Dream Things True

by Marie Marquardt

  “I’m telling you, Alma. It was him. His nephew was on our team. Skinny kid. Tall. He was a sophomore when I graduated. But, dude, he was good.”

  “Do I know him?” Alma asked. “What’s his name?”

  “Evan.”

  The word tore a gaping hole into Alma’s chest.

  “Evan Roland. This guy’s his uncle.”

  Raúl pointed a finger at the head shot on the computer, while Alma tried to focus her blurring vision on the glare off the senator’s forehead. She examined his ruddy face and shifty eyes, his thin, pursed lips.

  Raúl kept talking. “Yeah, Evan. His mom’s the one with all those damn roses, over on Lakeshore Drive. Dad does her yard, remember?”

  Yes, Alma remembered. She willed herself not to cry.

  “Are you sure?” Alma asked, fighting back tears.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m telling you,” he said, pointing at the screen, “he and Evan were tight. He came to a bunch of our soccer games. He was pretty cool, actually.”

  It didn’t matter how “cool” he was. Alma would have nothing to do with this senator or his family. She couldn’t. It was too risky, and just the thought of being near this man’s life made her feel sick.

  “You can have the computer now,” Alma said. “I’m done.”

  But she wasn’t quite done.

  Alma walked onto the deck and pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. With her hands poised on the keypad, she stared at Evan’s messages one last time.

  Her thumb hovered over the key for a moment and then hit delete.

  SEVEN

  Red Elephant

  You can do this.

  Alma stepped off the bus and headed across the pavement, toward the huge silver G suspended above the entrance to Gilberton High School. A red elephant with unfurled ears, powerful legs, and sharp tusks was seared into its center.

  Welcome to Gilberton High School, home of the Fighting Red Elephants.

  Alma considered making a list of all the things she knew about elephants. Making lists usually calmed her, but the first thing that popped into her mind was politics—donkeys and elephants—which made her think of Evan’s uncle in his ice-blue tie. So, instead, she just repeated her mantra for the day:

  You can do this.

  Maybe if she repeated it enough, she would believe it—as long as she didn’t run into Evan.

  “Alma, over here!”

  Alma turned to see three comforting faces, girls she had known since elementary school, standing near the door to the cafeteria.

  “What’s up, chicas?” Alma asked. She walked toward them and entered their circle as Monica and Magdalena opened space.

  “Not much, girl,” Maritza said loudly. “Just wishing I didn’t have to be here.”

  “I hear that,” Alma said. Her need to escape this place was so real that she tasted it like cold metal on her tongue.

  As soon as Alma came near, their bold energy vanished, and the three of them leaned in close to her.

  “I heard about your tía Dolores,” Magda whispered.

  “Chino, too?” Maritza asked.

  “Yeah,” said Alma, “and Javier.”

  Maritza just shook her head slowly.

  “What about Arturo?” Alma asked Monica.

  Monica nodded slowly. “Yeah, he’s gone.”

  “At least Loyda quit a couple of weeks ago,” Alma said.

  “And Susie wasn’t working that shift,” Maritza broke in. “That’s what my cousin said.”

  A girl came up and joined their circle. Alma didn’t recognize her.

  “Y’all ready for this?” the girl asked, nudging Maritza in the rib.

  “Nope,” Maritza said. “Just counting the days till I graduate.”

  Maritza’s tone made clear that they were finished talking about the raids. Alma knew that—even though they knew they shouldn’t—they all felt ashamed. She knew they didn’t want other people at school to know about their connection to the “illegals” who had been taken to jail.

  Maritza’s friend, a light-skinned black girl with dark hair braided into long cornrows, nodded toward Alma. “I’m Briana,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “I’m new,” Alma said.

  “So, Alma, what happened to that fancy school in Atlanta?” Monica asked, “Did they kick you out for being too mexicana?”

  “What, you think they’d rather have salvadoreñas like you?” Magdalena broke in.

  “Not a chance, Monica. Down there in Atlanta, they think all you Salvadorans are either in MS or the Eighteenth,” Alma said, trying hard to fit naturally into their banter. MS and the Eighteenth were Salvadoran gangs. They were mostly in LA, but everyone in Atlanta was terrified that they were migrating east.

  “¡Órale, ese!” responded Magdalena as she folded her arms into an exaggerated gangster pose.

  They all laughed. It felt good. Being here with her girls, making fun of the way other people sometimes saw them. With them, she didn’t have to worry.

  “No, really,” said Alma. “My tía had to go back to work, so she needed me to take care of Selena.”

  Alma tried not to think about the fact that her aunt’s job at the chicken plant was probably history now.

  “Why can’t your other cousin do it—Isabel. Isn’t she like fourteen or something?” Monica asked.

  “Isa’s thirteen, and she’s too busy chasing boys, which means I have to take care of her, too.”

  “Ay, chicas. Did you hear that my little cousin Flor is pregnant?” asked Magda, shaking her head slowly. “Fifteen years old. And she won’t even tell anybody who the guy is.”

  “I guess it’s safe to say he’s not planning to step up?” asked Briana, arching her eyebrows.

  “Pinche guy,” Magda said, almost spitting out the words.

  Maritza’s body shifted into a defensive pose, as if the pinche guy were standing right in front of her. Alma felt sorry for any guy who crossed Maritza.

  “My aunt and uncle shipped her off to South Carolina to live with our cousins,” said Magda. “They live on a farm, out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Where nobody can see her,” Monica said.

  “Yeah,” Magda replied. “She might as well be in a convent.

  “I bet she’s, like, dyin’ over there,” Monica said.

  “Flor deserves it,” Maritza said, anger in her voice. “It’s not that hard to prevent, you know.”

  “You better watch your cousin, Alma,” said Magda. “Your tía Pera would just keel over on the spot if Isa got herself knocked up. I mean, she would die.”

  “Damn, y’all,” Maritza broke in. “It’s not Alma’s fault if her little cousin wants to make stupid-ass choices.”

  Alma conjured an image of Isa, pregnant, wearing a tank top stretched over her swollen belly and those short shorts Isa stuck in her purse every time she snuck out to be with her friends. The image terrified her so much that she closed her eyes and shuddered.

  When Alma looked up, Briana, Monica, Magda, and Maritza were all staring past her, gawking.

  She turned to see Evan jogging toward her, his face bright with anticipation.

  “Alma!” Evan called out.

  You can do this.

  He arrived at her side and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Alma willed herself to step back.

  “What’s up, Evan?” she asked, trying to sound casual and distant. She wanted to feel revulsion, or anger, or anything other than this deep pain of longing.

  “Not much. Just looking for you,” he said, smiling broadly. “Did you get my texts?”

  Alma glanced toward Magda, who was now in full-on jaw-dropped shock, and shrugged.

  Maritza broke in, “Damn, Alma. What happened to your manners, girl?”

  “Yeah, who’s your friend, Alma?” Monica said, thrusting a hand onto her hip. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “Oh, sorry. This is Evan. My dad mows his lawn,” Alma said, using every ounce
of her will to gesture casually toward Evan—to make it seem like he didn’t matter.

  “These are my friends. We go way back,” she said in his general direction.

  She couldn’t look at him. One look and she would be done.

  “Hey, don’t you play soccer?” Monica asked.

  “Yeah,” replied Evan. Alma knew he was confused, or maybe angry. She heard it in his voice.

  “My cousin’s on your team—Jonathan.”

  “Mendez? He’s a good guy.” Evan replied absently. Then he reached out to grasp Alma’s arm, his soft touch overwhelming her senses. “Alma, can I talk to you?”

  “Um, maybe later,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve gotta find my class.”

  Alma pulled her arm back and turned to walk away. “Later, chicas,” she said, waving casually toward her friends.

  But then she felt Evan’s hand again, warm on her shoulder.

  “I’ll walk with you,” he said.

  Her mind told her to find a way out of this, but her body refused to listen. She needed to be near him. So she let him walk beside her in silence, and they made their way together through the huge glass doors and into Gilberton High School.

  * * *

  Evan was lost—completely bewildered. When they reached Alma’s locker, Evan turned and spoke.

  “Alma,” Evan asked slowly, “why did you introduce me to your friends that way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your dad cuts my lawn? What was that?”

  “The truth.”

  The way she said it, it was like she was trying to hurt him. What had he done?

  “What’s wrong, Alma?” he asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just preoccupied. You know, first day at a new school and all that.”

  He knew she was lying, but he couldn’t figure out why. Was she mad at him about Friday night? Embarrassed, maybe? He stared at her intently and replied, “You don’t strike me as easily intimidated, Alma.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like here,” she said, looking down. “I mean, for me.”

  Of course Evan knew what it was like here. He had been at this school for three years. His mom and his uncle went to school here. He was pretty sure his grandfather did, too.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  “Do you know what my so-called adviser suggested I take when I met with her last week?” Alma was fiddling with the combination on her locker. He watched her hands closely. Even with her fingernails cut short, there was dirt under them. They were still beautiful, and he loved that she didn’t wear neon polish like most of the girls he knew.

  “Intro to Fashion?” Evan asked tentatively. Conway and Peavey had tried to convince him to take that class. They told him the teacher looked like Gisele Bündchen. But after the whole experience with French, Evan wasn’t inclined to take Conway’s advice on the Gilberton High School curriculum.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed. “There’s a class at this school called Intro to Fashion?”

  “I guess so,” Evan said. “A couple of my friends are taking it.”

  “My so-called adviser probably teaches it,” Alma said. “She looks the type.”

  “Is she tall and blond?” Evan asked. “With long legs?”

  As soon as he said it he started to blush.

  Crap. What are you thinking?

  Alma glared at him.

  “Forget I said that,” he said, cringing. “It’s just that my douchebag friends were talking about her and—”

  Alma broke in. “You should stop talking, Evan.”

  “Yeah,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Anyway,” Alma continued, “first, my so-called adviser asked if I was in ESOL classes—which, obviously, I don’t need since I speak better English than she does. Then, she suggested I enroll in food science and early childhood care.”

  “Seriously?” Evan asked. That was a little over the top.

  “I. Kid. You. Not. Then I shoved my transcript from North Atlanta in her face. I knew this would happen. I was prepared.”

  She was so angry that her body started to tremble. Evan reached out and touched his hand to her arm. He couldn’t stop himself.

  “It worked out in the end, though, right? I mean, you got the classes you wanted?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “It was just a mistake, Alma.” He squeezed her arm gently and then let his hand drop, even though he didn’t want to. He wanted to trace his hand along her arm and across her exposed collarbone. He wanted to feel her hair in his hands again and pull her in close. He had to stop thinking about what he wanted to do with her. Now.

  “Doubtful,” he heard her say.

  “She probably thought you were someone else,” he said, grasping for something that might calm her down.

  “No, Evan,” Alma said. “She thought I was a Mexican girl.”

  She yanked a book from her locker and slammed it shut.

  “I’m sorry, Evan,” she said. “I’ve gotta get to class.” She spun away from him and took off toward her first period class.

  This was not going to be easy.

  * * *

  Alma made it almost to the end of the day before she saw him again. Evan was standing across the hall, laughing with two of his friends. She recognized them from his party but couldn’t remember their names. All she remembered was that everyone called them by their last names—Piedmont and Connor? Something like that. Evan’s friends were classic “prepnecks”—part khaki-pants-wearing Southern preppy and part Confederate-flag-waving redneck. Alma knew their type, and she preferred to keep her distance. Evan was way more “prep” than “neck.” He definitely wasn’t a redneck, but he didn’t really work at being preppy, either. He was just sort of effortlessly Southern, wearing those no-pleat khakis with leather flip-flops and a worn-out T-shirt from some South Carolina beach resort. She’d never really thought of beach preppy as her type either. Until now, apparently.

  Evan was definitely her type.

  She slid into a desk in the front row of the classroom, relieved to have slipped by them unnoticed.

  Alma pulled a notebook out of her backpack and, realizing that someone was coming toward her, glanced up. Evan was looking straight at her as if no one else was in the room.

  She just couldn’t get a break.

  He slid into the seat behind her and leaned close to whisper in her ear, “What are you doing here? This class is for seniors.”

  She took in his scent—faintly metallic. It reminded her of just-turned soil.

  “What? You think I can’t handle it?” she asked, feeling the anger and frustration return.

  “I wouldn’t dare think that, Alma,” Evan replied with a smile. “But shouldn’t you be in American?”

  His bare forearm brushed her shoulder.

  “At my old school, I took AP World History in ninth grade, so it put me a year ahead of this place.”

  She sounded fine, not like someone who was crumbling inside.

  “Wow,” said Evan. “AP classes in ninth grade. You are an overachiever.”

  Alma leaned forward in her seat, needing to create more distance between them if she was going to keep the promise she had made to herself.

  Dr. Gustafson entered the room, balancing a large stack of books in his arms. The books tumbled onto his desk as he cleared his throat loudly. Alma had heard from her brother that he was notorious at GHS, mostly for having been there forever.

  “Students, let’s begin, shall we?”

  Everyone shifted into seats, and the room fell silent. Alma tried to focus on the teacher standing in front of her, but all that registered were the intense waves of energy pulsing between her and Evan.

  This was seriously going to mess with her concentration.

  Dr. Gustafson began to call the roll. When he came to Alma’s name, she braced herself.

  “Garrceea?” She cringed in her seat as he continued
in his deep Southern accent, “Aaooowlma Garrceea.”

  Ready to explain that her name was Julia, Alma raised her hand and launched in. “Excuse me, Dr. Gustafson, I prefer to be called by my middle name—”

  She felt Evan’s gentle touch between her shoulders and turned briefly to take in his encouraging nod.

  She began again, “Um, Dr. Gustafson, if you don’t mind, uh, my name is pronounced Aaahhhlma.”

  “Ah, yes. Let me try that again.”

  He spoke her name again, and it sounded just about the same as the first time. Alma sank low in her seat. Then she noticed that he was looking over her head, directly at Evan. She turned back to see that Evan was raising his hand eagerly.

  “Yes, Mr. Roland?”

  “Um, sir? You might want to think about pronouncing her name this way: You get home from a frustrating day of teaching us and you sink into your favorite chair. Let’s say, maybe, you’ve got a bourbon on the rocks—Knob Creek, something good—and you take a long, slow sip.”

  Giggles erupted from the rest of the class, and Alma felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

  Evan continued, undeterred. “So you put the drink down and let out a long ‘aaaahhhhh.’ Then just add the end ‘llma.’ And there you’ve got it: Aaahhhlma. It’s simple.”

  The rest of the class tittered. Alma felt her cheeks turn beet red.

  “Why, thank you, Evan, for that vividly illustrative bit of advice,” Dr. Gustafson replied.

  Alma sank deeper into her desk when Dr. Gustafson tried it again. Astoundingly, it sounded pretty good.

  “Aahhlma, I see that you’re a junior?” asked Mr. Gustafson.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, sitting up tall.

  “And you’ve already had AP American History?”

  “Yes, sir. I just transferred from North Atlanta, and I took AP American as a sophomore there.”

  “With Mr. Billups, no doubt. He’s an excellent teacher.”

  “Yes, sir. With Mr. Billups. It was a great class.”

  “Well, we’re certainly glad to have you join us, Aahhlma.”

  A teacher was welcoming her, calling her by her real name, and pronouncing it reasonably well. Maybe this year wouldn’t be quite as bad as she expected.

  Dr. Gustafson ran through the rest of the roll and then outlined what they would be learning in the class. When the bell rang, the students gathered their books to head out the door.