Love In Plain Sight

by Jeanie London

  They were greeted at the reception desk by a community center supervisor.

  “Where can we find Rosario Mantanzas?” Marc asked. “She’s an assistant with Brooker Elementary’s after-school program.”

  The guy wasn’t thirty, Marc estimated. Dressed in standard camp counselor gear—cargo pants and T-shirt―he wore a lanyard with a whistle and badge around his neck. After frowning at Marc, he slid his gaze toward Courtney, who flashed a gracious smile. Sure enough...instant credibility.

  “I know Rosario,” the supervisor offered. “She has third-graders on the basketball court. Head through the center and out the back doors. Can’t miss her.”

  “Thanks.” With Courtney beside him, Marc made his way through the auditorium, where kids sat at long tables. There was a fragile quiet, the kind where all it would take was one good shake before the cork blew. Kids looked up as they passed, earning scowls from the adults who patrolled the perimeter.

  “Eyes on homework, please,” someone said.

  They emerged through the doors and were blasted by noise. Kids talked, laughed, shrieked. In addition to the kids on the basketball court, playing some sort of ball game that didn’t remotely resemble basketball, there was a woman who appeared to be in her early twenties and a teenager wearing tight jeans who was most likely their target.

  “Find out if she’s our girl,” Marc said.

  Courtney went straight up to the girl in the tight jeans with her hand outstretched. “Hi, we’re looking for Rosario.”

  “I’m Rosario.” The girl hesitated before shifting a puzzled gaze between them. “Who are you?”

  Marc flashed his press pass. “We’re journalists doing an exposé for Hurricane Katrina’s anniversary. We’ve been talking to kids who got separated from parents and guardians during the evacuations. Your name was listed on the Red Cross registry. Mind if we ask a few questions?”

  “I didn’t get separated,” she said quickly. A pretty girl who dressed trendy, she obviously wasn’t comfortable talking about the past with strangers.

  “According to the records, one of your family did.”

  “They weren’t my family.” She stepped away to grab a kid who was straying past the confines of the court area.

  Okay, he’d hit a tender spot. That was not what he’d been going for.

  “No wandering off, Nathanial,” Rosario said automatically. “Stay here with us until it’s your turn again.” Then she glanced back at Marc. “I’m on the clock. I can’t take my eyes off these kids. There’s only two of us out here and a lot of them.”

  “We won’t be too distracting. Scout’s honor.”

  The girl wasn’t buying it. He’d pissed her off with the family comment and made a mental note to come up with another label. Was foster family PC?

  “We’d really appreciate your help, Rosario.” Courtney sat on the bench, seemed to be settling in. “We’re writing articles to remind our readers that we need to keep putting safeguards in place, so if we ever have another hurricane, or any natural disaster, kids need to be handled better. We don’t want what happened the last time to happen again, if we can help it. Too many kids were separated from their parents and guardians and siblings. Took forever to get everyone back together again, and a lot of people were scared for their loved ones.”

  Rosario considered her. “Haven’t they done something already? You’d think they’d have learned after that big mess.”

  “I know.” Courtney extended her hands in entreaty. “That’s why we’re writing our articles. Don’t get me wrong. A lot of good improvements have been made, but there’s still a lot of work to be done. We don’t want anyone getting lazy, and you know how easy it is to forget. Time goes by and it’s like the hurricane never even happened.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Rosario said. “I stayed with everyone I was supposed to. We took a bus to Houston then we took another one to Shreveport. What do you want to know?”

  Marc liked how Courtney engaged the girl by asking for help, implying she could make a difference. Well done. So he kept his mouth shut and let Courtney do the talking.

  “Just had a question about the kids you were with during the evacuations. The database reported that one of them didn’t get on the same bus with you. A girl named Araceli. By any chance do you remember her or what happened?”

  Rosario frowned, then was distracted when the ball headed their way, and the kids around her squabbled to get into the action. Marc leaned on his cane, debating whether or not sitting would be worth the effort. He didn’t want to get knocked on his ass, which was where he’d land if those kids tripped him.

  But the ball headed in another direction, and everyone settled down to watch the game and await their turns.

  “Yeah, I remember Araceli,” Rosario finally said. “She didn’t come with us. Never saw her after that.”

  “Do you remember why she didn’t make the trip? Like who she might have gone with, or anything at all that might help us figure out why so many kids got separated?”

  “We had to wait forever for the buses, and everyone was freaking out. We were like the last ones to get on the bus.” She cocked her head, silver earrings dangling with the motion. “I don’t think there were enough seats, and the bus driver said everyone had to have a seat. Araceli was the last in line, so she had to go with Señor Perea’s friends.”

  Courtney leaned back and hitched an arm over the bench. “So she didn’t get a seat because she was in the back of the line.”

  Rosario frowned. “She didn’t stay close to us. Señora Perea was always telling her to keep up or else she would get lost.”

  “Did your guardians want Araceli to go with their friend?”

  “God, no.” Rosario shook her head vehemently. “Señora Perea pitched a fit. She wanted us all together. She said Araceli could sit on her lap, but the bus driver said no. Señor Perea said we’d all have to get off then, but the people who were getting us on the buses said they didn’t have time for us to wait until we found a bus with the right number of seats. They said the other bus was going to the same place.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  Rosario shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Señora Perea told us Araceli wouldn’t come back to live with us until all the repairs were finished on the house. She said they didn’t want to move Araceli around too much because she was having trouble settling in. Whatever that meant.”

  Rosario herself was seventeen now, which meant she was close in age to Araceli.

  “How was she having trouble?” Marc asked. “Do you remember anything specific?”

  “She didn’t talk a lot. That was for sure. Cried at night. I used to hear her because we shared a room.”

  “Did you like her?” Courtney asked softly.

  “At first I was excited another girl was living with us, but she wasn’t any fun. She never wanted to do anything. All she did was draw pictures in her notebook and cry at night. I felt kind of bad for her.”

  “Because she was quiet and shy?”

  “Because she couldn’t stand up for herself with the boys. They picked on her and made her cry more, if that was even possible.”

  “Sounds like boys,” Courtney agreed. “What did they do?”

  “Araceli had this notebook she drew in. But it had other pictures in it, too. Not ones she drew but really good ones. Pictures someone drew of her family I think. Tayshaun got a hold of it one day and ruined some of those drawings with magic markers. He drew mustaches and weird hair. Stuff like that.” Rosario inhaled deeply as if the memory still carried weight.

  Marc would bet money this kid was sharing the whole reason she still remembered Araceli, a girl who hadn’t lived with her a full two weeks so long ago.

  “Araceli lost it,” Rosario admitted. “I thought she was going to choke to death b
ecause she couldn’t catch her breath she was crying so hard. I felt so bad. Señora Perea finally had to carry her into the bedroom. Didn’t stop the boys from being so horrible, but Señora Perea paid closer attention. I was glad Araceli didn’t come back to live in the trailer with us. It wasn’t nearly as big as the house. I was glad when I finally got to go live with my grandmother.”

  “Is that who you live with now?” Courtney asked.

  Rosario nodded.

  “That’s wonderful,” Courtney said conspiratorially. “Do you know that’s one of the best parts of my job—meeting lovely young women like you and getting to hear your happy endings.”

  That got the first hint of a smile. “I’m going to college next year. The community college, but I’ve got scholarships.”

  “Congratulations.” Courtney clapped for good measure, and Rosario’s smile brightened. “Any idea what you want to study?”

  “Maybe I’ll be a nurse. Then I can always get a job.”

  “That’s really smart. I heard that the health field was the number one field to go into now.”

  “I know,” Rosario agreed. “And I’m really good in science and math. I’m taking trig this semester.”

  “Good for you. No wonder they’re offering you scholarships. Sounds like you have a great plan. Smart girl.”

  Marc shifted the notebook, and Courtney got the hint. She extended her hand again to Rosario, who took it eagerly. “I wish you all the best, Rosario. You’ve been really helpful. Thanks so much. Hopefully, we’ll raise some awareness.”

  “I hope so.”

  Then the ball swept in again, and the kids pounced on it. Marc beat a fast retreat to get out of the way. As fast as he got nowadays.

  But Courtney was right on his heels, and they headed back toward the building. “Didn’t you want to ask anything else?”

  “What’s left to ask? God, I love kids. Even the older mouthy ones. No filters. Love it. And you’re a natural interrogator. You can do the talking.”

  Courtney didn’t reply as they headed back through the auditorium. But when they emerged into the parking lot, she said, “You must have gotten more from that conversation than I did. All I heard was that we corroborated what the Pereas told the FBI and what’s in the Red Cross registry. And that Araceli was unhappy.”

  Marc nodded. “We’ve established constancy with the Pereas’ behavior. And your friend’s opinion by the way. Rosario would rather live with her grandmother, so she didn’t strike me as overly loyal to Señor and Señora Perea. I gauge that as an unbiased opinion. They tried to keep their foster kids together and didn’t give up Araceli easily.”

  They arrived at the car, but Marc didn’t open the door even though Courtney had already unlocked it. “We know that Araceli was not only having trouble settling into her first foster home, but she might have even had a reason to not want to be there.”

  Courtney inclined her head, considering. “Got it. Because the boys were harassing her. Most of my kids don’t want to be in foster care. They’d rather be at home with their families without all the problems and grief.”

  “It’s another piece of the puzzle. We also learned that someone Araceli cared a great deal about liked to draw.”

  “Wow, Marc.” She gave a small laugh.

  “Good job,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to give her any reasons to smile. Not when her smiles sped up his pulse enough to remind him he couldn’t act on the impulse.

  But Courtney smiled anyway, and his pulse ramped up.

  No surprises here.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “DO YOU KNOW you are one hard person to find, Beatriz?”

  I recognized Kyle’s voice, and glanced over my shoulder to find him standing just outside my pitch—today a brilliant purple-and-gold creation I’d stolen straight from the Disney movie Tangled. Perfect to attract kids during the Labor Day festival, where I was painting faces.

  Not the most interesting of my commissions, but painting ornate masks made of stars, rainbows and tiger faces on fidgety little kids could be more challenging than anyone might expect. The kids themselves were always so excited.

  I waved one last time to little Eri, who now had colorful music notes and a piano keyboard mask from chin to forehead, and thanked her parents for five bucks they’d stuffed in my tip jar. Then I turned my full attention to Kyle.

  “Am I?” I asked innocently, but I was intentionally hard to find, even when I didn’t want to be.

  “I’ve been looking for you since last night.” He was peeved. He didn’t come out and say it, but annoyance was all over him. No dimple.

  I was not sure what to make of him. We weren’t friends, just sort of getting to know each other over common interests. We were street performers. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  He dropped onto the park bench with a huff and didn’t seem to care that I was trying to work. “How is someone supposed to get a hold of you when they want to share good news?”

  Okay, the weirdness passed. I got where he was coming from. “You found me. What’s up?”

  He almost blinded me with his smile. “I got a gig.”

  For a second, his announcement hung between us, and it was just him and me and his news. The other gazillion people along the riverfront on this sunny Labor Day had vanished.

  “A gig? Like a real one?” Dropping my paintbrush into the water cup, I gave him my full attention.

  He nodded, trying to look casual when excitement dripped off him like all these little kids getting their faces painted.

  “Where?”

  “That venue I was telling you about, where I wanted to grab coffee. I’ve been playing open mic night since I got to town. This week, I premiered my new songs, and management called and asked me if I wanted to open next week’s event.”

  “OMG. That is awesome.” I didn’t have any hesitation about showing my excitement, so I hopped off my stool and gave him a big hug. “When is it?”

  He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his chuckle made me think he liked my hug a lot. “Friday night. I want you to come.”

  “Tell me when and where.”

  There would be an admission cost, but I wouldn’t miss his first real gig. I’d make out good today. Face painting was always profitable. And he wasn’t playing the Grand Ole Opry.

  I sat back on my stool again and told him, “I’m not surprised, Kyle. Your music is really great.”

  He liked that, too. Stretching out his legs, he folded his arms over his chest and tried not to look too proud. “Great, huh? You think so?”

  I nodded, not shy about sharing my praise. Generosity was important among artists. Papa believed that with all his heart.

  “Creativity is a tough business,” he had told me so long ago. “You have to believe in yourself always. No matter what others say. Take what helps you and throw away the rest. And always be generous with your praise, so it comes back to you.”

  “I do.” I liked how my words made his smile wider. “You don’t play the same sound over and over again in your songs. You would be surprised how many street musicians do. I know because I hear them all day long. But your songs have poetry and feeling and variety. You’ve got folk with your sound and some rock and some bluegrass. Then there’s that one that sounds gospel.”

  I might be an artist and not a musician, but I had lived in Nashville for a long while. No one could live here and not learn about music. By the time I finished my opinion, he had visibly puffed up. If I was sketching him then, I would have worked with the lines of his brow to coax out that proud expression. Not conceit, just satisfied. As if somewhere deep inside, he’d needed to hear what I said.

  That’s when I realized something about Kyle. He was new to Nashville. He had his friend he stayed with, a guy he had worked with on s
ome songs while he had been in New York. All the other people he hung out with belonged to his friend. Maybe I was the first person he had chosen since coming here. He was excited and he wanted to share with someone who was his.

  We were alike that way. Only I’d been here long enough to have people. I had library friends. My Western-wear-owner friend. I was even on a first-name basis with a few municipal police who walked the downtown beat. No one knew anything about me, and it might not be much of a life, but it was my life. And it was more than Kyle had right now.

  He got distracted when a group of teens stopped to admire my sidewalk mural. “This place is hopping.”

  “Labor Day downtown festival.” No surprise there.

  “I should have brought my guitar.”

  I shook my head. “It’s a park festival.”

  “And?”

  “No street performing in city parks,” I explained because I didn’t want to see him get run off. His music moved me, like any good art should. I wasn’t just being nice. His music was great.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m a street vendor.” I pointed to the seller permit attached to my easel. I had covered it with clear plastic wrap so it wouldn’t get wet.

  He got off the bench and inspected the permit. “Do I need one of these?”

  “I don’t think so. I do because I sell my art. It’s the only reason I can work in the park.”

  “Expensive?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Like two hundred bucks, but I couldn’t be here without one. There are big fines if you get caught.” And then the police would want to talk with my legal guardian, which would be a big, big problem.”

  Kyle let the permit fall back into place. “Had no clue. Thought I just needed to pick a place and start playing. It’s Nashville, country music capital of the world.”

  I laughed, guessing he hadn’t been a street performer in New York. “We are allowed free expression, but there are rules. If you ever go back to New York, you can play your acoustic guitar but you can’t play an electric with an amp. And you have to set up twenty-five feet away from a token booth and not block the escalator or stairs. Those sorts of things.”