I see a small pad of paper lying behind us in the bed of the truck. It’s ancient. The pages are so old they’ve yellowed. There is a drawing on the top sheet, sketched in blurred pencil lines.
For as long as I can remember, Arbo has drawn a cartoon series of a character he invented based on his one childhood fascination—wrestling. His name is El Revolucionario. The Revolutionary. Or Revo, for short. At eight syllables, it takes a hefty breath to say it. Arbo was so young when he named him that merely pronouncing it was an accomplishment. El Revolucionario rides bulls, travels the world, plays the drums, explores caves on the moon, fights crime, builds skyscrapers from clay, and more. He is a catchall for anything Arbo wants to do. But he mostly wrestles.
What El Revolucionario is not is well drawn. Arbo struggles with stick figures. It’s his curse. He knows it. He’s taken plenty of grief for it. And it’s one of the things I admire most about him. This inability has never stopped him.
I stare at the paper. El Revolucionario is in the backyard. I can’t tell exactly what is happening, but it looks like a different turn of events. Stacked bodies lie in a pile beneath a sign: La Frontera. Crowds cheer. Among them, a man with a T-shirt that reads Papá.
“It’s my backyard,” he says.
“I know.”
“It’s this pencil.” He points next to the pad. “It’s older than I am. It makes everything I draw look like crap.” He smiles. Slightly.
“You should ask Gladys to draw some Revo stuff for you. I think she’s good at it.”
“I talked to her about it. She said no. She said wrestling is violent.”
I don’t ask if he showed her this particular work.
“I miss my dad,” he says. “It’s not fair. He was a good guy. Everybody liked him. And he worked his ass off…for everything. His business, that quinceañera, his family. Then somebody comes and takes it all away from him. No warning. They just take him out. And now he’s gone, and everything he worked for.”
“I know.”
“I mean, I miss them all, but I really miss my dad.”
“I miss mine too,” I say. “We had a lot of good times, us four.”
“We were going to be partners,” he says.
This hurts. To the core.
“I know. I guess you and I still can be,” I answer. It’s more head than heart, but it’s the side of the conversation I’m on.
He nods. “Do you remember how my dad used to joke about how they switched us?”
“Yeah, every time the other person would win at something.”
“Which was usually you.”
“Not always.”
“Which is why I said ‘usually.’”
“Oh, is that what that word means?”
“But really, do you think he was joking?” Arbo asks quietly.
“Are you serious?”
“Sort of. I mean, we’re kind of shaped differently. I’m pudgy like your dad and you’re skinny like mine,” he says.
We are shaped quite differently. The name Arbo actually comes from his nickname, Arbusto. He’s short and round, like a bush.
“We come from the same gene pool. It all gets swapped around,” I say.
“Maybe.”
“And then we got the other half from our moms,” I add.
“Did you just call my dead mom fat?”
I did. “Ummm.”
“Are you serious?”
If someone had asked me minutes before if I thought I would be capable of laughing at any point over the next year, I would have said no. And yet here I am, on the verge of callously snickering about one of our dead parents. There are some moments for which I have no explanation.
“Cabrón, there’s a boundary,” Arbo says. “You can talk about how you were my dad’s lost son, but when you call my mom pudgy…”
“That was your word.”
“So, you admit it? You just used a different word.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s it. I’m going to ask her spirit to curse you.”
“Just don’t ask her spirit to sit on me,” I say, rolling onto my side in the bed of the truck and crying. I put my hands up in a defensive position, fully expecting him to hit me.
“If you were Marcos, I’d kick you in the balls.”
“And if I were Marcos, you’d hurt your foot.” I take my voice an octave lower. “Remember, ‘I’m the only one who thought to grab a gun. My balls are like steel-plated steel.’”
“Shh. He can probably hear you. I bet he has superhearing.”
“No, he can’t hear us. He’s too busy listening to his own brilliant thoughts.”
“‘Look how beautifully I juggle the ball.’”
“I bet Marcos could kick Revo’s ass,” I say.
“And now I am going to hit you.”
He doesn’t.
“By the way, he told me not to talk to Gladys,” I say.
“At all?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I’m trying to hit on her.”
“Why?”
“Because I talked to her,” I say.
“I talked to her too. There are only five of us out here.”
“That’s what I said!”
“You didn’t do anything else?”
“No. Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything,” he says.
“No. Nothing. You know him, he’s intense.”
“Yeah. That’s how he is.” He draws in a breath and holds it, as if deciding whether to continue on with his thought.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“‘Nothing’ means you’re lying. What?”
“I never told you… I used to have a crush on her.”
I knew this was what he was going to say—and I already regret asking the question.
“Gladys? When?”
“Last year.”
“No, you never told me.”
I leave it there. He doesn’t give any more information, and I don’t ask for it.
We hear a noise and turn. Sr. Ortíz has opened the shed and is handing a few things to Marcos and Gladys, presumably supplies for the trip.
“We need to decide,” Arbo says.
“Let’s each say our answer on three, whatever it is.”
He nods.
I hold out my hand and begin to count. “Uno, dos…”
“U.S.,” we say together.
For me, it comes down to this: I understand the power of revenge. If I had the opportunity, I’d shoot everybody in the gang. Twice. I’m not proud to admit it. I’m not that type of person. But I still would do it. I’d do it for my family. I’d do it for Arbo’s family. I’d do it for Sr. Ortíz’s son, even though I know he was part of the machine, part of those who took my life from me. That’s what’s twisted—revenge lacks precision. It’s a hurt that wants to lunge in any direction to hurt back.
Because I see this in me, I know that Rafa’s brother won’t stop. He’ll hunt us for the rest of his life, and if he can’t hurt us, he’ll hurt those near us. I need to put as much distance as I can between me and anyone I know. I’m a liability in my world. I need a new one.
• • •
Within a few hours, we have a plan. Sr. Ortíz shows us letters from his children describing how they crossed the border. They even sketched a crude map. They wanted Sr. Ortíz to join them and provided the name of the coyote who guided them across the border from Sonoyta, the closest border town. Our hope is to drive there early tomorrow morning, find this man, and pay him with the pickup truck. None of us know how much a rickety, old truck is worth in the world of human smuggling, but it’s all we have.
Sr. Ortíz loads us up with all the supplies he can, then ma
kes a quick trip to town to buy a few extra items—flashlights, canned food, matches, and water jugs.
We’re packed and ready to leave before the sun goes down.
I go to the garden to weed one last time. It doesn’t need it, but I do. I need a moment to myself.
Within seconds, I’m holding dirt-ridden hands to my eyes, filled with a storm of memories and the realization that I’ll never again see my one true home.
I hear steps behind me.
“What’s wrong?” Gladys asks.
“Nothing. I’m just thinking,” I say.
She steps carefully over the rows of plants and takes a seat.
“I’m going to miss it all too.”
She puts an arm around me and lays her head against my shoulder.
This is the first time we’ve ever touched. It’s electric, but not in a romantic way. Her embrace feels so maternal, so unconditional. It’s a shocking feeling from where I was only seconds before.
“What?” she asks.
“I’m thinking about my mom. She loved to garden. She had patches of herbs and peppers around the yard. And she put so many plants inside the house, my dad started calling our living room the jungle.”
“I always liked your mom. I mean, I didn’t really know her, but there was something about her. Some people give you a good vibe. She was one of them.”
Whatever sadness I had been feeling vanishes, and I hold on to a separate set of memories—warm, delicate, peaceful. I submerge myself in all of the reasons why I loved my mom and my home. Nobody can take those memories away.
I don’t know what to make of this nostalgia, so I don’t try. I just let it happen.
Gladys leans in a little closer. It feels wonderful, but I can’t fully enjoy it, mostly because of two people who I’m sure are watching carefully.
Sonoyta
The wind flaps the tarp like a drum, booming at a techno music pace just above our heads. We lie in the bed of the truck while Sr. Ortíz drives us to Sonoyta. The ride takes a couple of hours. I think of us—Marcos and Arbo flanked by Gladys and me—like those little hot dogs you get in a can, lined head to toe in perfect order and pressed tightly together. The only other image in my mind is of us in a giant coffin. Hot dogs seem like a more pleasant alternative.
We stop.
“Ya llegamos,” Sr. Ortíz announces as he unties the tarp.
I pop my head up. We’re in an alley, shielded from the border town hustle that hums in the distance.
“Rápido,” he says, as we all jump out of the truck.
My stomach tightens. We are wanted and our pictures have been published across all of Mexico for all we know. But our options are limited. It’s too hot to stay in the truck, too suspicious to sit in an alley, and too obvious to stay together. Well-intentioned Sr. Ortíz bought several cheap wigs during his supply run yesterday, but they only make us look like we’re trying to hide. So the plan is for us to split into our natural pairs and blend in the best we can. Sr. Ortíz will find the coyote and negotiate our deal.
We plan to meet back in the alley in three hours.
We wish each other luck, then Sr. Ortíz drives away. The four of us quickly pair off and walk in opposite directions.
Sonoyta is just a car ride from home, but I’ve never been here. I’ve never been this far away. I’ve heard stories. Some good, some bad. I’ve seen pictures. I’ve dreamed of what it must be like. But I’ve never experienced it.
I want to enjoy it, but I can’t. I feel neon. All eyes seem to land on me—shop merchants staring through their windows, schoolkids giggling in their gray-and-white uniforms, locals going about their business, tourists snapping photos, everyone. I’m $2,500, walking down the street, waiting for someone to snatch me up.
“I feel like someone’s going to recognize us,” I say softly.
“You’re paranoid,” Arbo says.
“¿Y tú no?”
His answer lags a few seconds, as an armored police car that looks more like a tank rolls down the street. We both turn and face the window of a small convenience store, watching the reflection of the vehicle slowly pass.
“No, I’m thirsty,” he says.
“We don’t have any money,” I remind him.
“No, but we could ask for water.”
“I think we should get off this street and go someplace where nobody’s going to see us.”
“You’re overthinking this. We’re just two kids. Look around. There are people everywhere. Half of them aren’t even from Mexico. Nobody is going to recognize us,” he says. “If you’re worried about it, we could get you that enormous sombrero.”
He points across the street to a tourist stand that has colorful sombreros as large as umbrellas.
An SUV stops in front of the stand, and a few people who I assume are tourists on their way to our beaches step out of the car. With their flip-flops, bright shirts, enormous icy drinks, and fists shoved deep into tall bags of chips, they look like they’re from another planet.
“They think we actually wear those sombreros.” He smiles. “You could pull it off, I think.”
“Okay. You’re right,” I say. “Let’s ask. I’m thirsty too.”
We walk inside the convenience store. The clerk glances up at us, then looks back down at the counter, to whatever he was reading.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Can we get a cup of water, please? It’s really hot outside.”
“Sure,” he says, without looking up. “The faucet is in the back.”
Arbo and I find the water, fill cups, and return to the front.
“Thank you,” Arbo says.
“You don’t want to buy anything? Chips? Candy?” he asks. His head stays down while his eyes roll up toward us.
I’m about to answer when Arbo jabs me in the back. I turn to look at him. He’s wide-eyed.
“No thanks,” he says. “We’re in a rush. We have to meet our parents.”
He tugs at my shirt, looks at me, and then slings his gaze to the counter for a fraction of a second. Long enough for me to follow his eyes.
My stomach drops.
Spread out on the counter is a newspaper. Even upside down I can read the giant headline: STILL MISSING. Our four pictures hover just beneath his nose.
“You guys okay?” the clerk asks.
“Yeah, yeah. We’re fine. We, um, we’re late,” I say, scooting toward the exit. I bump into Arbo and nearly spill my water. “Thanks again!” I say as we fly into the street.
Without speaking, we speed walk to the nearest corner.
“One point for Pato,” Arbo says.
“I didn’t want that point.”
We round the corner and walk in no specific direction, other than away from any kind of action. Eventually we find a small park with a bench in the shade and a distant view of the highway border crossing. We take a seat.
We’re close enough to the United States that we can see the other side. Cars stop, documents pass back and forth, and the cars disappear quickly into the distance, requiring no more effort from their drivers than the mere press of an accelerator. And here we are, on the cusp of trying to cross fifty kilometers of desert by foot. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it in three days—according to their letters, that’s how long it took Sr. Ortíz’s children. These people could reach the point where we’ll exit the desert in less than thirty minutes. Assuming that highway even leads in the direction we’re going, which is nothing but a wild guess. I know little about where we’re headed.
I wonder what life might be like had I been born over there. If I were the one sitting in the SUV with a frosty drink in hand, on my way to play at a fancy resort. Would I have noticed me watching from the sidewalk? Would I have merrily taken pictures while armored police cars rolled down the streets? Would my life have been better or just different?
In a way, it’s hope. For a blissful moment, I’m looking at the finish line and not focusing on the road to get there.
“Algún día,” says Arbo.
I guess we were thinking the same thing. Someday. My dad used to say that Arbo and I shared a brain, or at least borrowed each other’s thoughts.
“What do you think it’ll be like?” he asks.
We’ve both seen dubbed TV shows and movies from the U.S., and we live close enough to the border that we’ve heard stories about people who crossed and now live over there, but none of that says much about what our lives will be like once we get there.
“Peaceful. I hope,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. But, I mean, other stuff, like where do you think we’ll live?”
“I guess we’ll have to get an apartment.”
“Where?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’ve heard people say Seattle is a good city.”
“I don’t even know where that is.”
“I think it’s close to Los Angeles. That could be another option.”
“Sure.”
“What about Canada?”
“Maybe. Let’s take it one border at a time.”
“Good point, but wherever we end up, we should live together,” he says.
“Definitely.”
“Are you ready for it? Not the crossing part, but once we’re there. Once we leave. We’re never coming back here again. It’s all gone.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for it, but I’m ready to move on,” I say.
“Everything’s going to be different. I think. I don’t know anything about the U.S.,” he says. “I don’t play soccer, but at least I know how to play. I don’t know anything about basketball, American football, baseball. I don’t know English. I don’t know if the people will like us. I don’t know if I have to go to school. I don’t know if I can go to school. I don’t even know if I want to go back to school. Do you?”
“I suppose I want to go. But I don’t have a good reason other than school is the only thing I know that might be the same. Math is the same here and there. Science is the same. Like you said, everything else changes.”
“But won’t classes be in English?”
“Good point. I guess we should have paid more attention in English class. We’ll have to learn fast.”
The Border Page 6
