. When he’s home in the evening, Papá insists that we all eat dinner together. Thankfully, his new law practice keeps him busy most of the time. “I practiced my piano piece for a while, and I think I’m really getting it now.”

  “That’s good,” he says. “Hard work is the only way to get ahead, Ana.” He takes another bite. Hard work is Papá’s favorite topic, at least when it comes to me.

  It’s not that he doesn’t care about what’s really going in my life, but he just doesn’t seem to know how to ask. Even if he did, I’m not sure I’d know how to answer. We have some kind of communication gap. It started around the time I got boobs.

  I look straight ahead, staring at the pink wall behind him. Who paints their dining room pink? Mom is doing the new house in what she calls a “beach palette,” and apparently this room is Sandy Sunset, which is supposed to be stimulating or something, but is not helping our conversation here.

  “Did your Key Club meeting go well?” She looks at me sweetly, as if she actually cares, but I know what she’s really asking. Did I make any friends at Key Club today? I weigh my options on how to answer. I could tell her that the meeting was canceled, but then I’d have to explain what I did instead. I could answer what she’s really asking and tell her I met someone named Zoe who seems kind of cool, but then I’d have to explain about detention, and Papá would flip out. So far my detention is a secret between me and Maria, who picks me up from school. I could distract Mom by mentioning that I aced my history test, but she might pick up on the fact that I am trying to change the subject. I look at her smiling at me hopefully, and my heart sinks. I wish I could give her the answer she’s looking for, but instead I just nod.

  “It was fine,” I say. I hope God will forgive me. I know you’re not supposed to lie, but surely Jesus remembers how hard it was to be a teenager. I guess they didn’t have college adm
issions quotas to worry about back then, but I doubt much has changed with the whole parents thing in the past two thousand years.

  Thankfully, Maria breaks the awkward silence by coming into the dining room to check on our “water situation,” as Mom likes to call refilling our glasses, and Papá is distracted by a new e-mail on his BlackBerry, so I use the opportunity to change the subject.

  “How was your meeting, Mom?” Mom has already made herself indispensable to the women’s group at our new church, and she is in the throes of organizing some tea or something. I can never keep it all straight.

  “We’re working on the most interesting project.” She purses her artificially plumped lips. “We’re organizing volunteers to visit the elderly and shut-ins in town.” She puts her fork down. “You wouldn’t believe how many people there are in Half Moon Bay who have no one to talk to. They’re so lonely. It’s tragic.”

  “Wow,” I say, unsure how to respond. I wonder if I can sign up.

  “And the community service will look good on your applications, honey, so I volunteered you to do visits at the nursing home. Oh, and Michelle McGee’s daughter is going to do it too. Isn’t that great? She goes to your school, so this will help you get to know someone.” She smiles as if she’s just handed me an adorable puppy. God, you were pretty clear about honoring and obeying, but what if my parents are crazy?

  “Super.” I shove a bite of potato into my mouth so I won’t have to say any more. I have too much homework to do to waste my weekends visiting old people. Besides, if I got one guess as to who Michelle McGee’s daughter is, I wouldn’t even need to use one of my lifelines.

  Papá grunts, and I turn to him quickly. “Anything good, Papá?” He puts his BlackBerry down on the table but doesn’t seem to hear me. “On your e-mail?”

  He shakes his head. “Just a client issue. No need to worry.” He pokes at his chicken with a fork.

  “George, did you look at that color I selected for the bedroom?” Mom asks. His real name is Jorge, but Mom only calls him George. I personally like the way Jorge sounds better—not so reminiscent of that curious little monkey—but again, it’s not like anyone in this house is like, ‘Ana, what do you think we should call Papá?’