It was a day like any other; the sun so hot you’d think you were an egg in a frying pan, with a lunch of equal temperature. Bu ton this day, Becca learned a crucial lesson: if the sun doesn’t getcha, your 15 your sister will.
Looking back on it all later, she remembered those first seconds in a slow motion parody of the pain they brought: the smiles turning to screams, the hysterical laughter, those first few droplets of water hanging in the air like tiny astronauts. And that was how the war started; the great water war of ’13.
With just a passing flick of dishwater, they were off. Sandra turned to Becca with a cup full of water, giggling madly and they both ran into the house. Thanks to a mother who wouldn’t stand a wet floor, both girls walked away unscathed and un-soaked, at least for that day.
The next day as Becca returned home for lunch in the heat of the day, Sandra reminded her that payback is indeed unpleasant. As she stepped into the brick, roof-less room, she didn’t have a second though. She never saw the bucket coming from over the wall. When she opened the door seconds later it was to the laughter of her sisters as she stood sopping wet and holding up a soaked roll of toilet paper. In a flash, Becca dove for a pitcher of water and threw it on Sandra who was having trouble deciding between laughter and screams. Lucky for Becca, the northern sun dries out volunteers in mere minutes so she arrived at the health post an hour later completely dry.
That night Becca’s host mom pulled her into the kitchen, speaking in hushed whispered,
“Hija, tienes que mojarse la Sandra,” she said, her mouth was fixed in a serious line but her eyes flashed with a dangerous sense of mischief. (You have to throw water on Sandra)
“Pero cuando, mami? Y como?” she replied quickly, casting a glance at the doorway. (But when, mom? How?)
“Mañana, cuando estas saliendo a Lima, voy a ayudarte, hijita,” she grinned a knowing grin and winked before leaving the room. (Tomorrow, when you’re leaving for Lima, I’m going to help you.)
The next morning Becca would be leaving for a week-long training in Lima. The next morning she would carry out her mother’s plan. The next morning spelled revenge. Or so she thought.
She awoke early with dreams of payback dancing in her head as she packed her bags and ate breakfast. She worked at the post for a few hours before returning to a quiet house. As she entered the front room where she first spotted a full pitcher on the table and then made eye contact with her mother who mouthed “ahora, hijita” (now) and nodded toward the water. But Becca learned a lesson that day, just a little too late: it is not what you see, but what you fail to see that wins a war.
What Becca didn’t see was her family unusually congregrated in the hallway. When Becca didn’t see was Sandra standing behin a curtain in the hallway. What Becca didn’t see was the time Sandra had spent poking holes in the cap of a water bottle to create a makeshift squirt gun.
It all happened in too fast and too slow. Sandra sprung from behind the curtain, grinning wildly. She aimed and fired before Becca could even think to lunge for the pitcher on the table. In an instant she was hit, wheeling backwards screaming, “¡Nooooooo!”
A moment passed and in Sandra’s triumphant laughter, Becca found the strength to grab the pitcher. This time Sandra was hit. And if only the war had ended there...but alas, the fighting wore on until few stood dry.
It felt like hours later, the soaked floor was littered with pitchers, cups, and bottles, discarded in the fray. Both girls stood soaked and giggling, worn out from a collision of adrenaline and the heat of midday.
Twenty minutes later when they’d both dried out a bit and Becca was leaving for Lima, each of her family members hugged her goodbye, saying kind words so mixed with laughter and worry that they could have made her heart explode with love.
“Chao, hijita, a dios,” (Bye, with God) her mother said seriously and as Becca turned to leave, Sandra chimed in.
“¡A dios de agua!” (With the god of water!)
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