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Derek Mascarenhas’s new short story collection Coconut Dreams follows the lives of the Pinto family as they immigrate from Goa, India, to Burlington, Canada, and tackle experiences of community and love, as well as racism and exclusion, as first-generation Canadians. The following excerpt, from the story “Picking Trilliums,” recounts Ally Pinto’s experience on a class fieldtrip. 

The Royal Botanical Gardens are only a short bus ride from our school, but so different from the concrete schoolyard. Everywhere giant trees and plants are coming to life. Our class spends most of the morning inside the greenhouses — the air is wet and there are shiny-leafed plants from all around the world, some with flowers as bright and colourful as saris.

Then it’s lunch. I avoid sitting near Tommy because of what happened yesterday, and because Mom packed me a brown paper bag with a juice box and two chapatis with peanut butter. “East meets West,” she said. Almost everyone else has white-bread sandwiches. Chapatis are tastier, but sometimes I wish I had the same lunch so I wouldn’t have to explain what I was eating. Natalie Dibben is the one who asks me about it today. She’s my buddy for the trip, and her mom brought her a special lunch, too. Natalie always tells people she’s different because she has diabetes, and she shows everyone her lunch instead of keeping it hidden like me.

After lunch we are led on a nature walk through the forest trails. I’ve worn my pink rubber boots because Mom said it might rain. Our guide points out things along the way as she leads the group; she’s wearing a dark green windbreaker and has three earrings in each ear. My teacher, Ms. Bisset, is at the back of the line chatting with Mrs. Dibben, who’s a nurse and works night shifts, so she can usually come on our trips to help supervise. I wish my mom could get time off work one day to come, too.

The plump, grey clouds above look ready to burst, but the sun peeks out every once in a while. I hear birds chirping in the trees but can’t spot any because Natalie keeps distracting me.

“Do you like my medic alert?” she holds up her arm, showing the bracelet off like it’s diamond jewellery.
“It’s nice,” I say.

“How many needles have you had?”

I shrug.

“I’ve taken so many needles, they don’t even hurt anymore.”

Needles are scary. I could never imagine them not hurting. When I think of them, a circus starts in my stomach.

We stop walking, surrounded by tall trees that show only small pieces of sky. Our guide pulls a big bag of birdseed from her knapsack. She carefully pours little piles of seed into our hands, one by one. Everyone crowds around her and wants to be the first to get theirs, including Tommy. I wait until he’s moved on to get my seeds.

“Spread out into a circle,” our guide says. “Hold your hands very still and they will come and get it.”

Small birds appear from the forest like magic. They come closer, down to lower branches, then right into the hands of my classmates. Some of the students laugh out loud, a few scream and drop the seed on the ground, and others stare silently. But no birds land in my hands. I’m in the same circle and I hold my hands as still as I can, but none come.

Ms. Bisset begins to gather students to continue along the trail. I tell her I haven’t fed any birds yet. She gives me a look.

“I can stay behind with Ally until she gets one.” It’s Mrs. Dibben, Natalie’s mom.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Ms. Bisset says.

“It’s no problem. I’d be glad to.”

“Alright, then. Ally, what do you say to Mrs. Dibben?”

“Thank you,” I say. I could have hugged Mrs. Dibben. I like her much better than Natalie.

Tommy approaches Ms. Bisset and says, “I didn’t get any birds either.”

I don’t blame the birds for not wanting to land in Tommy’s hands — he’d probably try and catch them. I can’t understand why the birds wouldn’t come into my hands, though. Maybe they can still smell the chalk from yesterday. But I washed my hands well. Plus I’m not even sure birds can smell. 

“Okay. You can stay behind as well,” says Ms. Bisset. “We’ll have to switch partners. Tommy, you’re now with Ally, and Natalie, you go with Ryan.”

The rest of my class follows the guide down the trail while Tommy and I wait to see if we’ll have more luck with the birds. Mrs. Dibben tells us to stretch out our arms as far away from us as we can and be very quiet. My hands are cupped tight to try and hold them still. I worry the birds are no longer hungry. But then one lands on the tips of my fingers. It’s small with brown feathers on its back and lighter ones on its tummy. The bird has a short beak and black eyes that stare at me for just a second, as if asking first. Its feet prick my fingers, but they are too light to hurt.

The bird dives in to eat the seed, but soon pops back up to stop and look around, its head moving from side to side. It looks delicate. My dad sometimes says I eat like a bird. He says I get distracted easily and sit with half a bum on my chair, ready to run if the doorbell or phone rings.

One more nibble and the bird takes off into the trees. I brush my hands together and let the few remaining seeds fall to the ground. Then I put my hands back in the pockets of my sweater and look over at Tommy. He’s standing very still with his hands cupped together. He has two birds nibbling at the seed and isn’t trying to kill them. Mrs. Dibben gives me a wink — but I’ve spotted something: trilliums.

They sit next to the path waiting to be noticed, like they’ve chosen a bad spot in hide-and-go-seek. Once you see them, you can’t miss them, bright white on the forest floor and appearing secretly, like the birds.

“Oh, I love trilliums,” says Mrs. Dibben. “A sure sign of spring. Do you kids know it’s against the law to pick them?”

“Really?” says Tommy.

“Really,” says Mrs. Dibben. “Picking the flower does awful damage to the plant. It can take a long time before it regrows, if it does at all. The only time it’s acceptable is if you’re going to transplant them. I tried it once. I put one in my front yard, but it just wouldn’t take. They don’t like the direct sunlight. I guess that’s why you have to come out here and see them.”

“Mrs. Dibben?” I say.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“My mom told me that trilliums are angels. God sends them down to see the world first from the ground up. And they can only get their wings after they’ve been trilliums. But if they get picked, they can’t make it back up to heaven.”

“Little angels,” says Mrs. Dibben. “Ally, tell your mother that’s a lovely story.”

Before I can answer, Ms. Bisset comes running down the path, screaming.

“Mrs. Dibben!” Her face is red. “Natalie’s had an attack! She’s passed out farther up the trail.”

I see Mrs. Dibben’s face change as she shifts gears like she must at the hospital when a patient comes in. “I’m on my way,” she says.

“Ally, Tommy — stay right here on the trail,” Ms. Bisset tells us. “I’m going to run and call 911.”

The two women run off in opposite directions down the trail. I want to go with Mrs. Dibben. Adults always think they can run faster than kids, but I can run like the wind. Last summer I knocked out one of my baby teeth when I tripped over a groundhog hole running my fastest. Our doctor said I ran so fast, the ground couldn’t keep up. I wonder if they’ll take Natalie to the hospital. Maybe if she hadn’t talked so much about her diabetes it wouldn’t have happened. That’s wrong. I hope she’ll be okay.

I can’t see my teacher or Mrs. Dibben anymore and I notice how quiet the forest has become. I turn to Tommy. He’s stepped off the trail and is creeping toward the flowers.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” He crouches down beside one of the trilliums and puts his hands around it.

“Stop it!” I yell.

“Make me.”

I follow Tommy into the forest. But I’m too late: he plucks the trillium flower from its leaves. I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. I want to cry.

“Here you go.” Tommy holds the flower out for me, like I’m supposed to take it.

I’m confused why he’s giving it to me, and still upset. “I don’t want it.”

“I thought girls liked flowers.”

“I like them in the ground.”

Tommy just tosses the flower to the forest floor.

“I’m going to tell.” As soon as I say this, he pushes me to the ground. I don’t see it coming and land on my elbows and bum.

“That’s for kicking me yesterday,” he says.

The damp leaves are soaking into me, but I just lie there.

Tommy grabs one of my pink rubber boots and pulls. He wrestles it off my foot and throws it behind him, then yanks my sock off and does the same with it. He stares for a few seconds, like he’s looking at a bug.

“Ewww. Your toes are brown! Freak.” Tommy turns and runs off after Mrs. Dibben.

I get up. I have to hop on one foot to get my boot and put it back on. I brush some mud and leaves off my sweater, and find my sock, but put it in my pocket. On the ground where I found it, I see the white petals.

When Aiden and I are alone again on the bus ride home, he asks, “How was your field trip?”

I tell him it was fine and tug at the same piece of sticky green tape covering up the hole in the seat in front of us. The day’s events swirl in my head. When I got back with my class, everyone was talking about how Natalie had been lying still on the ground and how the ambulance came and took her and her mom away.

It starts to rain. Droplets race down the windows of the bus.

“Is that Tommy kid still bugging you?” Aiden asks.

“No,” I say, but I don’t look him in the eyes.

Mom is always telling us how being different is a blessing, and how we’ll understand when we’re older. Right now, I don’t believe her. Different means you’re different.

The rain comes down hard and crashes against the glass panes and metal roof. I can’t see outside anymore. At first it feels like we’re in a car wash, but then it’s like we’re trapped in a long, dark room. It feels weird having one bare foot in my boot, too. Inside my sweater pocket I squeeze my crumpled-up sock. I don’t know why I didn’t put it back on.

I close my eyes and think of trilliums, but can only see the one that Tommy picked, just leaves and no petals. I wonder how long it will take to flower again, or if it ever will.

Excerpted with permission from Coconut Dreams by Derek Mascarenhas, published by Book*hug, 2019. Author image credit: Khadeja Reid.

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