Alamo Wars

by Ray Villareal

  CHAPTER SIX

  Raquel’s little brother Ignacio sat on the living room floor watching an episode of “The Simpsons.” He was snacking on dry Cheerios from a bowl he held in his lap.

  “Hi, Nachito, ¿dónde está Mami?”

  Ignacio looked up at his sister, grinned a mouthful of Cheerios, and pointed toward the back of the apartment.

  As Raquel headed to the kitchen, she heard the sizzling sounds of something cooking.

  Her mother stood at the stove, browning a clump of ground beef that would become picadillo after potato wedges, tomatoes, and spices were added to it.

  “Hola, Mami.” Raquel kissed her mother on the cheek.

  “Wash your hands. Then get the beans out of the refrigerator,” Raquel’s mother told her in Spanish.

  A portable black-and-white TV on the countertop was tuned to the evening news. While Raquel ran her hands under the water from the faucet, her eyes were drawn to it. It was airing a clip about the immigration protest rally that had been held in Dallas months earlier. Thousands of people, wearing white clothing, waving flags of the United States, Mexico, and other countries, had marched through the streets of Dallas, shouting phrases like “¡Sí se puede!”

  A number of counter protestors had attended the rally, too.

  “What is it about the word ‘illegal’ that you people don’t understand?” an enraged fat woman on the news shouted at an old Mexican man.

  The woman’s voice made Raquel’s skin crawl. If she had gone to the rally, she would’ve told her exactly what she thought the word “illegal” meant. But her parents refused to take her.

  “It’s too risky,” her mother said. “We have too much to lose.”

  “We need to keep a low profile,” her father added. “We don’t need to bring any unnecessary attention to ourselves.”

  Raquel retrieved a Tupperware container from the refrigerator. She got a pan from a bottom cabinet under the stove and poured the container’s contents into it. As she stirred the beans, she told her mother, “All we want is a better life. Papi works hard. So do you. Nachito and I make good grades in school. Since when is it illegal to want a better life?”

  Her mother stirred the meat in slow, wavy motions. She did not answer. But her face had a troubled look.

  After supper, Raquel went to her room. She pulled her diary from her nightstand and sat on her bed. She jotted down the day’s events, including details of her time with Marco and Izzy at the construction site.

  Then she scribbled the word “illegal.”

  That’s what they said she was.

  So were her mother and her father. And her little brother Ignacio. Criminals, too, according to some. The crazier ones even linked them to terrorists. She’d laugh if it wasn’t for the fact that there were people who actually believed that garbage.

  She thought back to the day when she and her family left Bustamante, Nuevo León, to come to the United States. Raquel was in the fourth grade. Her little brother was only three years old.

  Raquel’s father paid a coyote thousands of dollars, money he had saved up for years, to guide them across the border.

  The coyote took them to Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, a city that lies on the banks of the Rio Bravo, or what Americans call the Rio Grande River. The water in that part of the river was shallow, so they were able to wade across it without too much trouble.

  All the while, they were on the constant lookout for the Migra, Border Patrol agents who drove their immigration vans up and down the dividing line between Mexico and the United States.

  They hid among the giant reeds in the wetlands area, fearful of being caught and sent back.

  Once they made it through the first checkpoint, the coyote took them to a small, white, wood-framed house. It belonged to the Garcías, friends of the coyote. Raquel and her family slept on the living room floor. They stayed at the house until the next evening when they took off again.

  There was a second checkpoint they had to get past. Again they managed to elude the Border Patrol.

  Raquel’s father spoke a little English, enough to buy Greyhound bus tickets for his family. They traveled to San Antonio, where they met up with some people they knew from Bustamante. From there, they drove through various Texas cities, looking for work. Finally, Raquel’s father found a job at the Maximum Motors Body Shop.

  But after three years in the United States, they were still considered “illegal.”

  Raquel stared at the page and frowned. What an ugly word, she thought.

  During supper, when the subject of the immigration rally came up, her father angrily said, “We didn’t cross the border. The border crossed us. Texas was our land. Era nuestra tierra. It was the americanos who stole it from us. Illegally! If anybody is illegal, it’s them.”

  Her mother nodded in agreement.

  Raquel gazed down at the word “illegal.” She finished her diary entry with Yo no soy terrorista. Yo no soy criminal. ¡Y yo no soy illegal!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “As you heard me announce over the P.A. this morning, the school board has granted us permission to name our auditorium in honor of Miss Mac,” Mr. Rathburn told the TEAM 3 teachers during their weekly meeting.

  The news was met with enthusiastic applause.

  “We’ll have to have a dedication ceremony,” Mrs. Frymire said. “We’ll invite students, parents, everybody.”

  “I’ll take a look at the school calendar for a date when we can hold it,” Mr. Rathburn said. “Then we can start working out the details.”

  He fished a glossy picture catalog out of his coat pocket and sat it on the table.” I took the liberty of checking with a sign manufacturing company downtown for some ideas on what type of lettering we want on our auditorium.”

  The catalog was from a place called Signs of the Times. It contained photographs of company names and logos.

  “These are three-dimensional letters that can go directly on the wall outside the school.” Mr. Rathburn pointed to a picture of a white stone building with the name HASKELL & ASSOCIATES displayed across it in black letters. “We can also add lettering at the entrance of the auditorium inside the building. The backs of the letters light up, giving them a halo effect. They come in stainless steel, aluminum, brass, and acrylic.”

  “Brass lettering would be beautiful,” Mrs. Frymire said. “And it would stand out nicely against the maroon walls of the auditorium.”

  Mr. Rathburn sighed. “The only problem is, we don’t have the money in our budget to pay for it.”

  “How much money are we looking at?” Mr. Watts asked.

  “A lot more than we’ve got, I’m afraid. Here’s an estimate the company gave me for stainless steel.” Mr. Rathburn produced an invoice sheet and passed it around. “Brass runs a little more.”

  When he read it, Mr. Watts widened his eyes and let out a soft whistle.

  Mrs. Pruitt scanned the slip of paper over his shoulder. “Why can’t the school district pay for the lettering? Isn’t that their responsibility?”

  “You would think so,” Mr. Rathburn said. “But the only thing that was approved at the meeting was the naming of the auditorium. Any funds involved will have to come from us.”

  “Why don’t we ask the PTA for the money?” Mr. Watts asked. “I think they’d be willing to cough up the bucks.”

  “I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” Mrs. Frymire said. “They’ve certainly got the means. Besides, the parents loved Miss Mac. They’d do anything to keep her memory alive.”

  “I agree. I’ll bring it up when we meet on Thursday.” Mr. Rathburn collected the catalog and the invoice sheet. “By the way, Mrs. Frymire, have you had a chance to talk to your team about what you shared with me?”

  “No, I wanted to wait until we were all together.” Mrs. Frymire dug into her tote bag. She brought out a manila folder. “I discovered this while I was cleaning out Miss Mac’s file cabinet.”

  “What is it?” Mr. Watts asked.

  She
opened the folder and revealed its contents — a rumpled bunch of papers stapled together. “It’s a play Miss Mac wrote. Thirteen Days to Glory — The Battle of the Alamo,” she said, reading the title on the front page. “I told Mr. Rathburn that I thought it would be a touching gesture if our seventh graders were to present Miss Mac’s play in the auditorium once it has officially been named after her.”

  She passed the script around. The sheets were dingy and brittle.

  Mr. Watts gingerly turned the pages. “When was this written? It looks ancient.”

  “I don’t know. Miss Mac wrote lots of plays, but in the twenty-seven years I’ve been here, I can’t recall ever seeing this one.” Mrs. Frymire took back the script and asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think we should do it,” Mrs. Pruitt answered right away.

  Mr. Watts gave her a skeptical look. “I don’t want to douse the fire, Doris, but do any of us know anything about putting on a play? I mean, Miss Mac was the only talented one among us. We couldn’t have done any of those shows without her.”

  Mrs. Frymire frowned. “Well, maybe we don’t have Miss Mac’s expertise, but I think we can pull it off. We owe it to her. Besides, we have her script. If we pick out the right kids and have them memorize their parts, I’m sure we can present an adequate show, if not necessarily a great one.”

  Mr. Watts still wasn’t convinced. “Putting on a play is a heck of a lot more difficult than just having kids memorize lines, Doris. You know that. We’ll need lights, music, costumes, and … and what about the Alamo itself? Who’s going to build it?”

  Mrs. Frymire stared at Mr. Rathburn.

  He shook his head. “Don’t look at me. Hammering nails into walls is about the extent of my carpentry skills.”

  “What if we painted a huge mural of the Alamo and stapled it to the back wall?” Mrs. Pruitt suggested. “We could ask Ms. Posey and her art students to help us.”

  “No,” Mr. Watts said. “We’ll need a fully functional structure, something that can be placed in front of the kids.” A smile slowly spread across his face. He slapped his hand on the table. “I know who can build it for us! Billy Ray Cansler’s father’s a custom carpenter. He remodels homes and stuff. I’ll bet building an Alamo would be easy for him to do.”

  Mrs. Pruitt frowned. “I don’t know, Barry. If we were to ask Billy Ray’s father to build it for us, you know what that would mean, don’t you? We’d have to put Billy Ray in the play.”

  “No problemo,” Mr. Watts said. “We’ll stick him in the back. Some place where he can’t cause too much damage.”

  Mrs. Frymire slipped the folder back into her tote bag. “We’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid. If we’re going to ask his father to build the Alamo, he’s going to expect his son to have a bigger role in the play than just being an extra in the background.”

  “Why don’t we start with naming the auditorium after Miss Mac,” Mr. Rathburn said, interrupting their discussion. “We can worry about the play later.”

  “That reminds me, have you heard anything about Miss Mac’s replacement?” Mrs. Pruitt asked.

  “No. Personnel’s interviewing prospective candidates, that’s all I know. We should hear something soon, though.”

  “Hopefully they’ll send us someone who’s also a custom carpenter,” Mr. Watts muttered.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Izzy Peña was running for his life. He flew past the library, turned the corner, burst through the double doors of the school, and ran outside. If only he could find Marco.

  Maybe I can lose them in the crowds.

  Izzy was out of breath and full of fear.

  He stopped momentarily and glanced over his shoulder. Billy Ray Cansler and Luther Bowers threw the doors open. The Bukowski twins, Jacob and Joshua, spilled out from the doors with them.

  Izzy sped off again. He ran across the blacktop, zigzagged his way through a group of kids shooting baskets, and rounded the corner of the gym. Without slowing down, he looked back.

  He was still being chased.

  Not watching where he was going, he crashed into a couple of girls who were sharing a People magazine. One of the girls spun around and fell, landing on her backside. The other one tumbled forward, skinning her knee on the blacktop surface. She yelped an “Ow! Ow!” as she rolled over on her side, clutching her leg. Izzy saw a quarter-size red mark on the girl’s knee where the flesh had been scraped off.

  “I … I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I … I didn’t … ”

  But his attempt to apologize was interrupted. He saw Billy Ray and his gang plowing through the crowds. He had no choice but to leave the girls on the ground.

  Why hadn’t he paid attention to where he was going? First it was Billy Ray. Now those girls.

  Two minutes earlier, he had just paid for his breakfast. He was looking for a place to sit. That’s when he saw Orlando Chávez, Felipe Garza, and some other guys sitting at a table by a window. Orlando was waving to him. He had saved a place for Izzy. Izzy waved back to acknowledge that he’d seen him. He smiled. He was going to be the envy of the table, no doubt about it.

  Last night, he’d gone to the wrestling matches. Izzy was a huge wrestling fan. His Tío Beto bought the tickets as soon as it was announced that American Championship Wrestling was coming to town. Row seven! Too bad the matches wouldn’t be shown on TV. Tío Beto explained that it was a “house show,” not a televised event. Izzy had hoped to be on television. But it didn’t matter. He’d gotten to see all the wrestlers in person. And the ACW heavyweight champion, the Angel of Death, had beaten Jumbo Jefferson in an incredible, “nodisqualification” match. Izzy couldn’t wait to tell the guys all about it.

  He was so absorbed in his thoughts about the matches that he didn’t notice Billy Ray Cansler making an abrupt stop in front of him.

  He walked right into Billy Ray, hitting him on the back with his tray. Izzy’s plate skidded forward and slid off. The eggs and bacon spilled down Billy Ray’s black, sagging pants. The carton of milk splashed on Billy Ray’s black shirt.

  Billy Ray loved to wear black. He thought black made him look cool. He also liked to sag his pants. He thought sagging his pants made him look tough. Only he didn’t look cool or tough with eggs and bacon strips dangling from the waist of his pants and a big splotch of milk staining his shirt.

  At that instant Izzy knew he was dead. He didn’t even bother to say he was sorry. It’d just be a waste of time. He did the only thing he could do.

  The best thing to do.

  Run!

  He circled the school and headed into the teachers’ parking lot.

  “I’m gonna getcha!” he heard Billy Ray holler.

  Billy Ray and his gang were closing in.

  Izzy slammed on the brakes just in time, avoiding his third collision of the morning.

  A woman suddenly appeared in front of him. She had stepped out of a red convertible.

  “Where’s the fire?” she asked. “Or are you late for a hot date?”

  She was young. Good-looking. Straight, shoulderlength, auburn hair and a warm smile with rows of perfect white teeth. Izzy thought she looked like a model, like one of those whose photos he sometimes saw in his mom’s magazines. The woman had on a light-blue sweater with a picture of a glittery flying horse on the front.

  Izzy gasped for air. “Some guys are chasing me!” He turned around and pointed.

  “Who?” the woman asked, following his finger.

  Izzy scanned the area, but Billy Ray and his gang had dissolved into the crowds. “They’re gone.” He inhaled and exhaled with short quick breaths.

  “Why were they after you?”

  Izzy hesitated. He wasn’t sure he wanted to explain his situation to this woman. He didn’t even know who she was. Anyway, what was it teachers were always preaching about—don’t talk to strangers?

  Izzy shrugged. “Just … because.”

  “Just because?” The woman flashed her toothpaste commercial smile.
“Oh, I think there’s a little more to your story than that.” She waited for Izzy to answer. When it appeared that he wasn’t going to volunteer any more information, she asked, “Can you show me where the main office is, then?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Izzy escorted her inside. Whoever this woman was, at least she’d be able to protect him from Billy Ray and his gang.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Sandy Martínez, I’d like you to meet your new team.” Mr. Rathburn directed her attention to the teachers sitting around the mahogany table in the conference room.

  Mr. Watts was the first to stand. “Ms. Martínez, I’m Barry Watts.” He stretched out his hand. “I’m the TEAM 3 seventh grade math teacher. Welcome to Rosemont.”

  She shook his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watts. And please, call me Sandy.”

  “Sandy it is,” he said with a grin. “And I prefer to be called Barry.” Mr. Watts could not believe his good fortune. Sandy Martínez was cute, a real welcomed addition to the team.

  For the past six years he’d worked with the other women. Nothing wrong with that, he supposed. They were fine teachers—excellent, as a matter of fact. But they were all old enough to be his mother. Mrs. Pruitt, tall and thin, with tightly curled white hair that reminded him of a head of cauliflower, had a son who was two years older than he was. And Mrs. Frymire, a plump woman with a doughy face, claimed she was fifty-five years old. Maybe she was. But that big cloud of gray hair gave her the appearance of looking at least ten years older. Together with Miss Mac, the three of them made him feel like a caregiver at a retirement home. Yesiree, Sandy Martínez was definitely a nice change of scenery.

  “Sandy? Claire Pruitt. I’m the Texas history teacher for our team. We’re glad to have you.”

  “And I’m Doris Frymire. I teach science.”

  Ms. Martínez was a lot younger than Mrs. Frymire had expected. A lot prettier, too. She couldn’t be any older than twenty-five, twenty-six tops. She wondered what kind of experience Ms. Martínez—Sandy—had to offer the team.