Val vega, p.1
Val Vega, page 1
Val Vega: Secret Ambassador of Earth
Copyright © 2024 by Ben Francisco.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Aventura Books LLC, New York.
Cover illustration by Luis Carlos Barragán.
Cover design and interior graphics by Todd Cooper, All-D.
ISBN: 979-8-9892709-1-0
First Edition: February 2024
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my parents, Janet and Carl, who are skilled in the art of naming.
Contents
Subspace Messaging Transcript
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
I hate multiple-choice questions, because I can always see a way for every answer to be right. My answer sheet is a mess of As, Bs, Cs, and Ds all crossed out and replaced and crossed out again, frenzied scribbles of an alphabet in distress. I wish they’d just let you answer “all of the above” for every question. I’m sure to get a record-breaking low score on the SATs.
Will is sitting cross-legged on a big pillow on the floor, chewing on their pencil, which means they’re anxious. Kate is sitting on the other end of my bed, her face buried in her long blonde hair, her fingers gliding across her laptop.
Kate closes her laptop with a typical-Kate decisive clack. “I so have this. I got nearly every one right on verbal.” This whole practice session was her idea, even though she’s way better at this stuff than Will or me. I’m curious about everything from black holes to evolution, but the SATs and all the classes at my high school are all about regurgitating other people’s ideas instead of actually learning.
“And you, William?” I say. “Are you also headed for the Ivy League?”
Will runs their purple fingernails through their curly black hair and stretches out their long legs. Will’s my best friend and has been hanging out in my room since we were seven, but lately when they come over all I can think about is how close I am to those adorable lanky legs. “I’m hoping film schools recognize film is a visual medium, not a verbal one,” says Will. “And you, Val?”
“Well, if you doubled my score, then I’d be doing great.”
“You guys really should take Kaplan,” Kate says.
Will and I look at each other. Neither of our families can afford Kaplan. For Kate, money’s as accessible as air, so it never occurs to her there are things some of us can’t afford. But if I say that, it’ll just embarrass all of us in different ways. So I just say, “The SATs are culturally biased anyway. Like, what does a passage by Edith Wharton have to do with anything in real life?”
Kate makes air-quotes with her fingers. “‘Culturally biased’ or not, you need the SATs to get into any good college, basically. You two need to get your acts together. You’ve got, like, no ambition.”
“Well,” says Will, “not all of us can grow up to be president of the United States.”
“Actually,” Kate says, “lately I’m thinking I need to think bigger.”
“What’s bigger than president?” Will says with a laugh. “Pope?”
Kate folds her arms around her SAT workbook. “Excuse me for having ambition. It’s so not-cute to have no goals in life. Especially you, Val. At least Will has this whole movie director dream, even if it’s totally unrealistic. You don’t have any goals.”
Will clenches their teeth that way they do when they’re hurt but don’t want to show it. I don’t care when Kate insults me, but I can’t stand it when she demeans Will’s dreams like that. She even used to do that during the two-month drama when they dated last year, which is how she and I ended up being friends, or at least friends-in-law. I have the urge to call her out, but that will only escalate things, so I resist with gentle humor instead. “You’re probably right that I’m a hopeless cause. That’s why I plan on mooching off Will when they’re a famous filmmaker. Luckily, they’re not going to have to solve for X or interpret some 19th-century passage to make all the awesome films in their head.”
Will smiles at me and bites their lip in appreciation, which gives me a little flutter.
“Whatever,” Kate says. “Mooching is totally not a plan.”
There’s the familiar sound of a car rolling into the gravel driveway—tío Umberto’s Toyota Camry. He’s been away in Istanbul for weeks. He’s the only person I can really talk to, and half the time he’s traveling for work, either with no time or no signal.
“My uncle’s home,” I say. “BRB, please carry on the scintillating SAT excitement without me.”
I bound down the stairs and find Mami and my little brother Miguel in the kitchen. The three of us nearly crash into each other on the way to the back door.
The door swings open and tío Umberto walks in, rolling his purple suitcase behind him, loaded up with shopping bags. “Saludos!” he says, with a tip of his purple fedora.
“Umberto!” Mami greets him with a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Por fin vuelves!”
“I’m back, and I come bearing gifts!” tío Umberto says in Spanish. We all gather around as he fishes in his bags. He pulls out a Federico García Lorca play for Miguel; a singing key-finder keychain for Mami (“Not that you ever lose your keys”); a book on the Treaty of Paris for my big brother, Timoteo (“He can pick it up when he comes home from Harvard”); and a miniature stuffed soccer ball for me.
I toss the soccer ball into the air a couple times. I’m way too old for stuffed toys. Must be a last-minute airport purchase, because tío Umberto’s gifts are usually more thoughtful.
He taps me on the shoulder. “So you ready for the SATs?”
“Um, maybe I could do a gap year with you in Istanbul?”
Tío Umberto laughs. “I’m sure you’d be exceptional in my line of work. But maybe you should stick out school a bit longer.”
Mami invites Will and Kate to stay for dinner. Kate doesn’t speak Spanish, so I have to play interpreter any time she and Mami talk. Things end up splitting into two conversations in two languages: Kate talking with Uncle Umberto in English and Mami and Will talking with Miguel in Spanish about the spring musical. Will’s family is Chinese-Peruvian, and Will is trilingual, which is easily as sexy as their lanky legs. I’m sitting between Kate and Will, and I dip in and out of both conversations.
“So exactly which NGO do you work for?” Kate asks Uncle Umberto. She has these moods where she’s all into having adult conversation. “I do Model UN, you know.”
“That’s lovely,” says Umberto. “My work is … complicated. Let’s see. Take Puerto Rico as an example. Are you familiar with Puerto Rico’s status—as a U.S. territory?”
“Of course,” Kate says. “I think it should be a state.” Kate always has an opinion.
“Well,” says Umberto, “my organization helps give voice to pla—uh, places like Puerto Rico. The territories, the colonies, the small places that usually don’t get a seat at the table.”
“Seems like you’re not doing a very good job,” Kate says. “Because they still don’t have a seat at the table.”
Umberto laughs. “Well, it’s certainly slow-going. But I’ve always been drawn to underdogs and lost causes.”
After Mami serves flan for dessert, there’s a knock at the front door. “It’s one of those people from your work,” Mami tells Umberto as she comes back to the kitchen.
“Ah.” Umberto gets up with a grimace. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
I can see the front door, partially blocked by the mound of jackets on the coat rack. One of Umberto’s co-workers is standing there, in a red leather jacket and tight jeans. I’ve met him a few times—his name is Johnny, and some quirky last name that sounds made-up.
“Johnny,” Umberto says, “it’s late.”
“I know, boss,” Johnny says. “But with everything going on, I thought …” He looks past Umberto, toward us. For a second, his eyes meet mine. My cheeks go red, and I look down at my plate, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping. I spoon a slice of flan but keep listening. Johnny says, “Maybe we could chat somewhere a little more private?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Umberto says.
“Okay,” Johnny says. “Well, you know there’s been a huge … tick problem lately. Not to brag, but I’m really good at handling ticks. So I th
“My tick problems were far away,” Umberto says, stern. “You know, out in the woods.”
“Boss, there have been two tick outbreaks in the past month. Don’t you think we should be a little cautious? I really don’t want you getting Lyme disease.”
Kate gives me a “what-the-hell?” look. I guess she can’t help eavesdropping either. I reply with a shrug. It’s obvious “ticks” are a code for something. I wish tío Umberto would tell me more about his work. I’d love to go with him on one of his trips, to learn more about other cultures all around the world. He promised to take me with him some day, but that day’s never today.
I go to get more flan and glance toward the door again. Johnny is staring at Umberto as if listening—but Umberto’s not even talking. “Whatev!” Johnny finally says, pointing at Umberto’s fedora. “You could never have stopped it, not with that pea brain of yours!”
It’s weird for Johnny to insult tío Umberto when he’s Johnny’s boss. Why are they so stressed? Their work is in international relations, and lately the whole world always seems on the brink. But they work on cross-cultural understanding, nothing dangerous. I think.
“Johnny,” Umberto says, inching the door closed, “this is inappropriate. Go home.”
Umberto comes back and drapes his napkin on his lap. “Sorry about that. Now back to my important date with this flan!”
“What’s the deal with that guy?” asks Kate, never one to be diplomatic.
“Things have been stressful at work,” Umberto says. “And we did have a problem with, ah, mites on our last trip. Johnny can be over-protective.”
Miguel licks the flan from his spoon. “All the people at your office are weird.”
“Johnny’s from … a remote island,” Umberto says. “Weird depends entirely on where you are and where you come from.”
Saturday night, Kate’s parents are out of town, so of course she has a party. A bunch of seniors come who I don’t even know—Kate overachieves at party-throwing just like she does in school. I’m sitting on the couch, holding a Heineken, talking with Kate and a few other girls. Getting drunk isn’t my thing, but if I don’t drink at all, then everyone will ask why not and shove more drinks in my face. It’s easier just to nurse one beer all night long.
I’m half-paying attention to Kate and the others talking about prom. Across the room, Will is talking to Des, leaning into her. I wish Will were leaning into me. But I can’t even join the conversation, because Des will get passive-aggressive with me. Now Des is leaning into Will too, a mutual lean. A mutual lean seems so appealing, yet so unattainable. It’s inevitable they’ll get together, and maybe there’s some cosmic justice in that, a penance for what I did to Des.
Kate elbows me and points her chin at Des and Will. “Des still isn’t talking to you, huh?”
At least she thinks I’m staring at Des and not Will. Kate’s the last person I want to know about my crush on Will. They’re still exes, and even if Kate’s been all BFFs with me lately, she still doesn’t feel like a true friend. Not like Des was. “Nope, Des still hates me.”
“It wasn’t even your fault, mostly,” Kate says.
“Easy for you to say. You’re the hero of the story.”
“I just thought she should know. I don’t like when people keep secrets.” Sometimes it’s like Kate’s trying to make me feel even worse about things with Des.
Kate gets up to get another drink. Will and Des extricate themselves from their mutual lean, and Will comes over, dramatically collapsing next to me on the couch. A few strands of their curly hair graze my jeans, and it takes all my effort to keep my breath steady. “I’m going crazy over Des,” they whisper. “Do you think she likes me too? You must have some idea.”
“I’m not the expert on Des that I used to be, Will.” How can they know me so well but be so clueless about how I feel about them?
“You’ve got to make up with her. I can’t stand having my two favorite people not talking to each other.” I grin at that, though the smile fades when I realize I’m probably a distant second-favorite.
Will’s eyes dart to the fireplace. “What was that? Oh my God, it’s a snake!” A flash of dark green slithers from the fireplace to the television stand.
“There’s a fricking snake in the house!” someone shouts, and there’s a chorus of yelps. In seconds, everyone but me evacuates the couch.
“Fricking wuss,” some guy says to Will. “It’s just a snake.”
“Give it a kiss then, if you’re such a fan of snakes,” Will retorts. I love the way they’re never mean but never take crap from anyone.
Most people have run out of the room, except a few of the senior guys standing behind the couch, trying to look cool—but keeping a notable distance from the snake.
“What if it’s poisonous?” one says.
I look at the snake from my lone vantage point on the couch. It’s less than two feet long, olive green with two blotchy yellow stripes running along the length of its body. I’m kind of addicted to documentaries and amateur nature videos, so I recognize it right away. “It’s just a garter snake. It’s not venomous.”
“Snakes are so scary,” says some senior girl I’ve never met, clearly trying to get attention with this damsel-in-distress routine.
“I’ll take care of it,” says one of the boys, his speech slurring. Great, now a drunken prince is coming to the rescue.
I get up and pull the poker from by the fireplace, and slowly walk toward the snake. “Oh shoot,” someone says, “Val’s going to impale it!” There are a few drunken laughs.
“I’ve done this before,” I say, which is not technically true, but I’ve seen someone else do it—twice, if you count YouTube. I hold the poker out near the snake’s head, then go behind it while it’s distracted. I try to be quick but gentle, picking it up with one hand at the middle of its body, then lift the front part of its body with the poker. For a few seconds, I hold it like that, level, letting it get accustomed to where it is.
“Ranger Val’s got it under control,” says a member of the drunk-guy chorus.
The snake slithers through my hand in my relaxed grip. I wrap my other hand around it further up its body. I let it slither back and forth between my left and right hand as I rotate my grip between the two. That’s right, get comfortable, little snake. It’s just like being in a tree, always with somewhere else to climb.
“So gross,” says the damsel.
“It’s probably more scared of you than you are of it,” I say as I walk around her, carrying the snake toward the back door.
“She’s such a freak,” someone says as the door shuts behind me. Apparently it’s freaky to not be freaked out by a harmless snake.
There’s a brook behind Kate’s backyard, which is probably where the snake came from in the first place. I hold it up in the moonlight. Up close, its scales are intricate, and its bright black eyes stare back at me. It’s funny so many people are scared of snakes. People and snakes have most body parts in common, except for limbs and scales and a few other things. Maybe I should be a zoologist. I did okay in bio last year. But that would require a college degree, and a decent score on the SATs, which is about as likely as Will asking me to prom. I point the snake toward the brook and let it go.
When I get back inside, Kate and Will are in the kitchen, Kate hovering by the back door, Will leaning over the fridge. “What’d you do with the snake?” Kate asks, sounding not-thrilled about having a snake in the house during her parents-out-of-town party.
“Let it out by the brook,” I say. “It was probably just confused.”
Will emerges from the fridge and pops open a White Claw. “Val Vega, you’re my hero,” they say. I jab them softly in the chest, but they shrink away. “Just wash your hands before you touch me, okay?” they say with a smile. “Because that was hella gross.”
Great, now I’m Val Vega, snake-handler, least sexy person in school.
As it gets later, the general drunkenness increases. Will and Des are sprawled on the couch, their bodies pointed in opposite directions, but their heads only inches apart, speaking to each other in hushed tones. The party has definitely ceased to be fun, so I text tío Umberto to see if he can pick me up. It’s late, but he’s a night owl and always says he’d rather I wake him than risk driving with someone who’s even a little bit drunk.
