“Maybe we …,” I said, hope a cook fire in my chest, “maybe we … should come to Austin, Texas!”
“No no, Carla,” she replied sharply. “No, little one. Stay still, and I will save enough for a coyote. It will take time, but I … I will do it. Children die on The Beast, Carla. Children die and worse.”
Worse? I stood at the Western Union for four hours before a white envelope of lempiras arrived. I went to our empty house and waited for my brother, who was sniffing yellow glue and likely passed out somewhere. I waited for morning so I could go to the dump to pick though trash. Worse? I might as well begin with the Resistol myself. But I knew, even then, that I was meant for great things. Anyway, for better things.
How did I know this? Nobody told me so, for sure. But Humberto loved me, and I knew my mother was working hard … all for me and Junior. This gave me a sense that I was valuable. I was not garbage, yet somehow my brother was too weak to understand. I had to get him away from this place. But how?
I had a boom box, but its batteries had gone dead long ago. Still, I could play songs in my head, as loud as if they were real. For some reason, the only tape we had was the music of a blind black man named Stevie Wonder. Who knew where this tape had come from? I lay on the pallet with my hands behind my head, and I played “Isn’t She Lovely?” to myself. Stevie Wonder had written this song about his baby daughter. I imagined I had a father who sang to me. I imagined I was an American girl, in a pink bedroom with a bed that had a canopy over it. My father came home from work like the fathers in the movies, carrying a square bag (a briefcase) and singing to me. All I had to do was be lovely, and I would be loved.
Enough of that sentimentality.
I sat up to find I was being watched by a boy I had never seen before. He had a shaved head and a thick black number tattooed on his face, one eye framed. If you know anything about the gangs, you will know what the number was, and you will know why I’m not going to write it down. When that journalist was shot through his eye, it sent a message to us all, and don’t think you are safe just because you are in America! This gang had just begun to come to Tegucigalpa at this time. A boy my age with the tattoo was something I had never seen before. I had heard of the gang, though—whispers around the dump.
I knew enough to be afraid. I sat up quickly, reaching under the pallet for the crowbar, ready to fight. “What do you want?” I said.
“What do you want?” he said, leaning back against the door frame of my house, looking insouciant. He pulled his shirt away from his stomach, as if hiding something.
My skin went hot with fear. I had no idea what this boy was doing so far from the city. I wrapped my fingers around my metal weapon.
“I want you to go away,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. He pursed his lips, nodded. He stepped inside the house and shut the door behind him. “I said to go away,” I repeated, my voice weakening. Was he hiding a gun underneath his shirt?
“Do you have any food?” he said, his eyes scanning the room.
“No,” I said.
“I don’t feel very well,” said the boy, and then he slumped to the floor. I jumped up, holding the crowbar high. The boy’s shirt fell against his stomach, where it was quickly soaked with blood. “Don’t hit me,” said the boy.
My mind reeled. “I could kill you right now with this weapon,” I said, “or you could take me to Austin, Texas.”
“Austin, Texas?” he said, barely able to manage the words.
“Me and my brother. He is sniffing Resistol. I need …” My voice broke.
He met my eyes, nodded slowly. “I can take you,” he said.
Something let go inside me, a bound coil springing loose. This was it—God’s plan for us. I nearly fainted with relief. I had almost stopped believing, to be truthful, and yet here he was: the one God had sent to bring me to my destiny.
“Let me stay here for the night,” he said, his voice delicate but sure. “In the morning, yes, I will take you to El Norte.”
“Okay,” I said. I filled a cup with water from the jug and knelt next to him.
“No one can know I am here,” he said.
I lifted his shirt. There was a deep cut about two inches long and the boy winced, showing big teeth, as I cleaned it. He made a sound in the back of his throat when I took my grandmother’s sewing needle, held it to a match, then punctured the boy’s skin and stitched the tear shut. When I was done, his eyelids fell. His skin was ashen. I had no medicine to give him. I hoped he would not die.
I was already on my knees. I prayed, thanking my grandmother, thanking God. I knew if I told Humberto, he would not allow me to go. Was it a stupid idea? Maybe it was. But if we stayed, Junior would be lost forever. And I imagined what it would feel like to reach my mother, to rest against her, to feel someone holding me up.
My brother eventually came home. He jumped when he saw the boy, his face registering something other than dull bliss for the first time in weeks. “What is this?” he said, terrified.
“We are going to America tomorrow,” I told him. “This boy will help us.”
Junior’s eyes were wide. The number on the boy’s face told us that he had done evil things. “We should run,” said Junior.
“Pack your things,” I said.
“I am not leaving.”
I blinked back tears. “Mom said she wants us with her, and with Carlos,” I lied. “She hired this boy to take us to America.”
“Really?” said Junior.
“Yes, really,” I said, nodding.
“I don’t believe you,” said Junior, turning from me and reaching inside his pocket for his glue.
“It’s true,” said a weak voice. Junior and I whirled around. The boy was sitting up. “Put down the fucking glue, man,” he said. “Your mother told me to bring you to America. She paid me well. We leave tomorrow.”
“My mother?” said Junior, not sure if he should trust his hopes.
“Yes, your mother. In Austin, Texas.”
Junior’s face lit up as if a bulb had been placed beneath his skin. “She really sent you?” he said.
“I told you so, and I don’t want to repeat myself,” said the boy. “I’m Ernesto, by the way,” he said.
I asked Ernesto how his stomach felt, and he said to close my fucking mouth about his stomach. “You—you’re going to like it in Texas,” he told my brother.
When Junior grinned, he looked like a child.
16
Alice
FROM THE MOVIE theater bathroom, I furtively dialed Principal Markson, but she did not answer. I listened to her icy voice mail (so this was what she sounded like to itinerant teens, yikes) but did not leave a message. Surely she had bigger problems than my mess of a movie date.
Next I called Jake. “Where are you, hon?” he asked sleepily.
“I’m at the mall,” I hissed. “This has gone all wrong, completely wrong.”
“Slow down,” he said. “What’s gone wrong?”
“So I drove to the trailer park,” I said.
“What trailer park?” said Jake. “I was napping—I’m confused.”
I slumped against the tiled wall. At my feet was a discarded popcorn sleeve. Above the faucet, two young girls applied heavy eye makeup: liquid liner, mascara, glittering eye shadow. I gazed at my own, plain face as I said, “Remember I couldn’t go canoeing because I’m spending the day with Evian, the girl Principal Markson wants me to mentor?”
“Oh, I remember,” said Jake. “So how’s it going?”
“It’s a disaster. I’m in the movie theater bathroom. At the mall!”
“Oh my God,” said Jake. “Where is the mall, anyway?”
“Out Highway 360,” I said. “But wait … Evian’s in the movie theater, making out with her boyfriend, and his name is Sam!”
“I see,” said Jake dryly.
“What do I do?” I said. “Should I split them up? What is my role here?”
“Have you tried Marion?”
“What?”
“Principal Markson? Have you called her?”
“You’re on a first-name basis with Principal Markson?” I asked. “Her name is Marion Markson?”
“Let’s stay focused,” said Jake.
“Okay,” I said. The girls had finished painting themselves and had begun to watch me with vague interest, so I went inside a stall and locked the beige metal door. I sat on the toilet. “I tried Principal Markson,” I said. “She didn’t answer. I just don’t know what the right thing is for me to do here.”
“Go watch the movie,” said Jake. “And when it’s over, bring the girl home. What movie, by the way?”
“One of the Iron Mans,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” said Jake. “Totally inappropriate.”
“She’s not watching the movie,” I said. “And Jake … this Sam is a senior! Or he must be a repeating senior … he’s nineteen!”
“Complete disaster,” Jake summarized.
“Yeah,” I said, exhaling.
“It’s going to be fine, honey,” said Jake. “Go enjoy the movie. It’s good—I went with Benji to a matinee last week.”
“Okay?” I said, but it was a question.
“You’re just supposed to … be there, I guess,” said Jake. “Right?”
“I’m not fond of situations I can’t control,” I said.
“That’s for damn sure,” said Jake. He started to laugh. “Are you really in the movie theater bathroom?” he said.
“Grrr,” I said.
“Was that a growl?” said Jake. “You’re making me hot, hon.”
“Adios,” I said, cutting the line.
I was smiling as I washed my hands, then returned to the theater. It was nice and chilly, and I still had half a cup of Diet Coke. Even better, Evian and Sam had stopped making out and seemed to be engrossed in the movie.
“Hi,” I said cheerily, sliding into my chair.
Neither answered me. Sam was a tall Hispanic boy, skinny and dressed in lime-green shorts and an Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt with a hood. He wore black-framed glasses and looked as if he’d walked off the pages of GQ magazine. I could see why Evian was smitten. What Sam saw in my underage charge was less apparent. But he’d been thrilled when we found him in front of Foot Locker, grabbing Evian’s hand, causing her to flush.
“Um, Alice, you said you needed to do some shopping?” Evian had said. “I can meet you out front for my ride home.”
“How about we go to the movies?” I’d said.
“Uh …,” said Evian, cutting her eyes to Sam.
“I heard the new Iron Man’s good,” said Sam, shrugging.
“Great!” I’d said. “My treat!” And I barreled toward the theater, buying tickets and soda and settling into my gum-covered seat. But as soon as the lights dimmed, Evian ducked toward Sam with a kiss, and before long I was sitting next to a hot and heavy situation. I hadn’t actually been in such close proximity to other people tongue-kissing since our tenth-grade campout in Mesa Verde National Park. Flustered, I’d ducked out to call Jake. But now I was back.
When the movie ended, Evian made another plea for time alone with Sam, and again I demurred, telling her I needed to bring her home. “My mom doesn’t care where I am,” Evian insisted hotly.
“I need to do some things at the restaurant,” I said.
“You have a restaurant?” said Sam.
“Conroe’s BBQ,” I said, nodding. The neon lights from a Gap Kids store made our faces pale and yellowish.
“That’s right by my house,” said Sam.
“Oh, yeah?” I said.
“I’m going to work there,” said Evian. “I’m going to be a waitress.”
“Well, we’ll see …”
“I thought you said yes!” Evian scowled and balled her fists at her sides. But then her anger drained and she sighed histrionically and hung her head. She was so mercurial it was hard to keep up. “Everybody lies,” she said glumly.
“Well, see you in school,” said Sam, seemingly as confused as I. He leaned in for a smooch, and Evian held on to him tightly, then let go and started walking quickly toward Macy’s. (Somewhere past the bed-and-bath section was our exit back into the normal world.)
“Nice to meet you,” I said to Sam awkwardly.
“Okay,” said Sam. “Bye.” He ambled off, and I hurried to catch up to Evian.
“Slow down,” I said.
“Do you think he loves me?” she asked. “I mean, real love?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Me neither,” said Evian wistfully. “Hey, can you buy me a Cinnabon?”
“Yes,” I said, glad to give her something tangible.
“And a Peanut Butter Cup Chillata?” she said, sidling close.
“Sure,” I said. As I was reaching for my wallet, Evian startled me with a quick, tight embrace. Before I had even registered the hug, it was over, and Evian was pointing to the Cinnabon menu, making her desires known.
17
Carla
I WOKE BEFORE IT was light, opening my eyes and squinting until the familiar metal roof came into focus above me. I could hear my brother’s breathing. For a moment I questioned leaving Tegucigalpa. I had never slept anywhere other than this pallet. Sure, it was lumpy, but it held the memory of my mother’s and grandmother’s bodies. I understood this house: how to make the stove light (it was tricky, and took a deft touch), where to store flour away from ants, how often you had to sweep to make a smooth place for your feet.
I turned to Junior. He was fast asleep, his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks. Perhaps he was already too far gone, but if we did not leave, there was only one way his life could proceed. I had seen it happen again and again: the evolution of flesh-and-blood children into dim-witted monsters who cared for nothing but glue.
I thought of my mother. The dream of being next to her, of climbing into her lap … it made me feel light with hope. Resting my head against her chest as she ran her fingers through my hair …
“Get up,” I whispered to my brother. “Wake up. It’s time.”
“Is Mom really waiting for us?” whispered Junior.
“Yes,” I said.
He turned and stared at me, our faces inches apart.
“Do you promise?” he asked.
I had never lied to my brother before. I swallowed. “Yes,” I said, “I promise.”
He allowed himself a tiny smile, then he sat up and stretched. “They have ice cream at Texas Chicken,” he said. “They have a thing where you put a cookie, then ice cream, then whipped cream.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. He nodded fervently.
I had dressed in many layers of clothing the night before, and now I helped Junior do the same. We shouldered our packs, gathered our many water bottles, and walked outside. Ernesto was already awake, hiding behind the bushes smoking a cigarette. He stood as we approached, tossed the cigarette to the ground, and pressed it out with his foot. He touched his injury, testing it gingerly. He needed a disinfectant, but this was the least of our worries. “Follow me,” said Ernesto.
We passed Humberto’s house on the way out of town. I wanted to go inside to say goodbye, but I did not know how. I could only believe we would be together again someday, and keep moving behind Ernesto. You had to follow God’s plan when it revealed itself to you, and that was that. I touched the cinder-block wall of Humberto’s house, pressed my love inside.
We walked for a very long time, hours, first on dirt roads and then through jungle. It grew very hot and humid; Junior did not complain, but his face was mottled. At one point he pulled the baby-food jar from his pocket. I made a move to take it away, but Ernesto said, “Leave him.”
I set my jaw and kept going. My feet became blistered, and as we pushed on through jungle, it was hard to see anything before us but unyielding vines and their large, sticky leaves. Bugs whistled in my ears and flew into my eyes and mouth. I was glad Ernesto was with us, as I would not have known in which direction to conti
nue. “Will we stop for the night?” I said. The pain from my feet was growing raw; I could see blood when I examined my ankles.
“We must reach the river,” said Ernesto.
I stopped maybe two hours after this exchange, sitting down and drinking from a bottle. Junior sank next to me, reaching for the water. Ernesto was ten feet in front of us, and he turned, saying, “Don’t rest! I’m warning you.”
We stood. We continued. It was sunset by the time we reached the river. Despite the misery in my body, I was moved by the sight of the mountains of Guatemala, outlined by cinnamon clouds.
“Take off your clothes,” said Ernesto.
“I will not!” I said.
Ernesto put his face very close to mine. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “If you listen to me, we might make it to Texas.” Since my grandmother died, I was not used to taking orders from anyone. Though Ernesto scared me, it was a relief not to be in charge. “I’m not looking at your chest,” said Ernesto dismissively. This was true. He was staring at the large waves that surged across the river. Maybe he understood how to move through the current, I told myself unconvincingly.
Junior and I stripped to our underwear. (I kept on my shirt. I barely had breasts, though the area around my nipples was hot and a little puffy. Still, I wasn’t going to expose myself like a prostitute.) We copied Ernesto’s movements, jamming our clothes in our backpacks and holding them overhead as we slid down the side of the riverbank, our feet growing slimy with mud.
Ernesto strode forward, seemingly untouched by the water, which reached my rib cage. Junior cried out, terrified, and I put my arm around him, pulling him alongside me. The water was brown, forceful, smelling of earth. Fear made me strong, even as it made my mouth bitter. My feet lost touch with the ground and I tried to swim forward.
I prayed we would not drown.
“Hold on, Junior!” I screamed. He wrapped his skinny body around my back as I tried to propel myself with my arms and legs. I swam toward the opposite bank, where Ernesto stood on dry land, pulling on his pants. Junior’s tight grip pulled me under the waves. I struggled to keep my mouth above water.
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