Thunder and Caterpillars

“Will you be joining me on the Thunder Racer, or will I have to brave it alone?”

“Don’t act so high and mighty,” I retort, crossing my arms. “The last time we went on a rollercoaster together, you threw up all over my shoes the second we got off the ride.”

“I was ten, Lily!” Marco protests, pushing his dark hair away from his brown eyes. “And besides, that funnel cake was worth it.”

“Was the blue slushie worth it?” I asked, getting flashbacks to my ruined sneakers. 

“Maybe I’ll pass on the slushie this time,” he says, laughing. 

Every year our town has this huge fair with amusement park games, rides, and the best foods. Our families had made it a tradition to go every year together on July 17, literally starting from the time we were a year old. It became our tradition to always ride the Caterpillar Dash, a kiddie roller coaster that hardly even left the ground. It was our favourite, and we rode it every year until we were ten. But the next year he had a soccer game, then I had a dance recital, and then it was his abuela's birthday, and the tradition just slowly faded away... So did our friendship. I mean, we still talk to each other at school and hang out sometimes, but each time it feels like we have less and less to talk about. So I had the silly idea, that maybe, if on July 17, we sat in those little caterpillar carts and whirred around the track in circles, it might remind him how much fun we used to have. Because I really don’t want to lose a good friend. 

I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear and look out my bedroom window at the gray sky, watching the clouds billow and churn. Marco follows my glance, staring out the window with concerned eyes. 

“Hopefully it doesn’t一”

BOOM.

A sudden downpour of rain slams against the window, followed by a quick burst of light. The resounding thunder echoes in the sky. 

“Well there goes the Thunder Racer,” he huffs, plopping onto my bed.

And Caterpillar Dash. 

“Kind of ironic, isn’t it?” I say lightly, sitting on the opposite edge to him.

“Ha, yeah,” he replies dryly, placing his head in his hand, elbow perched on his leg.

“Well,” I start, turning to lie on my stomach, “what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” he responds, his back still to me.

“Very helpful,” I joke, laying my arms flat to the bed and resting my head along them. “Stop sulking.”

“Let me sulk,” he announces, flopping onto his back dramatically.

“Why must you sulk, good sir?” I ask playfully, resting my head on my fists.

“I must sulk, for there will be no racing of thunder and no dashing of caterpillars.”

“We cannot sulk, sir, for there is too much fun to be had!” I continue, switching to a British accent.

“What is more fun than riding a caterpillar, dear lady?”

“Watching a movie?”

“No.”

“Going to the mall?”

“Nope.”

“Playing cards?

“Seriously?”

“Colouring?”

“Do I look five?”

“You sound five.”

“Your house is boring.”

“Then you suggest something,” I surrender, turning onto my back. It’s like we don’t even know each other anymore, much less how to talk to each other.

“Is your mom here?” Marco asks hopefully. “Maybe she can make us those cookies we loved when we were kids.”

“Wait,” I say, sitting up, “why don’t we make them ourselves?”

He gives me a look full of pure doubt.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

“Lily, the last time we tried to make something, we blew up mac ‘n’ cheese in my microwave.”

“Fair,” I falter, “but we literally have nothing else to do.”

“Don’t forget the time we set off the fire alarm, making toast.”

“Okay fine, we’re bad at cooking… like really bad. But isn’t that what makes it fun?” I say, giving him a begging look.

“This is going to be a lot scarier than the Thunder Racer,” he sighs, rising from his dramatic sulking position, and standing up. “Lead the way, Martha Stewart.”

“After you, Gordon Ramsey.”

“I said, GET IN THE KITCHEN!” He shouts in an attempt of a British accent, sending me laughing out the door and down the stairs. 

Marco follows me into the kitchen where I start pulling out ingredients from the cabinets. Flour, sugar, baking soda, cinnamon… 

“Do you have the recipe?” He asks as I open the refrigerator door.

“It should be in that tin box on the counter,” I reply, grabbing eggs and butter off the top shelf.

He grabs the box and opens it, shuffling through the many stained cards. I place the ingredients I’m holding next to him and go back to grab the vanilla. 

“My abuela wrote all her recipes down in an old book,” he says as he pulls out a recipe card. 

“Yeah?” I ask, not sure how to respond. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, smiling. “I used to take the book out of her drawer and flip through it every time I went over to her house. The recipes were all in a mix of English and Spanish, and I’d read through them all. My favourite was the tres leches cake she would make for my birthday every year.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I say, memories flooding back. “She’s a great cook.”

“One time, she found me looking at her book, and she told me that it would be mine one day, and that it could use it to make my grandson happy.”

I study his face, glancing over his wistful eyes, raised brows and slight smile. There was something he hadn’t told me.

“How’s she doing?” I ask timidly, fearing I knew the answer.

“She passed a year or so ago,” he sighs, placing the recipe card on the counter and putting the lid on the tin. 

“I’m so sorry,” I say, taking a step towards him. “She was such a lovely person.”

“She always liked you, too,” he says, meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry I never told you. There just was never the right time.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure him, though a little hurt.

“Mom’s Snickerdoodles,” he reads off the card, very obviously and quickly changing the subject. “Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.”

I turn the oven on to the correct temperature, then look to him for further instructions. 

“Mix together three cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking soda, one and a half teaspoons of cinnamon and… two teaspoons of cream of tartar.”

I work in silence, grabbing the measuring cups and measuring out each ingredient, the thought of Marco’s abuela still stuck in my head. I know it must have been a really tough time for him, but the hurt of him not telling me still stings. It’s not like she was just anyone. I had been to her house so many times, even for Christmas once. I’ve watched her bake his birthday cake, even helped her sometimes. I’ve sat on her lap as she’s told us stories of her childhood. She was always so warm and welcoming, and so were her hugs.

But he didn’t tell me. He doesn’t trust me. I thought I was being such a good friend to him. I’ve sat and listened, I’ve cheered him up, I’ve always been there for him. We were practically raised together. But that doesn’t mean anything to him. Those years of endless bike rides, school trips, and Caterpillar Dash are just the past. I thought we both valued this friendship. I thought we were brother and sister. 

“I hate this,” I admit, dropping the measuring cups on the counter, effectively breaking the silence. 

“Hate what?” Marco asks, the sudden noise pulling him out of his thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to find the words, “how we are now.”

“How we are now?” He repeats, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“We don’t even know how to talk to each other,” I say, exasperated. 

“What do you mean? Aren’t we talking right now?”

“No,” I state, “I mean yes, but… no.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my a一”

“It’s not just that,” I say, hopping up on to the counter, “Every time I talk to you, it feels like you’d rather be talking to someone else. It’s like high school came and everything meant… nothing.”

“That’s crazy,” he says, joining me on the counter. “You’re the one person I always want to talk to.”

“Then why have you been so distant?”

“I don’t know, I do dumb things,” he replies, looking down. “I guess I thought, I needed new friends in high school, or something. Again, dumb.”

“Well that makes me feel better,” I sigh, wringing my hands in my lap.

“I’m sorry I did that,” he says, making eye contact. “It was stupid. I made a mistake, and now, I’ve grown from it. You’re literally my sister. You’re the best friend I have. I don’t want to lose that.”

“Neither do I,” I agree, smiling.

“Well,” he laughs, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “Friends forever?”

“Friends forever,” I grin, leaning my head on his shoulder. “Are we still mak一”

POOF.

A handful of flour flies in my face. I wipe my eyes to see Marco split a mischievous smile, then start running from me. 

“You are so gonna’ get it!”