Rebecca Balcarcel - Shine On, Luz Véliz!

Copyright 2022 by Rebecca Balcrcel.

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.

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San Francisco, California 94107

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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

So theres 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 thats 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 cant look at this stuff anymore.

Then theres the ball. Am I keeping it? No way.

Well?

No.

Okay, fine. I cant let go of my soccer ball yet.

Im 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. Im thankful for one healthy knee. Really, I am. But Im 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 Womens 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 its 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, its like Im 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 couldnt go with her. Its like she went on without me, to where I was supposed to go. Now well 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. Im left with a wobbly knee, they say.

Which means I cant play soccer this springor 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 Im 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, Im getting used to the knee. The thing that bothers me is Dad. He hardly talks to me anymore. Its like he cant get over it. I guess Im 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 Dads 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? Im 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 doesnt say it with a smile, though, and my heart wilts a little. He doesnt notice the trash bag in my hands, though its 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, hes just Dad the landscaper. He quit coaching the day I got hurt; another parent took over. He works his landscaping design business, Vliz Verde, even on Saturdays now.

So fine. I didnt 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. Its 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!

Thats what I like about Mr. Mac. He figures you know what youre doing. He figures youve got your reasons.

Mr. Mac isnt his full name. Its Mr. MacLellan, but were 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 hes 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. Its my old soccer stuff.

He nods his hatted head, and the sun glints off his round glasses. Hes quiet for a second. Thats a prickly one to swallow, all right.