by Katherine Grace Bond

Castles in the Sky. That was the name of the art contest.

Estela nearly skipped home from the bus. She already knew what she would draw, and she was bursting to tell her sister, Julia. All the winning entries would be shown at City Hall during a fancy reception.

Estela waved at Mrs. Mfume and one of the college boys who lived on the main floor. She went around to her family’s door and pushed it open.

Julia was counting pinto beans at the kitchen counter. She had that sour lemon look on her face again.

“Here,” she said, shoving a pencil at Estela before she could speak. “Write this down: Three packages pintos, four onions, half-bag masa.”

Julia slammed the food down on the counter as she went. Luis, their 7-year-old brother, ran his toy car loudly across the oven door, making it hard to hear.

Estela wrote on the back of a junk mail flyer. She hated it when Julia got this way — acting as if she was Mamá and bossing everybody around. But now that Mamá cleaned offices at night as well as houses during the day, she didn’t get home until 10 p.m. And Julia acted like she was Mamá, even though she was only 14.

Estela drew an ear of corn growing out of the word masa. Ever since Uncle Ramón, Mamá’s brother, went back to Mexico, Mamá had been una gruñona, a grouch. And ever since Mamá started working nights, Julia was a grouch, too.

Estela turned over the flyer. On the front was a picture of a sky-blue house.

Luis stood on a chair and peered over her shoulder. “What does it say?”

“Three bedrooms with pool, two baths, jetted tubs.”

“Do jetted tubs have airplanes in them?”

Julia set down the masa and ruffled Luis’s hair.

“No, tontito. They make water bubble, like at that house Mamá cleans on Fridays. She says those tubs are so deep that if you took a bath in one, you couldn’t see over the top.”

Estela grabbed another flyer and began sketching her contest entry: a sky-blue casa with marble columns.

“You’ll have a jet-tub, right, Julia?” Estela asked. “When you’re a famous singer like Gloria Estefan?”

“I’ll have six,” Julia said, humming a little. “Plus three pools and my own bed.”

Picture Imperfect

Estela felt a knot in her stomach. Julia never used to complain about sharing a bed with her. They had shared one before they left Mexico, when Luis was born and needed Mamá at night. They used to lie awake behind the blanket-curtains that divided the room and sing until Uncle Ramón rumbled, “¡Cállense! Be quiet!” from his couch.

Mamá always said Julia’s voice was like a golondrina. Mamá’s favorite song was “Cielito Lindo,” about a man who saw his true love only on Sundays. When Estela sang with Julia, her voice sounded beautiful, too. But Julia never sang anymore. She hummed a little, but never sang.

Julia frowned. “Estela, what are you drawing now? You should be chopping onion. It’s almost 5.”

Estela blocked her picture from Julia’s view. She didn’t want to tell her about the contest anymore. She added a tower with diamond-shaped windows; that would be her room. Luis ran his car up her arm and over her shoulders.

“Cut it out, Luis!” She whapped his hand with her pencil, and he let out a wail. He backed into the refrigerator and slid melodramatically to the floor.

Julia whipped around. “¡Ay! Now look what you’ve done!” She knelt by Luis, examining the barely visible red mark. Luis buried his face in Julia’s arms.

Estela rolled her eyes. “He’s not hurt.”

“You don’t know that.” Julia glared at her. “I could use a little cooperation around here.”

“Well, if you didn’t act like la Princesa del Universo, maybe I’d want to help more!”

Julia snatched the drawing out of Estela’s hands. “Is this your mansión?” she said sarcastically. “Right.” She tore it in two.

Estela stood up, shaking. She slammed her chair under the table, ran out the door and into Uncle Ramón’s garden. She sank down behind the cucumbers and beans. Estela decided she wouldn’t talk to Julia ever again.

The prickly pear in the yard had yellow flowers now. In the summer they would ripen into tuna, a sweet red fruit that made her tongue and lips tingle.

Luis bounced into the garden.

“Julia needs you in the house,” he sang.

Julia appeared at the sliding glass door with an onion in her hand.

“Tell Julia I’m not her slave.”

“She’s not your slave,” Luis chirped at Julia.

“You don’t cook, you don’t eat,” Julia said, turning to go in.

“Tell her fine!” Estela said.

“Fine!” Luis said to Julia’s back.

Sad Note

By Saturday the silence was wearing thin. Luis refused to talk for Estela. He said it wasn’t fun anymore, so Estela was reduced to drawing things and shoving them under Julia’s nose.

That night, Julia took her pillow out of their bed and put it in Mamá’s. “In case you want to know,” she said. “I’ll be sleeping by the kitchen from now on. Mamá says it makes more sense for her to sleep on the couch since it’s by the door. Then she can leave without waking us up in the morning. Luis is sleeping with you.”

Estela felt herself bristle with anger, but she said nothing. She looked at Uncle Ramón’s couch and felt a pang. Would he ever be able to come back?

Luis was all legs and elbows, and he didn’t want to go to sleep.

“Sing 'Cielito Lindo,' ‘Stela.”

“I’m tired, Luis. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep. Please? Pretend it’s a lullaby.”

“Oh, all right.

“De domingo a domingo,” she began.

“That’s not the way it goes,” Luis said. “Julia knows the real way.”

He was right. It sounded flat without her voice waltzing in and out of Julia’s.

“Fine,” Estela said grumpily. “Ask Julia.”

“You have to sing with her.”

No, I don’t, Estela thought. Singing is just like talking, and I’m not talking to her.

“Lullabies are for bebés, Luis,” Julia said from the other side of the blanket-curtain.

Luis started to cry.

The key turned in the door as Mamá came home from work. She slid back the blanket-curtain and sat on Estela’s bed.

“Oh, Luis,” she said. “Why tears?”

Luis wrapped his arms tight around her. “I want singing.”

“Tomorrow is church,” Mamá said. “We will do lots of singing then.”

“I want Estela and Julia’s singing.”

Mamá nodded her head sadly.

“Sí, Luis. The singing has gone out of their faces. I miss it, too.”

Mamá kissed each of them and went to the couch.

Healing Song

“Cilantro, Estela?” Mamá was making salsa after church. Sunday was Estela’s favorite day because Mamá didn’t work. Estela took a basket to the garden. Julia was already there gathering green tomatoes behind the beanpoles. Estela couldn’t see her, but she could hear her. She was singing!

“De domingo a domingo, te vengo a ver.” (From Sunday to Sunday, I come to see you.)

It sounded sad—not the way Julia used to sing. She broke off in the middle and was quiet.

Estela stood near the cilantro. She could hear bees buzzing in the prickly pear flowers, but she wanted to hear Julia sing again. She was tired of silence.

Estela stepped around the beanpoles. Julia turned. There were tears on her face. She wiped them away quickly and let out a ragged breath.

“Oh, Julia.” Estela said. “Please don’t stop singing.”

Julia looked away. She put another tomate in her basket. “Papá used to sing that song for Mamá,” she said. “Do you remember?”

Estela tried. She shook her head. “Barely at all. I was so little.”

Julia brushed back her hair. “Losing Uncle Ramón was almost like losing Papá all over,” she said.

“We’ll see him again,” Estela said. “We’ll go back to Mexico, or he’ll come back here.”

But neither of them believed it.

“I’m sorry I tore your picture,” Julia said.

“It’s OK,” Estela said. She picked a tomate. Suddenly, she felt like a princesa. Uncle Ramón’s garden was her castillo. Two princesas, picking tomates for the queen.

Julia’s voice started soft and gained strength as Estela joined in, “¿Cuándo será domingo, cielito lindo, para volver?” (When will it be Sunday again, darling, to return?)

They soared through the melody for Papá, for Mamá, for Uncle Ramón. Luis came tumbling out the back door and danced in the grass.

Garden Castle

“Honorable Mention.” Mamá gazed up at Estela’s drawing on the wall at City Hall. “I am so proud of you.”

Estela beamed and ran her fingers around the frame. Her name and the title were engraved on a gold plate at the bottom. “Castillos en el Cielo,” it said, “Mi hermana, Julia, recogiendo tomates y cantando.” (My Sister, Julia, Picking Green Tomatoes and Singing.)

	Q: What do pigs write letters with? A: Pig-pens. Alejandro P., 12, California Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe