“See you,” I say back.
I head out and rip into the foil because Graves’s bread is so good and I’m so hungry. The whole thing is gone before I’m two blocks away.
BOB’S
WHEN I GET THERE, Julisa’s sitting at a table behind a big stack of bright orange flyers with a decent photocopy of Luis’s mug on them. She’s marking up a map. Chewing on some onion rings.
“Gregory, grab some sustenance.”
I dip a ring into some tartar sauce and take a seat. I tell her about Graves and Quintel and Tre. I tell her we’re not the only ones worried about Luis.
Carlos bursts through the door and sits beside us.
“You got anything, Díaz?” Julisa asks.
“My cousin said he was at Cristián’s and Luis was a no-show. Vatos were real pissed. But it’s nothing new ’cuz it’s been a long time since Luis hung with anybody. The crazier thing is nobody’s seen Flaco in a whole week. That crew is tight and nobody knows nothing.”
I tell him to keep on asking around. He seems gung-ho to help out.
We both look to Julisa. “All right, guys. Let’s get rolling on the posters.” She grabs her big old pencil pouch and selects the proper highlighter, highlighting our individual territories on our maps. She gives us a stack of posters. She’s got a staple gun and a couple hammers and nails, so we’re covered there.
Before we split up, Julisa asks where we should meet in the morning.
“You’re in for another day?” I ask.
“I don’t see Luis anywhere,” she says.
I like Julisa Mendez.
As we walk out, the Korean lady wishes us good luck.
Carlos stops just outside the door. “I never mentioned this ’cuz I just remembered it. This one time a few months ago, my little brother, Aldo, told me Luis was at his school, hangin’ out in the next class or something. I don’t know what he was doing over there, but I think it’s strange. Gangster hangin’ out at an elementary school.”
“Did you ever ask him about it?” I say.
“Nah, man. We don’t talk much.”
“Do you guys talk ever?”
“He got his own thing.”
“You talked like you knew him.”
“We’re not pals, awright? But everyone knows all kinds of shit about his brother. And about his pop. But Luis? He don’t really talk to nobody. He’s a mystery dude.”
“Do you know how he got his scar?”
“Nah, but I can imagine. There are all kinds of stories out there, but nobody knows for sure. What I do know is bad vatos get bad scars.”
I finally get it. All that time when I thought Carlos knew him, when he was bugging me about him, he was just trying to get closer to Luis. He doesn’t know him at all.
“So which elementary school did your brother see him at?”
“Denny, man.”
I tell them I’m going over there after school tomorrow.
We head into the rain our separate ways and start getting acquainted with the phone poles of Des Moines, Washington.
STUFF A MOTHER SHOULD KNOW
I EAT DINNER WITH GINNY AND BILL.
I can’t tell them I’m suspended and this whole thing with Luis is too intense to talk about.
They couldn’t do anything about it anyway.
They could worry.
But I’m doing enough of that already.
Ginny asks me if I’m okay. I tell her I’m fine. That’s about all that gets said. In all the quiet, I wonder if I’d be telling my mom everything if she were here.
I think about the letter I started the night of the slam. It’s sitting there on my bed waiting for me. So I decide to finish it.
I tell my mom about Luis and the poetry slam and I can’t stop writing. I feel this need to tell her every good thing I’ve ever done.
I write about doing my homework in Cassidy’s class. In McClean’s class. Nguyen’s class. I write about mowing the lawn all last summer. Ours and the neighbor’s. I write about the time I caught a sixteen-inch sea-run cutthroat trout fishing with Bill my first summer here. I tell her I had perfect attendance last year.
I know there’s more.
I go to the closet and pull out the backpack. Besides old pictures, I stuffed every certificate or sticker or award I ever got in there. I’ve never taken any of them out.
Until now.
There’s a “Citizen of the Week” award from June 2 to June 6 my fifth-grade year. There’s one for a fourth-grade spelling bee. I pull out a note from my third-grade teacher thanking me for helping her put the chairs up after school. There’s a Defensive Co-MVP medal from my U-10 soccer team and one for “Extraordinary Service” to the Audio-Visual Squad from sixth grade.
Most of this stuff happened before she left me here. I don’t care. I put it all in the letter. I can’t stop writing. I list everything in the pack. Everything in my memory. I fold the letter and stick it in an envelope. Address it. Stamp it. Shove it in my pocket.
I need my mom to know this stuff.
RUPE
CAN’T SLEEP.
I go to my dresser and pull out the scrap of paper. It’s Rupe’s number from when I talked to Dave. I try it. There’s an answer on the other end. “Rupert?”
It’s not Rupe but the voice on the other end says he’ll get him.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Sam, Rupe. Dave gave me your number.”
“Are you serious? Sam? God, it’s good to hear from you.”
“You okay, Rupe?”
“I’m gettin’ there.”
I listen to his crazy stuff. Dave was right. Rupe isn’t doing so hot. He’s out of school and living with a friend. Rupe’s mom died when we were little. Now his dad is sick. Apparently, Rupe fucked up enough that his dad kicked him out. He tells me he’s in teen Alcoholics Anonymous trying to get his shit together.
He says sorry for some dumb stuff I don’t even remember from when we were kids and for not calling me back when I tried to get ahold of him a long time ago.
I tell him he doesn’t have to say sorry. I tell him it’s no big deal.
He tells me it’s a big deal to him.
I ask Rupe for help.
He checks the bus schedule and says he’ll see me in the morning.
We hang up and I punch Rupe’s name into my contacts list.
LOOKING FOR LUIS IN SECOND GRADE
THERE’S NO WAY I’D BE THIS FAR WITHOUT JULISA. If I ever feel like changing the world for the better, there is no doubt about it, Julisa Mendez will be my go-to girl.
By two o’clock Friday, she’s made sure that Carlos, Rupe, and I have every telephone pole on every major street in Des Moines covered. She’s called four news stations and the Seattle Times. And the cops. They tell her the assistant principal from Puget High already filed the report. That’s Carter. It’s good to know we’re not alone on this.
Now she and the guys are off knocking on doors in the neighborhoods surrounding Viking Glen and I’m at Denny Elementary.
School’s just ended. I tell some little kids I’m looking for Aldo Díaz. They point out this cute owl-eyed little guy who in no way looks like a gangster’s brother. I tell him I know Carlos and he tells me his teacher is Ms. Gilmore.
Ms. Gilmore’s class is at the very end of the hall. The sign on the door next to hers reads Mrs. Peña, 2nd Grade. I peek inside. It doesn’t look like anyone is in there.
I knock.
Nothing.
There’s a bench across from her door so I take a seat and start thinking.
What the hell am I doing here?
I get up and peek in at the classroom walls, trying to remember what it was like to be a second grader. I can’t remember much. I know I did well in school then. I guess I was a typical kid. I lived for recess. I was always building stuff and loved listening to my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Towner, reading Dr. Seuss books in her funny voices. She was awesome. I remember we raised baby Coho in tanks and when they grew to be fi
ngerlings, we let them go in Van Winkle Creek in hopes they’d return to make more salmon a few years down the road. Man, second grade kicked ass.
“Excuse me?”
I feel busted. The stern voice belongs to a short, stocky lady with red hair and crazy, red-framed glasses. She’s got this bright orange teacher apron on. There are pens and string and tape hanging out of the apron all over the place. She looks like a clown … a clown you wouldn’t wanna mess with if you knew what was good for you.
“Uh, I’m—Are you Mrs. Peña?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“Sam Gregory. This might sound like a weird question, but do you know a kid named Luis Cárdenas?”
“Are you a friend of his?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting,” she says, playing like she’s suspicious.
Her face bursts into a warm smile and she holds a hand out to shake. “Any friend of Luis is a friend of mine! I’m getting ready to leave, but tell me what you need, Sam.”
We head into the room. There’s clutter all over the place. It’s all project stuff: halfway done balloon globes, maps, stories with pictures. Second grade, man. I tell ya.…
“How’s Luis doing?” she asks as she puts lids on glue sticks. “He was supposed to be here a couple days ago. Tell him we missed him.”
“Does he come here often?”
“Luis is one of my class helpers. He comes by Wednesdays. Last hour.”
“Really?”
“He was in my second grade.” She smiles and says, “Oooh, he was an angry little guy. He used to tell me his brother was going to beat me up if I gave him homework. Now he comes and helps me out with the new generation of angry little guys. I return the favor by chewing him out at report card time.”
She starts putting chairs on desks, so I help.
“Those grades make me angry. I give him heck. He tells me I’m worse than his mom. Someday that kid is going to prove me right and make something of himself. Did Luis send you here? I’m always on the lookout for new volunteers.”
“Actually, I’m looking for him. We worked really hard on this project for English class. Then he disappeared the day we were supposed to present it. He didn’t call or anything. I came here to see if you knew where he was.”
She offers me some licorice and says, “You know, every so often, he visits family in Mexico. His great-uncle. After what happened to his father, Luis wants to keep in touch with that side of the family. He never says anything about going. Then a couple weeks later, he’s back.”
“Maybe that’s it. If you see him … can you thank him for me?”
“Thanks for skipping out on your project?”
“No. I dunno. Just tell him Sam says thanks.”
“Will do. Don’t worry, Sam. I’m sure he’s out of town for a visit. Come back soon. You’re always welcome here.”
TEAM MEETING
BACK AT BOB’S, I tell the team Luis volunteers at Denny. He helps his second-grade teacher almost every week.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Carlos says, disappointed.
Julisa smacks him in the arm. “It’s the sweetest thing.” She sounds sad when she says it.
“Mrs. Peña says he takes off outta the blue sometimes to visit family in Mexico.”
“That’s probably it,” Rupe says.
“What if it isn’t?” Julisa asks.
“He would have written it in the note he left me. He would have told Graves.”
The three nod in agreement.
I’m rolling Tex Johnson’s metal knob around in my hand. Carlos asks me what it is. I tell them the story of the barrel rolls.
“‘Three sixty’ turned into a theme for me and Luis as we practiced for the slam,” I say. I tell them about us making complete fools of ourselves out on Pac Highway. “If I could go back to that moment, I’d haul my ass across the road and tackle that guy. Bear-hug ’im.”
“You’ll get your chance,” Julisa says.
It’s getting late. We review what we’ve done and make plans to go door-to-door in as much of the city as we can hit tomorrow.
Rupe says he can’t come back tomorrow because he’s got his meeting on Saturdays. And he’s visiting with his dad, trying to work that whole thing out. But he’ll be back on Sunday. Before he walks off for the bus, he says, “Sam, you haven’t changed. You’re the same go-getter you were back in Aberdeen.”
Rupe has no idea.
He asks me if I could jam with him sometime. Says he has a bass.
I tell him I never learned.
“No sweat. I’ll teach you,” he says.
I tell him that’d be great.
I thank Carlos as he takes off.
“Not a thing,” he says, heading into the dark.
It’s just me and Julisa. “Thanks,” I say.
“No big deal,” she says.
“It’s a big deal to me.”
“He’ll show up.”
“You okay walking home?”
“Yeah, it’s just a couple blocks. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam.”
She only gets a few steps down the road. “Mendez?”
“Yeah?”
“Where’d you get that pencil pouch? It’s a pretty nice one.”
She smiles. “The drugstore.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It was two dollars, I think. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
She starts walking again.
“Mendez?”
“Yes?”
“You’re all right.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Gregory. Now, go home and get some sleep. It’ll be another long day tomorrow.”
We part for real.
I should head home but I feel the need to go update Mr. Graves. I want him to know an effort is being made. I could call, but I feel like telling him in person and seeing if maybe Quintel and Tre know anything.
So it’s back to the Viking Glen.
MORE BREAD
ON THE WAY UP TO GRAVES’S APARTMENT, I see Tre and Quintel and tell them what Julisa, Carlos, Rupe, and I have been up to. They say that’s great. Then we stand there for a minute without saying anything. Three guys thinking the worst. The only good thing about it is it’s better to think crappy thoughts when you’re thinking them with someone else.
“Son, get up here!” It’s Graves shouting from his window.
He opens the door, and I tell him we got the search covered from head to toe. I tell him what Mrs. Peña said about Mexico. I tell him about the newspapers and the cops. I figure he’s gonna give me a pat on the back.
Instead he says, “I need you to go to Highline Hospital and ask for a nurse. Name is Leyla Ibrahim. Somali woman. Great lady. She’s a close friend of the family. She might know what’s going on. I got her card.” He digs through his ancient wallet and pulls it out. “Here. Go ask her where Luis is.”
“All right, Mr. Graves.”
I turn to go but he catches me by the arm again and says, “Wait, son.” He goes to the kitchen and gets some zucchini bread. It takes him forever, but eventually he hands me a big huge square. I can feel the heat through the foil. “Take it to Leyla.”
He hands me a smaller chunk wrapped in a paper towel. “One for the road,” he says.
Tre and Quintel are waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I tell them what’s going on. They say they’ll keep checking in on Graves until they know everything is okay.
We pull out our phones and exchange numbers. They thank me. I thank them back.
LEYLA AND THE TRUTH ABOUT THE SCAR
AS THE BUS SLOWLY MAKES ITS WAY THROUGH A DOWNPOUR, I think about what I was doing on Friday night a month ago. By this time, in the early evening, I was buried under my covers, trying to sleep. Trying to block out life. Completely alone.
Now I’m working side-by-side with the go-to girl. And Carlos Díaz. Are you kidding me? And Rupe? My long-lost buddy. And now I’m cr
ossing town looking for Leyla Ibrahim. Who the heck is Leyla Ibrahim? And whatever she tells me about Luis, I gotta go tell Graves and Tre and Quintel and Mrs. Peña and Cassidy. A month ago, I thought I hated Cassidy and I was scared of Luis. And I didn’t really know the rest of them.
The bus stops in front of Highline Hospital. I hold my jacket up over my head to keep dry and make a run for it. The information booth is just inside the door. The old volunteer guy tells me Leyla works on third floor north. When I get up there, I ask the nurse for Leyla Ibrahim. She whips her chair back and shouts, “Leyla, you have a visitor!”
Leyla’s young-looking. She wears a maroon headscarf, which frames her round, warm face. She smiles a serious smile and says, “How may I help you?”
“I’m Sam, a friend of Luis Cárdenas from Puget High School. He’s been missing for a week, and Mr. Graves, this old guy—a friend of Luis and his mom—told me you might know what’s going on.”
“Yes, Sam, and please say hello to Mr. Graves for me when you see him. Come this way.”
I follow her to an orange couch in the waiting room. Some little kids are on the floor wrestling and watching cartoons on the TV set. I try to block out their giggles.
Leyla’s eyes look up into her head for a second. She’s searching for words. This feels serious in a way I know I’m not ready for.
“Sam, how long have you known Luis?”
“A couple months. But I’ve only known him well for a few weeks. We were working together on this project at school.”
“Luis and his mom are very close friends of mine. When Luis was younger, he was in the hospital for a long time. I saw his mother every day.”
“Why was Luis in the hospital?”
“Have you ever noticed that Luis has a scar on his neck? He had a cancerous tumor removed when he was eight years old.” She says all this stuff about how great Luis and his mom are. I only hear half of everything she says because I’m stuck back on the words cancerous tumor.
“Where is Luis? What’s going on?”
“Last Thursday, Leticia said she found him in bed, home early from school. He was clutching his head. He told her the pain had been coming and going for a few weeks. He didn’t want to go to the hospital and even made Leticia wait for him to finish some kind of project and promise him she’d drop it off at school in time. She brought him in for an MRI. They found that the cancer had returned and it had spread. They took him to Seattle, to Children’s Hospital. That’s where he is now.”
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