Me, Frida, and the Secret of the Peacock Ring Read online

  “Whoa,” Paloma said once they approached the corner of Allende and Londres. She gazed at the large blue house that covered almost an entire block. “It’s. A. Bright. Blue. House.”

  “Welcome to Casa Azul. The home of Frida Kahlo and her husband, Diego Rivera!” Professor Breton exclaimed. “Two of Mexico’s finest artists.”

  “Mom, can we paint our apartment blue when we get back home?” Paloma asked.

  “I don’t think our landlord would approve, sweetie,” her mom answered.

  “We should do it anyway,” Paloma said.

  Her mom shook her head, laughed, and put an arm around Paloma’s shoulders.

  Music poured from behind the walls of the museum. In front, cars dropped off women draped in silk shawls, and men in dark suits. Paloma was admiring how fancy everyone looked when she noticed a woman seated on the sidewalk just a few steps away from the museum entrance. Spread out in front of her was a multicolored serape covered with jewelry. The woman looked about her mom’s age. She wore her long dark hair piled on top of her head with a red headpiece and a flowing turquoise-blue wrap decorated with embroidered flowers. Large gold hoops dangled from her ears.

  The woman called out to Paloma. “Oye, jovencita, I have beautiful rings and necklaces, charms to calm your spirit, and stones to read your future.”

  “How cool! It’s a fortune-teller,” Paloma’s mom said. “Should we get our fortune read?” She nudged Paloma.

  Paloma had only seen fortune-tellers at the Renaissance Festival. Her mom would pay twenty dollars to get her palm read, but Paloma always refused. “No way. I’ve read enough Lulu Pennywhistle books to know that fortune-tellers are always frauds,” Paloma said, and hid herself behind her mom and Professor Breton. When she peeked out, the woman called out to her again.

  “Oye, mi reina!”

  “Not tonight, gracias!” Professor Breton waved at the woman, who nodded and busied herself with another couple. “That’s peculiar,” he said. “Usually the vendors hang out at the main plaza in the evening. She must have known there was going to be a big party here tonight.”

  Paloma followed Professor Breton and her mom into the museum but not without one last glimpse of the Fortune-Teller, who was suddenly on her cell phone.

  “Who calls a fortune-teller?” she scoffed.

  Once inside the museum, Professor Breton led them to a patio, also painted blue, and filled with large potted plants and trees decorated with silver metal stars that lit up. At the center of the patio, an all-female mariachi group performed a lively tune. Paloma had once seen a mariachi band play at a local Cinco de Mayo celebration, but the musicians had all been men dressed in black-and-silver suits. In this mariachi group, girls and women of all ages wore purple outfits, embellished with gold thread and buttons. The upbeat tempo of their music made Paloma want to dance, but she couldn’t understand a word they sang.

  Soon, Professor Breton was introducing Paloma and her mom to everyone he knew. After shaking hands with at least a dozen people Paloma couldn’t communicate with, she couldn’t take it anymore. She opened her small purse and grabbed her phone.

  “Put that away, little bird,” her mom said.

  “But, Mom! I’ve got nothing to do here and no one to talk to,” Paloma said, shoving the phone back into her purse. “There’s no one my age here,” she complained.

  “Why don’t you go and check out the mariachis,” her mom said, and pointed. “Look, there’s a young girl at the top of the steps with a trumpet. She’s about to play something.”

  Paloma looked up and saw a girl with purple ribbons braided into her long dark hair. She held a shiny silver trumpet. The young mariachi winked down at a boy wearing a black knit hat, sitting on a bench below. The boy gave the young mariachi a thumbs-up. They had the same dark hair and looked to be the same age. Paloma wondered if they were brother and sister. How nice to have a brother, Paloma thought. If she had one, she wouldn’t be so bored now.

  Paloma sat down on a bench facing the balcony and watched as the mariachi girl tipped her trumpet to her lips and began a sweet, gentle melody. After she played a verse, another mariachi girl with a gold trumpet echoed the same verse from the garden. The slow, sad song captivated Paloma. She liked how after each verse, the two trumpet players moved through the crowd of guests, playing in different spots throughout the courtyard. To Paloma, it was if they were searching for each other.

  If the song had lyrics to it, Paloma thought, the words would be about someone who was lost. Sort of how she felt in this strange place surrounded by fancy Spanish-speaking adults. Paloma had always wished she could be the kind of person who could walk into any room and start conversations with random people. Lulu Pennywhistle had the ability to chitchat with ease. This was what made her a superb detective. She’d enter any room and identify who she needed to meet, and in a flash she had folks laughing, offering to do favors for her, and inviting her to places like Aspen or Napa Valley.

  Paloma looked back at her mom. She, along with all of the other party guests, watched the trumpet players as they played side by side now. Their silky melody covered the cool night like a much-needed poncho. Aside from this bright blue house, these mariachi girls were the coolest things Paloma had seen in Mexico so far.

  That is, until she saw a tall, slender boy with light brown hair and blue eyes who stood on the other side of the patio. He wore a sky-blue polo shirt with beige pants and loafers. Paloma met his eyes, and he waved at her. She looked behind her. When she saw no one else, she turned back to catch him point at her as if to say, “I’m waving at you.” Paloma felt her whole face warm. When the song was done, everyone applauded, and the boy crossed the patio toward her.

  Paloma sat up straight and touched the purple flower in her hair to make sure it was still there.

  “Hola. Soy Tavo,” the boy said, extending his hand to her. Up close, he was the cutest boy she’d ever seen. Paloma tried to ignore his blue eyes and focus instead on how she should answer in Spanish. It seemed to her like an eternity before she finally mustered the words.

  “No hablo español,” she said, standing to shake his hand.

  “You’re from the United States, aren’t you?” the boy said, switching to English, with a sparkle in his blue eyes.

  Paloma nodded and smiled, relieved that he spoke English.

  “I knew it! I go to school in Arizona, but I spend my summers here or in Barcelona. What’s your name?”

  “Paloma,” she said. “I’m from Kansas.”

  Tavo raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my mom’s fault. She was invited to study at the university for four weeks.”

  “Four weeks? That’s enough time,” he said, folding his arms against his chest.

  Paloma shook her head. “What do you mean? Enough time for what? To learn Spanish?”

  “For me to get to know you.”

  “Oh …” Paloma said, and readjusted the flower in her hair. She wasn’t sure what else to say. No boy had ever just come out and said he wanted to get to know her before. “So what grade are you in?”

  “Seventh grade,” he said quickly. “Junior high. How about you?”

  “Me too.”

  He stopped a waiter, grabbed two cups of punch, and handed one to Paloma. She sipped the frosty white drink, liking it immediately.

  “What is this yummy stuff?” She chugged the punch.

  “Guanábana. You like it?”

  “Like it? I want to grow up and marry it. What kind of fruit is it? And why don’t they sell gua-nah-ba-nah in Kansas? It’s so good.”

  Tavo chuckled at her exaggerated pronunciation. “So … you like Coyoacán so far?”

  Paloma wrinkled her eyebrows. “I like the punch.”

  “That’s it?” Tavo frowned.

  Paloma bit down on her bottom lip. She hoped she hadn’t offended him. “Sorry, it’s just my first day here and so far—I’m super bored. I don’t speak Spanish and I
’m not really into art. But that last song with the trumpets was cool.”

  Tavo nodded. “Yeah, the song is called ‘El niño perdido.’” Paloma nodded but didn’t know what it meant. “‘The Lost Boy,’” Tavo added.

  Paloma took a step back, shocked that she had somehow known the song had something to do with being lost. Was she turning mega intuitive like Lulu Pennywhistle?

  “It was so sweet at the end when the trumpet players find each other like a lost child finding his mom,” she said.

  “Or a lonely boy like me finding a bored girl like you.” Tavo smiled, causing Paloma’s heart to somersault. Is he really lonely? Not possible! He’s too cute to be lonely.

  “Before your head blows up from boredom, can I show you something inside the museum?” Paloma nodded, and he led her across the patio toward the museum.

  Her mom, who was laughing with Professor Breton and an elegant couple Paloma hadn’t met yet, shot her a look of concern. Paloma pulled Tavo back to make introductions.

  “Mom, this is Tavo. He’s going to show me the house.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tavo. Your parents were just telling me about you,” she said, giving a sideways glance to the elegant couple next to her. Paloma saw the resemblance right away. The man shared Tavo’s blondish-brown hair, blue eyes, and chiseled chin. “Mr. and Mrs. Farill, this is my daughter, Paloma.”

  “Hi,” Paloma said. “Wow, you look like a supermodel!” Paloma gushed at Tavo’s mom.

  “She’s a former Miss Barcelona.” Mr. Farill beamed and gave his wife a gentle kiss on her cheek.

  “So cool,” Paloma said.

  Suddenly, Tavo slapped a hand over his forehead. “Wait a minute! That means that you’re the American professor studying here with the university program my dad funds.”

  “That’s me! The one and only!” Paloma’s mom exclaimed. Paloma rolled her eyes. “Thanks to your parents’ generosity, I’ll be studying Mexican literature for four weeks.”

  Tavo winced. “Yikes! I’d die of boredom. Are you sure you should be thanking them?”

  Paloma’s mom laughed along with the Farills, which Paloma found annoying because whenever she told her mom something was boring, her mom gave her a stern lecture full of professor talk.

  “No thanks required,” Mr. Farill jumped in. “I’m happy to support cultural and educational exchanges.”

  Tavo faked an exaggerated yawn, making Paloma giggle. “Anyway, I’d like to show Paloma a painting inside Frida’s house. Is that okay?”

  “Fine by me!” Paloma’s mom smiled and shrugged. “I’m glad she’s met someone her age.”

  As Tavo and Paloma walked away, Paloma heard her mom laugh again. It had been a while since she heard her mom laugh so much. At home, her mom threw herself into her work and rarely went out unless it was to a work event. Hearing her mom so happy made Paloma smile.

  She followed Tavo up the stairs in the museum toward Frida’s studio. As soon as they entered the studio, Paloma saw the mariachi girl who played the silver trumpet and the boy in the black hat standing next to each other by a window that looked out on the patio below. They whispered back and forth to each other in Spanish, and didn’t notice Paloma and Tavo enter the room. When they finally realized they weren’t alone anymore, they exchanged a panicked look. Paloma wondered what they had been discussing, but Tavo took no notice of them.

  “So, since our parents know each other and we’ll be hanging out a lot together these next four weeks, you should know one of my favorite painters,” Tavo announced, and then pointed to a painting that hung on a wall. “This is Frida Kahlo. She was the queen of the selfies.”

  Once again, Paloma was face-to-face with another self-portrait of the artist. It was similar to the poster Paloma had seen earlier at the airport, except there was no cat and monkey lurking over her shoulders nor a black hummingbird dangling from her neck. In this painting, Frida wore a brown shawl and had a necklace of thorns piercing her skin. At the bottom of the painting was a message in Spanish.

  “I saw another selfie of hers at the airport,” Paloma said. “I thought it was a promotion for a circus, because it had a monkey in it.”

  Tavo chuckled. From the corner of her eye, Paloma glanced toward the window. The mariachi girl cradled her trumpet and wiped it with a cloth, while the boy watched someone or something below on the patio. Paloma thought he was as cute as Tavo but in a different way. Besides the black knit hat, he wore a dozen leather straps around his wrist and a couple of long leather cords with silver medallions around his neck. Sketching pencils and thin paintbrushes stuck out of his back jean pockets. Was he an artist like Frida?

  Paloma watched as the boy nudged the mariachi girl, pointed at something down below, and then whispered in her ear. The girl scowled. When the boy caught Paloma’s glance, he smiled at her. Paloma’s heart pounded fast. She wanted to tell them how much she liked the mariachi song with the two trumpets, but she didn’t know the words in Spanish and wasn’t sure they spoke or understood English.

  “Earlier, you said you were bored. I know what you mean,” Tavo said, snapping Paloma’s attention back to the painting. “Some art can be seriously dull, but there is nothing boring about Frida. She painted really amazing, sometimes gross paintings with blood and people jumping off buildings, but that’s what I like about her work. She’s not hiding the truth about life.” Tavo turned around and gestured toward a metal wheelchair behind them. It was positioned in front of an easel holding a painting of watermelons. “Like, for example, Frida almost died when she was eighteen years old.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was in a bus accident coming home from school. After the accident, she was stuck in bed, and that’s when she began to paint.”

  Paloma looked over at the wheelchair and then back to the self-portrait. She wished she could say something super smart to impress Tavo, but the mention of a bus accident that almost killed Frida stuck in her head. She thought about her own dad stopping on the highway to help an elderly couple. It was winter. The roads were icy. Her father had just helped the couple, when another car struck him. If her father had survived, would he have needed a wheelchair or crutches for the rest of his life like Frida? Paloma shuddered, her eyes brimming with tears. She needed a distraction, so she gazed at the painting of watermelons positioned on the easel. On one of the watermelons were the words “viva la vida.”

  “‘Viva la vida’?” Paloma asked, tapping Tavo’s arm. “What does it mean?”

  “‘Long live life,’” he said. “This is one of Frida’s last paintings before she died.”

  “Viva la vida,” Paloma repeated. Something about those words warmed her all over. It made the sadness she felt vanish as quickly as it had appeared. She turned back to the self-portrait and narrowed in on Frida Kahlo’s serious brown eyes. Those eyes didn’t show a woman in pain.

  To Paloma, her expression was one of strength. And yet … a thorn necklace pierced the artist’s neck, drawing specks of blood. Dangling from one ear was a hand-shaped earring. Behind her were dark olive-green leaves and what looked like the Kansas sky when it was about to thunderstorm: hints of pale pink, smoky white, and gray.

  “But why all these thorns, the message in Spanish, and the thick hairy eyebrows?” Paloma said. “Didn’t they make tweezers when she was alive?”

  The mariachi girl suddenly giggled, and Paloma looked back at her. Did she understand English? But before Paloma could ask, the girl said something in Spanish to the boy, then turned back toward the window. Paloma felt so stupid. She was surrounded by people she couldn’t understand and art that was even more mind-boggling.

  “Everyone has their own ideas about Frida’s paintings,” Tavo said. “I know she was definitely trying to tell us something, but sometimes I’m not so sure what that was.”

  Again, Paloma focused on Frida’s eyes. The eyebrows no longer looked overgrown or hairy. Instead, they looked like the perfect wings of a bird taking flight. Did Frida
want to fly away?

  “Have you ever heard of the Lulu Pennywhistle mystery books?”

  “Mysteries aren’t my thing,” Tavo said with a shrug.

  “Well, Lulu is really cool. She solves these impossible cases with just a few clues. It’s sort of like interpreting a painting,” Paloma said. “The artist has given us clues. We have to figure it out. A thorn necklace isn’t just a thorn necklace. It means something. I’m just not sure exactly what because I don’t know enough about her yet.”

  Tavo raised his eyebrows and made an explosion noise. “You just blew my mind.”

  Paloma chuckled. “Whatever. Don’t get too excited. I’m not good at art stuff, but I do like mysteries.”

  Paloma heard the two kids whispering, and glanced toward the window. Whatever they had been watching outside on the patio no longer interested them. Their eyes were glued to Paloma. She now knew that they must understand every single word she said. After all, the mariachi girl had laughed when Paloma mentioned the tweezers. Plus, they were leaning in the way Paloma and Isha did at school when they eavesdropped on teachers in the lunchroom. Why were they suddenly so interested in what she had to say? She tried to refocus on the painting.

  “I’m not totally sure …” Paloma started, “but I feel like she’s telling us not to be fake in our lives.”

  Suddenly, the boy grabbed the mariachi girl’s hand, and they rushed out of the studio. Tavo spun around and watched them leave as if just noticing them for the first time.

  “They were in a hurry,” he said.

  Paloma frowned. She lost her chance to tell the mariachi girl that she loved that song. What was it called? “El niño perdido”?

  Tavo turned back to Paloma. “And you have the nerve to say you’re not good at this art stuff.”

  Paloma shrugged. “With you, art doesn’t seem so boring.” Silently, she added that with him around, Mexico for four weeks didn’t seem so boring, either.