Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green (24 page)

“Half a day!” I repeat. “The gala won’t even be over by then! Mom says bands have been hired to play till dawn.”

Kyle shrugs nervously.

“Oh, la di da,” Roo says, “we’ll get you back here in no time, right, Miss Perfect?”

And Miss Perfect faces bravely forward as we rush down through the jungle, which somehow seems to part more easily for us than it ever has before—the big leaves bowing back out of our way, the vines shrinking to the sides, the screams of the monkeys encouraging us along—although perhaps it’s just the new exhilarated lightness in my feet.

I
t’s only once we’re safely in Kyle’s room, with the door locked and La Lluvia raging outside and Miss Perfect perched calmly on Roo’s shoulder, that we truly celebrate. Today we don’t need Señora V’s red potion to make us giddy. Roo keeps jumping this way and that, putting her face up in our faces and smiling and laughing, squeezing and stroking Miss Perfect, calling out bunches of questions:
How should we sneak Miss Perfect into the gala?
and
Won’t Dad be so proud of us?
and
Wait, could I maybe hide Miss Perfect, like, on my body?
and
Miss Perfect, how would you feel about that?
Roo’s joy is super contagious, and in the middle of it I somehow forget to worry about everything else, such as the fact that right this very second La Lava may be preparing to punish Dad for not providing another LTVT before the gala—preparing to do whatever they’ve threatened to do to his family.

It’s pretty obvious that Roo is the one who will have to carry Miss Perfect into the gala. The bird tolerates Kyle and will even let him touch her a little, but for some reason she really hates me. Every
time I coo at her or reach out to stroke her, she hisses and raises her wings and backs away. I pretend I’m not offended.

“Miss Perfect!” Roo scolds, unlacing her sneakers. “She’s my
sister
.”

“Don’t worry,” Kyle murmurs apologetically. “That’s how she’d act toward any normal person.”

Oh. Great. So now I’m just any normal person.

Roo yanks her socks off and what should fall out but oodles of the yellow toe-flowers. Jeez, I’d almost forgotten what a huge batch she had this morning.

But get this: As soon as the flowers hit the floor, Miss Perfect dives off Roo’s shoulder and pecks them all up in a matter of seconds, swallowing them with a sound that can only be described as
Mmm!
I never would’ve guessed a bird could make a sound like that. I have to say, it’s a little gross. So now Roo’s fungus flowers are the preferred food of the world’s rarest bird? What are the chances? And is it just me, or do Miss Perfect’s golden feathers suddenly glint a little brighter?

We’re all transfixed, gazing at Miss Perfect, when Kyle clears his throat.

“Now,” he announces, “the time has come to clarify our plot. I’ll give a speech once we get up onstage. And toward the end of my speech, we’ll need to show the bird to prove that everything I’m saying is true. So let’s begin with the plan for the smuggling of the proof.”

It strikes me then that we have little to no idea what we’re doing, that our plan is pretty darn vague. Just as I have that thought, Miss Perfect shoots me a nasty glare. Boy, what’s that bird’s
problem
?

I don’t usually have good ideas about smuggling and that kind of thing anyway, so I decide to hole myself up on Kyle’s bed, as far
away from Miss Perfect as possible, leaving it to Kyle and Roo to create a little sack for Miss Perfect out of Kyle’s bird net.

The sack will dangle from a string tied around Roo’s waist, and the bird will be hidden beneath the poufy skirt of Roo’s dress. When Roo asks Miss Perfect if she’s okay with being tied to her that way, Miss Perfect nestles adoringly against Roo’s shoulder, just as she did up in the jungle. Kyle and Roo work on it for a while, folding the net and rigging up the sack and then winding the string through it. By the end it’s basically a pouch, which Roo can open easily enough with just two fingers. Roo is mainly concerned about Miss Perfect’s comfort. Kyle is mainly concerned about Roo being able to release Miss Perfect quickly when the time comes in his speech. He explains this moment to us as though he’s seeing it right before his eyes: The bird will swoop dramatically over the crowd, a swoop that will stun the world and save her eggs as well as her species.

I’m mainly concerned that no one will recognize Miss Perfect as an LTVT anyway, considering she looks
way
less dramatic than a male bird. And I’m extra concerned that by trying to save Miss Perfect and her eggs we’re giving up on our own safety.

“How do you know she’ll even make this so-called dramatic swoop?” I say, a little nastily. “I mean, she’s a wild animal. She might just fly away.”

Roo looks at me like I have palm trees growing out of my ears, and, from inside her pouch, Miss Perfect hisses in my direction.

“Mad,” Roo says as though she’s sad I’m so dumb, “Miss Perfect
knows what’s up
.”

Aggravation blurs my vision but no good retort jumps to my lips.

Kyle wrinkles his forehead and says, “There’s still a problem, though.”

“What?” I say irritably from my post on the far corner of the bed, ever more annoyed by Miss Perfect’s obvious dislike of me.

“What a good wonderful bird you are, Miss Perfect!” Roo whispers as she opens Miss Perfect’s pouch and lifts her out. Then she adds, “What a wacky funky chicken you are, Señorita Perfecta!” Miss Perfect doesn’t seem to mind.

“The security will be very high,” Kyle says. “All those rich and famous people. There’s no way we’ll be able to just hop up onto the stage. They’ll probably have us in handcuffs before I’m three words into my speech. If I’m even able to get to a microphone in the first place.”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. My imagination had stopped at finding an LTVT. In fact, it hadn’t even gone as far as
actually
finding an LTVT. But Kyle’s totally right. Just as I always suspected. This isn’t going to work at all. Not even a little. Disappointment and relief merge inside me, and I take a deep breath.

“Well,” Roo says, cocking her head at Miss Perfect, “we need help.”

“Help!” Kyle almost laughs. “Help from whom?”

And I’m going,
Yeah, help from whom?
Into my mind pop the Villaloboses, Señora V and Señor V—who, to be frank, are probably the most responsible adults in my life right now. But they have no help to offer when it comes to the La Lava corporation. Mom, Lady Yoga Brain? I don’t think so. Dad? Considering
we’re
the ones trying to save
him
 … No. Ken/Neth? I can’t believe that name even crossed my mind.

“From the most powerful person at the gala,” Roo says simply. “Whoever that is.”

Now it’s Kyle’s turn to look at her like she has palm trees growing out of her ears.

But right then it hits me.

The most powerful person at the gala.

“Vivi!” I practically scream. All of them—including Miss Perfect—turn to stare at me.

An enormous, thrilled grin spreads across Roo’s face. “Vivi!” she echoes. “Of
course
.”

“You’re right, you’re right, you’re right,” Kyle says. “You’re right, Mad.”

“I know her! I mean, I’ve seen her!” I babble. “She’s … she … she thinks I have good skin! I’ve seen her, like, a bunch. Well, at least, like, twice. And we talked! Sort of. She wants to take my skin!”

“Okay,” Kyle says, ignoring that last bit, his eyes brighter than bright. “Okay. This is good. This is perfect. Vivi can get us up on that stage. She could get anyone anywhere.”

But listening to Kyle’s confident proclamations, I tumble out of my excitement into doubt. I remember how Vivi seemed half nice and half mean. Maybe even more than half mean. I think of how I saw her flick her hand rudely at that waiter who brought her a drink, and how scared Patricia Chevalier was of her. And Vivi
is
scary. Or at least very intimidating.

“I don’t know, though,” I mutter. “I don’t know if she’d really help us. I mean, isn’t she at La Lava because she’s dying to get the miracle treatment?” I pause, disappointed, and then admit, “I have no good reason to believe she’d help us.”

“Sure you do!” Roo says as Miss Perfect flaps up to sit on her head.

“I do?” I say uncertainly. I try to imagine how Vivi will
actually
get us up on the stage, how we’ll
actually
convince her that three kids have something worth saying to a crowd of important grown-ups, and it all comes crashing down.

“Think about it, Mad,” Kyle says. “What matters to Vivi more than anything else?”

“Um,” I say, thinking. “Her skin?”

“No!” Kyle and Roo scold at the same time.

“Being a philosopist!” Roo cries out.

“A what?” I say.

“I think you mean
philanthropist
,” Kyle whispers.

“Yeah, that,” Roo says.

“She’s famous for caring about green causes, and kids’ causes too,” Kyle reminds me. “She’s at La Lava because she thinks it’s the greenest place to be. Imagine how she’ll feel when she learns that that’s not true at all.”

I guess they have a point. Although I’m still not convinced Vivi cares more about her causes than about her skin. But, say she would help—how are we even going to get in touch with her?

“How exactly will we get her to help us, though?” I ask them. “How will we
find
her? How can we possibly explain all this craziness to her?”

“Easy-peasy!” Roo exclaims, in that way only she can. “You, Mad. Obviously.”

“Me?” I say. The one who can’t speak Spanish or track birds? The one who’s never had a single yellow flower growing from her toes?

“You’re the poet, you know it!” Roo chants, pulling my notebook out of her backpack.

“Hey, what’re you doing with that?” I yelp, annoyed. Roo knows better than anyone—in fact, she’s probably the only one who’s ever noticed—that I wrote
PRIVATE
all over the front, back, and inside of my poetry notebook. Not that it’s so private from Roo. I mean, I
am
always reading my poems to her. But still.

“You’re just going to write her The Most Awesome Letter Ever,” Roo says, “telling her all about everything that’s been going on with Dad and La Lava and the birds and Miss Perfect, and explaining how she can help us, and then we’re going to sneak it to her tonight
when she goes to the bathroom. Even movie stars have to go to the bathroom, right?”

Roo shoves the notebook toward me, and Kyle pulls a pen out of his pocket, and they both stand there by the bed, waiting for me to accept what they’re offering. Even Miss Perfect gazes solemnly down at me from her perch on Roo’s head. I look at the three pairs of eyes—Roo’s hopeful, Kyle’s expectant, Miss Perfect’s demanding—all certain that I can do what needs to be done. I guess it’s probably true that writing is the closest thing I have to a magical power. And considering the way my companions have been calling on their powers this whole time, I guess it’s probably my turn.

Slowly, reluctantly, I reach out for the notebook and the pen.

“Yippee!” Roo shouts. “Yippity-doo-da!”

I sink down onto Kyle’s bed and suddenly forget how you’re even supposed to start a letter. Should I put the date at the top? Should I write
Dear Vivi
or
Dearest Vivi
or
Hi, Vivi
or
Hey, Vivi
? For a couple of minutes I sit there, pen hovering above paper, quietly panicking, trying not to let on to the others, who continue to stare at me. Then it occurs to me, simply, clearly, that I will begin the letter with just
Vivi
. And off I go.

Time stands still as I work on the letter that will make Vivi feel as though she absolutely must help us. I sprawl on Kyle’s bed and focus all my brainpower on the words, barely even noticing when Kyle gives my ankle an encouraging pat or when Roo interrupts the cooing game she’s playing with Miss Perfect to mutter “Mad the Mad Scribbler” in a silly voice or when Señora V drops off a plate of steaming coconut cookies and freaks out with joy about Miss Perfect being there.

“Okay,” I say eventually, folding the eight-notebook-page letter into thirds and shaking out my tired wrist. “I’m done.”

“Is it good? Is it great?” Roo says.

“Let me see,” Kyle says, reaching for it.

But I tuck it into my pocket.

“No!” I say. I don’t want him to look at it and think it’s bad. And I don’t want him to look at it and tell me it’s good. I don’t want to have my hopes dashed, and I don’t want to get them up either. I’ve written the best letter I’m able to write, with the most honest telling of this whole story, and that’s that. It’s for Vivi’s eyes alone.

“Okay, okay,” Kyle says, raising his hands and backing off. “Want a cookie?”

It feels good,
really
good, to be sitting on Kyle’s floor, eating Señora V’s coconut cookies and rubbing the jungle mud off our faces with napkins dipped in water and being totally flabbergasted that we’re here with an actual LTVT. Miss Perfect flutters above us, often landing on Roo’s head and sometimes on Kyle’s. I ignore Roo’s constant flow of chatter to Miss Perfect and instead keep sneaking glances at Kyle’s feet, which (as I’ve just noticed for the first time) are surprisingly small, which seems super charming to me, a grown-up teenager like Kyle with feet that still look like a kid’s.