by Amber Hart
I follow the driver along a path that I couldn’t remember my way back through to save my life. The trees become thicker, allowing almost no visibility past my face. It takes some time, but finally I spot brown things that look like homes. Mud buildings, perhaps.
The driver leads me out of the thick trees into the village, which is still green with vegetation, but not as dense as the forest. He says something to a villager in Spanish. I wish I could ask what’s going on. In the time it takes for me to wait, I decide that learning Spanish is a top priority for me as soon as I get back to the States.
I’m busy staring at a crowd of children who have gathered to watch me. One reaches a hand to my hair. Rubs it between her fingertips.
And then Faith approaches.
“Sorry, they don’t see too many people with hair as blond as yours,” she says.
I smile at the sound of her voice. Hug her by instinct. It’s been so long. Too long.
“Missed you,” she whispers.
“Me, too.” I pull back.
Faith looks different. She smiles easier. Her hair is lighter. I’m guessing, from the sun. I look down at her hand.
It’s there, the friendship ring that matches mine. Bought four years ago. Faith kept it all this time. Faith kept a piece of me with her.
Faith sees me watching. Knows just what to say.
“Forever.”
Unanswered calls and missed voice mails mean nothing now because I’m here. And Faith never forgot me either.
Faith thanks the driver in Spanish. Offers him money. He takes it and smiles.
Some of the children step forward. The shy hide behind the brave ones.
“This is Melissa,” she says. Turns to me. “I’m teaching them English.”
“Hi.” I offer a wave.
Another girl touches my hair. “Pretty,” she says.
“Thank you.”
Her hair is as dark as charred wood. Her skin, too.
“I’m going to take Melissa to her room,” Faith says.
The children watch us leave. We pass a pile of cement blocks.
“Drivers make several trips into the village with cement mix,” Faith explains. “We have molds that we pour the cement into. They come out as blocks. We build the school with them. It will also serve as a safe place if the village ever gets hit by a bad storm.”
Faith leads me to a nondescript brown structure that looks as though it’s made of the same materials as the other homes.
“We’ll be staying here tonight, you and me,” Faith says in the doorway.
I look at our arrangement. Two blankets on the floor. One pillow each. Nothing else. I feel like we’ve gone on a camping trip. This is how some of the people live their whole lives.
“We’ll be finishing the school tomorrow. Just the last pile of blocks that you saw and we’re done,” Faith says.
I nod, trying to take it all in. There’s such a divergence between this life and the one I’m used to. Maybe that’s a good thing.
“You okay with this?” she asks.
I realize that I haven’t said much. “Sorry, it’s just so—”
I try to think of the right word.
Faith nods. “Different, I know. I get it. We’ll go back to my place, a village an hour east of here, the day after tomorrow. You’ll be more comfortable there.” She checks her watch. “Twenty minutes until sundown. Let’s get you something to eat.”
Light meals on the flight over didn’t stanch my hunger. My stomach twists at the thought of something more substantial.
“Faith, what you’re doing here”—I motion to the village—“is beautiful. I’m proud of you.”
I always knew she’d break free.
44
javier
I’m standing in the warehouse with Monkey, Colt, and Loco. Something big is going down tonight, is all I know. I feel the tremble of excitement in my veins. From what I’ve overheard, we’re going to see a guy who’s higher up in the gang. Need to drop off a package. I don’t know what’s in the package. Don’t care. What I want to know is the name of the member we’re going to see. But names aren’t passed out around here easily. They’re on a need to know basis. Apparently, I don’t need to know.
If it’s Wink, I’ll know by his face.
I do my best to relax. Quiet the thrum of anticipation. I’m good at disguises. Look at me now. Wearing one. Face neutral. Chilling on the couch like I could care less.
You don’t know the inner workings of my mind.
Every day with MS-13 is Halloween. I wear a mask each time.
Dedicated member, they see.
Worst nightmare, I hide.
I try not to think about Melissa. The way she took off to visit Faith. How she said she needed time away. Mostly how she told me about her cancer.
Cancer.
I can’t stand the thought. What she must have gone through. What she might still be going through. I couldn’t hear the details because if I did, I might have changed my mind. Thrown away all that I’ve worked so hard for, every moment spent getting closer to Wink, to be with her. I was ready to kill whoever put those scars on Melissa. I can’t do anything about cancer, though. I can’t kill it. I can’t stop it.
Helpless, that’s how I feel.
I miss Melissa like crazy. I might have messed things up by refusing to leave the gang. But how could I leave when I’m so close to finding Wink?
Loco talks in shaved sentences on his phone. I’m not close enough to hear him. He hangs up and turns to us.
“Ready?” he asks.
He looks like he means business. Like this is a serious run. Which is good news for me.
“Same place as before?” I ask.
I hope not. I want to be meeting somewhere different, someone higher in command.
“What’s it matter?” Loco snaps.
I’m not used to him being short with me. His tone is aggressive, like I asked the wrong thing. Like I have no business questioning him. He’s pretty much right.
“Forget it,” I say dismissively. Like it’s no big deal. I don’t want him to suspect.
Monkey bounces his leg on the couch. Always ready to go somewhere. Always anxious for the next move. I swear he can’t sit still.
“Let’s go,” Loco says, smile nowhere in sight.
This is a serious side of Loco. I remember Monkey’s words.
He’ll smile in your face.
And shoot you in the back.
The ride to the meet-up point is only ten minutes.
Wink could have been ten minutes away this whole time. Holed up in a club that I’ve passed a hundred times but never entered. What are the odds?
I don’t think I’m that lucky. I hope I’m that lucky.
Loco steps out of the car, briefcase in hand. He looks wrong. Baggy clothes. Ripped jeans. A nice expensive-looking briefcase with a gold handle. Doesn’t fit.
I play the part. Walk into the club after Loco. My eyes flick around to the bouncing lights and dancing bodies. Act like I belong. No, not like I belong—like I own the place, following Loco’s lead.
He keeps close to the wall, careful not to mix with the crowd under the strobe lights. Careful not to mix with the crowd gathered around the bar. This is business.
We carve a path through the crowd. I eye the spot where we’ve stopped. Nothing special about it. Just a plain door.
Hopefully leading to Wink.
A man in front of the door exchanges words with Loco. Music plays too loud for me to hear anything but lyrics and a beat vibrating the walls.
Whatever Loco said works because now the plain door is opening and we’re entering a hallway that’s split like a T, doors on either side. End of the hall, a black door. One, two knocks. It opens. The other side is decked out in luxury. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, sparking light. Two brown leather sofas sit against the back wall, a couple of guys lounging on them. Purple wallpaper that looks fuzzy to the touch covers three walls. A mirror spans the fourt
h. The room reminds me of a hotel suite with its kitchen area and living room. Like I’ve just stepped into someone’s house.
I don’t know where to look. Five guys inside. I’m not sure which one is the leader—one of the two on the couch, or maybe one of the two seated at a thick cherrywood table made for six. Probably not the security standing guard on the inside of the door, closing it behind us. I do know one thing.
None of them is Wink.
“You got it?” one guy asks, flicking cigarette dust into an ashtray. He’s sitting at the table. Thirty-something. Dark hair. Latino accent.
Loco holds up the briefcase.
“All one hundred g’s,” Loco replies.
We’ve been carrying around one hundred thousand dollars? No wonder Loco was uptight. That’s a lot of money to be responsible for.
“Bring it over,” the guy says. It’s a demand. I have a feeling this guy doesn’t ask for anything. I have the impression that he says something and it gets done.
He’s MS-13, for sure. The tattoo of a thirteen with blades running through it on the inside of his left forearm is proof. My guess is that they all belong to MS-13.
Loco walks the money over to him while Monkey, Colt, and I remain standing in the middle of the room. We haven’t been invited to sit. It would be a bad assumption on our part to think that these members are our friends. That we can just relax with them, even if we do belong to the same people. Well, not me.
The man who demanded the briefcase has Loco set it on the table, and open it up. He begins counting bills. This could take awhile.
“Have a seat,” one of the guys on the couch says.
I don’t like the situation. Caged and staged. I don’t want to sit. I have to sit.
Colt, Monkey, and I take a seat on the unoccupied couch.
“Drink?” the guy with no name offers.
“I’m good,” I say, not trusting them with a drink. Who knows what they’ll put in it.
Colt and Monkey decline, too. On the same page. Or maybe not thirsty.
“You got a bathroom around here?” I ask.
I’ve needed to go since we left, but Loco seemed like he was in a hurry.
“Yeah, right over—”
The guy on the couch is cut off by his buddy next to him. “He needs to use the one outside.”
“What’s the big deal?” first guy asks.
“We haven’t cleaned up yet,” second guy replies.
Do they think I care about a dirty bathroom? I don’t.
“It’s not like he’s never seen blood before,” first guy says.
“Cállate,” the second hisses.
It clicks. The bathroom isn’t dirty. The bathroom is a place where something went down. Something that left someone bloody. Evidence. They don’t want me to see it.
“Where’s the other bathroom?” I ask, not wanting to start anything.
The tension is nearly suffocating.
“Out the door. Down the hall. Hook a right and it’s the last door on the right,” second guy says.
I take that as my cue to go. The security guard lets me out of the room. It’s not until I’m down the hall, turning right, that I realize something.
There’s more than one door.
There’s more than one room.
Who knows what the others hold. Maybe more of the same. Guys collecting debts and running an illegal system. Maybe not.
Maybe Wink.
I look around. Check for security. There isn’t any. Besides the guard on the outside door that leads back into the club, and the one on the inside of the room I came from. There could be more inside other rooms. A big risk. I could act like I forgot where the bathroom is. It’s not like I’m not allowed back here. I can explain that I’m MS-13, too.
They could shoot me before I get the chance.
I risk it anyway. Turn the knob of the first door. It’s locked. I swallow my frustration. Try the next door. It’s locked, too. I curse. Twist the knob of the third door. I’m not met with resistance this time. I hold my breath. Hope the door doesn’t squeak. It doesn’t, but the bed in the room does. Two people are tangled in sheets, a hot embrace, not realizing that I’m at the door, seeing them through the crack. The man’s face comes into view. Not Wink. I close the door before they realize that I’ve opened it.
I’m running out of options. Two doors left before the bathroom. I try the fourth. Unlocked. And empty. Similar to the one where I left my crew. I slip inside anyway. Do a quick check.
I go through scenarios in my head. Maybe the lights are off because Wink is sleeping. Or maybe he’s not here, but there will be evidence of him. I check the room. Dare to flip a light on. There’s nothing. I close the door quietly.
Last one.
I try the knob. It gives way to a room with one couch, two tables, and two men.
“Quién demonios eres tu?” one asks.
Who the hell are you? he wants to know.
“Sólo estoy buscando el baño,” I say.
Just looking for the bathroom, I lie.
They stand.
“Soy parte de MS-13,” I explain. “La última puerta en el pasillo.”
The moment I mention the last door down the hall, where I came from, they halt. Faces change. Expressions full of . . . fear. I’m guessing that the men we’re handing the money over to are not men they want to anger.
“La siguiente puerta,” one says.
He’s telling me that the bathroom is the next door. I’ve got the wrong door. Of course, I already knew that.
I shut the door on the men. And on my hopes. Wink isn’t here.
I find the bathroom exactly where I knew it would be. I open the door. Loud music bangs against the walls. Stale bathroom air slips into my lungs. I feel like it might be my last breath.
I halt.
Stunned.
Then gather the pieces of my shock. Slap them together with the force of revenge and breathe. One, two, three breaths.
A guy is stepping out of a stall. Going to the sink. Water turns on. I’m out of sight, cast in shadow. Not in the reflection of the mirror that hangs above the only sink, and directly behind . . .
Wink.
He’s alone—of all places—in the bathroom. I don’t talk. I don’t give any warning at all. Wink doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t see me. Yet.
But I see him. It’s the face of my nightmares. And my dreams. I dream of dealing him the same fate he dealt Diego.
I creep along the wall to the bathroom door, grateful for the dim lighting. Think about how lucky I am that there’s a lock. I make sure it’s secure before I glide closer to Wink, taking care to keep my reflection out of the mirror. The sound of sink water punctuates the air. Music continues to thump outside the bathroom walls. Disguising my breaths. Disguising any noise I might make.
I don’t waste another second. I slip a hand into my waistband. Draw out my gun.
And pull the trigger.
45
melissa
Two days of finishing the school. Two days of stacking blocks, painting walls, and watching children run into their new school with huge eyes, smiles that light up their faces.
I can say I’ve been a part of something life changing. I know, no matter what happens, that I helped children who wouldn’t have otherwise had a chance. I know that I’ve made a difference.
I get it now, why Faith hasn’t bothered to come home yet, though she only originally planned to be gone six months. There’s something real about what she’s doing here. It’s work that rips your heart right out of your chest and molds it into something more compassionate, giving, authentic.
I don’t really want to leave either. But my flight is in two days.
It’s been two days of Faith and me hanging out and helping villagers and being so tired by the end of the night that we fall asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows. I’ve been wanting to talk to Faith about her life here, about my life back home, but there hasn’t been time.
&nbs
p; “Ready?” Faith asks.
I’m standing in front of a small bungalow.
Faith’s house.
“Yes.”
Faith looks around. I try to see what she’s looking for, but there’s nothing.
She unlocks the door. Welcomes me in. She lives in the cutest button of a home. Wooden walls. A loveseat. Television on a stand. Galley kitchen and one bedroom. It’s perfect.
“Wow,” I say, impressed.
Faith’s place is more beautiful than I’d imagined. A palace compared to where we slept the last two nights. It’s huge, spacious, amazing compared to the hut we stayed in. It’s smaller than a New York city apartment.
“My home,” Faith says with a shy smile.
Like she’s proud of it, but doesn’t know what I’ll think.
I run my fingers through a row of beads that separates the bedroom from the living room.
“The couch folds out into a bed,” Faith says. “You can sleep there, or in my bed, or wherever you’re comfortable.”
“I’ll take the couch,” I say.
After sleeping on a floor the last couple days, I’m grateful for anything with a cushion.
“I’ll let you get settled,” Faith says. “The shower is all yours. I have to run somewhere for a few. Be back soon.”
I eye the shower. There weren’t any showers in the last village. I’m desperate to scrub twenty layers of dirt off my skin.
“Sounds good,” I reply. “And really, Faith, this place is wonderful. Thanks for letting me come.”
I set my duffel bag on the floor. Rummage through it for my toothbrush. Put that in the bathroom. The front door closes just as I step into the shower. Hot water pounds onto my skin, a refreshing burn.
I stand under a waterfall of steam and think about absolutely nothing. A million drops fall into my hair, slide down my back, turn the liquid under my toes to a muted brown. Dirt swirls down the drain. I’m so happy for a shower that I don’t bother to move for a full two minutes. When the water turns clear, I open the shampoo. It smells like strawberries.
I still smell like strawberries after my shower. Hair wet and leaving water marks on my pink tank top. Faith walks back in.
“Feel better?” she asks.
“Much.” I smile. Sit on the couch.
