“Evan, may I speak with you for a moment?” Dr. Gustafson called out.
“Sure,” Evan replied.
Turning to Alma, he asked, “Will you wait for me?”
Alma figured she should stay since he was probably about to get in trouble for speaking up about her name. So she hovered in the doorway, hugging her history book to her chest.
“Evan, I’d like to speak with you about a way that you might help enrich your classmates’ learning experience in this course,” Dr. Gustafson said.
“Come again?” Evan replied.
Alma smiled. She loved that expression.
“I’m wondering if you might speak with your uncle—Senator Prentiss—about visiting our class at some point during the semester,” Dr. Gustafson replied.
Of course Evan wasn’t in trouble. What had she been thinking? Guys like Evan—people with money and powerful connections—they didn’t get in trouble. Dr. Gustafson continued speaking, but Alma didn’t hear the words. A deep sadness rose in her gut and coursed through her constricted chest. Before the crumbling could begin again, she walked away.
EIGHT
Fire Alarm
“¿Le ayudo, señora?”
Alma’s tía Pera stood at the kitchen counter. She was trying to pack lunches but instead quietly crying over a package of processed ham.
“Sí, gracias, hija,” Tía Pera replied, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
Alma grabbed a bag of Wonder Bread from the pantry.
“I’m sorry it’s all so hard,” Alma said.
Tía Pera’s sister and nephews would be deported in a few days, and Tía Pera no longer had a job.
Alma laid out six slices of bread and dragged the ham away from Tía Pera’s clutch.
“Ay, hija,” her tía sighed as she dropped oranges into paper sacks. “No sé. ¿Y qué vamos a hacer con tu prima?”
The problems with her cousin Isa had started three weeks ago, just after school began. After dinner on the second day of school, Tía Pera and Tío Rigo broke the news of their plans. They would return to Mexico with the girls in time for Christmas. They’d been sending money for years to build a house and a little tienda back in their hometown of San Juan, and the construction project was almost complete. If they moved home, Tía Pera could run the small shop. They didn’t have any other options.
Isa’s body began to shake, and quiet sobs escaped her lips. Tía Pera and Tío Rigo chastised her with their eyes, darting glances toward Selena. Selena silently played on the floor, yanking a brush through a plastic horse’s tangled mane. Isa was supposed to be strong for her hermanita, but she wasn’t thinking about her little sister. She was thinking about her ruined life. Isa stood up and ran into the room she shared with Alma and Selena.
Then Tía Pera turned to face Tío Rigo.
“Ay Dios mío. Y por eso—¡por eso!” She threw her hands into the air. “This is exactly why we need to go back to Mexico, amorcito. You see?”
Her hands flailed wildly as she spoke.
“Our Isa has become the Typical American Teenager.” She grasped the edge of the table to steady herself.
Tío Rigo placed his arm on her shoulder, whispering, “Cálmate, mi vida.”
But she didn’t calm down. She just kept calling out random phrases: “No respect! So selfish! All she cares about is her teléfono! And those short shorts!”
The next day, Isa went on a hunger strike. Well, sort of. She refused to eat any foods prepared by her mother. She sat sullenly at the dinner table every night and then returned to the room to raid her secret stash. For the last three weeks, Isa had subsisted on Doritos, Pringles, Snickers, and Dum Dums. Alma was starting to worry.
So she had woken up early this morning to help her tía, hoping they’d have a chance to talk.
“Tía,” Alma said, “I think Isa is just worried, and she doesn’t know how to tell you.”
“We’re all worried, Alma.”
“I know, but Isa hasn’t been to Mexico since she was three. All her friends are here. Her life is here. She’s scared.”
Alma understood all too well how Isa must be feeling.
“Maybe you and Uncle Rigo could stay until the school year is out? She could graduate from middle school, and Selena could finish kindergarten.”
“We need to earn a living, mamita,” Tía Pera said as she dropped a bag of chips into each lunch bag. “We can’t afford to live here any longer.”
“They could stay with us. With me and Papi and Raúl.”
Alma’s aunt grasped her shoulders and turned to face her.
“That’s a wonderful offer, Alma. But you have a future to worry about—scholarships and college. I can’t leave you in charge of a family of five.”
Her aunt had a point. It was one thing to watch her cousins for a couple of hours after school, but it was quite another to shop, cook, and clean for everyone. Alma would like to think that her dad and her brother would chip in, but that was wishful thinking.
“¿Sabes qué?”
“What, Tía?”
“Sometimes I wonder if it was all worth it, you know?”
Alma knew, but it physically pained her to hear her aunt say it.
“But then I think about you and your brother.” She looked directly into Alma’s eyes, still gripping her shoulders. “And I imagine Raúl playing soccer for a college team someday. I think about you at some fancy university, studying to become a doctor or a lawyer.”
“Or an anthropologist,” Alma said.
“Or that,” said Tía Pera, leaning in to hug Alma tight. “I think about you two, and I know it was worth it, mi vida.”
“Gracias, Tía,” Alma said. She wished that she felt so sure.
“So enough about that,” Tía Pera announced, turning back to the half dozen lunches she needed to finish making.
“You’re right,” Alma said. “I mean, not about the doctor part—but if the girls stayed, I’d need some help.”
Selena bounded out of the bedroom, singing the ABCs. Even though Selena could be a royal pain, Alma couldn’t bear the thought of living in this house without her. It would be so quiet.
“I have an idea,” Alma said, grabbing a box of cereal from the pantry for Selena. “Why don’t we see if Abuela Lupe can come stay with us for a while.”
“But, Alma—”
“She’s always wanted to visit.” It had been fifteen years since Alma had last seen her grandmother.
Tía Pera lined the lunch bags along a table by the kitchen door.
“Yes, but she doesn’t have a travel visa. You know how hard it is to get one.”
She had heard that U.S. officials didn’t want people to come as visitors and stay as “illegal” workers instead of returning within a few months as they were supposed to do. So the United States almost never issued tourist visas in Mexico, except to people who had boatloads of money in their bank accounts. Needless to say, Abuela Lupe did not have a boatload of money. She didn’t even have a bank account until five years ago.
“It’s worth a try,” Alma said.
Tía Pera stopped filling plastic bags with corn chips and watched Selena fiddle with the straps of her backpack.
“Sí, mamita,” her aunt said. “It’s worth a try.”
Just then Isa stormed out from their room, grabbed her backpack, and flung the kitchen door open. She left without grabbing her lunch. Isa still refused to accept nourishment from the woman who was about to ruin her life, but if Alma’s plan worked, maybe that would change.
Alma gave Tía Pera a quick hug, grabbed her lunch, and rushed out behind Isa.
The conversation still lingered in Alma’s mind as she reached first period. But now her worries were mixed with the anxiety and longing she always felt when she knew Evan was nearby. Alma stared blankly at her open textbook, unable to focus on the equations. She already knew them, anyway. Three weeks at Gilberton High School, and—with the notable exception of Dr. Gustafson’s class—she had learned absolutely n
othing new. That is, unless you counted strategies for avoiding the beautiful boy you have a massive crush on. She had learned lots of those. Most of them involved girls’ bathrooms, the only places where Evan couldn’t track her down. Even so, he often waited for her outside, and then she had to come up with other excuses—talking to her teacher before class, finishing math homework, taking gym clothes to her locker. With a knowing smile and a patient nod, Evan always let her pass, but never before finding a way to touch her. “All right, Alma,” he would say, resting his hand on her lower back or gently touching her shoulder. “I’ll just be right here waiting for you.”
Once he even touched her face. That about did her in.
Why couldn’t she forget him? Her family was falling to pieces, she had a precalculus test tomorrow, and all she could think about—all she could ever think about—was when she might see him again. So far, she had kept the promise she made to herself on the day of the raid—to avoid Evan and all of the complications he and his family would cause. But he was not making it easy.
Alma slammed the heavy textbook shut, got up from her desk, and approached Mrs. Tanner.
“Can I have a hall pass?”
Mrs. Tanner glared at her.
“Uh, it’s that time of the month.”
“All right, Miss García, but be sure to finish the problem set before the test tomorrow.”
When had Alma ever not finished a problem set?
Resisting the urge to point out her perfect record and perfect scores, Alma smiled and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
Alma left the building and set out across the football field. She needed to get some fresh air. She knew of only one place to gather the jumbled fragments of her mind, and she came here often. It was a small dock that jutted into the lake across the street from school. For Alma, there was something about balancing at the very edge of the water that soothed her nerves and eased her racing thoughts.
Alma walked slowly out and stepped up onto a wood piling. She fixed her gaze to a point on the horizon and then slowly lifted one leg off the piling. She stretched her arms wide and balanced on the standing leg, carefully inching her raised leg out. Holding steady for a few moments, Alma felt a calm descend. She allowed herself to breathe slowly and deliberately. Her mind emptied and her body settled. She had read somewhere that stillness was strength. That made good sense.
After a few minutes, she stepped off the piling and sat at the edge of the dock, dangling her feet over the water. She savored the stillness that lingered in her body and the new awareness it gave her.
Suddenly, a jarring noise broke her serenity. A fire alarm—and she was off campus. Alma jumped up and sprinted toward the football field.
* * *
Weee-ooooh! Weee-ooooh! Weee-ooooh!
A loud siren broke into Evan’s daydream. Since Alma featured prominently, Evan wondered whether her father was policing his mind as well as his actions. When everyone flooded out of the classroom, he realized it was a fire drill. Evan stood, half dazed, and followed the mass of people heading toward the football field.
He saw Alma immediately, running across the parking lot on the other side of the field. Evan nudged Logan.
“Cover for me,” he said, and then peeled away from the crowd.
As soon as she saw him, Alma stopped running. Her face was flushed, and thin tendrils of hair clung to her cheek. She watched him intently as he came nearer. When he approached, neither of them said anything. Alma leaned against the nearest car, which happened to be Conway’s Hummer. Evan grasped the roof rack with one hand and pressed in toward her, his face just a few inches from hers.
“Alma,” he said softly.
“Yes,” she replied, so quietly that he barely heard her above the hum of the students gathered on the field.
“Why won’t you let me near you?”
“You’re near me now, aren’t you?”
Her whisper almost did him in. He wanted to be closer.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
Alma nodded, keeping full eye contact.
“I know this place looks like the set of some lame high school movie, but it’s not. I’m not the captain of the football team, and I’m not playing around.”
“No, you’re the captain of the soccer team,” Alma said, looking away. Her face crumpled, as if she were in pain.
“This is the South, Alma. No one cares about soccer.”
“Except Mexicans,” she replied, her voice hardening at the edges.
Evan never knew how to respond when she said stuff like that. He wished he could just brush the comments off, or even get angry and defensive. Instead, he just felt confused, knowing there was some truth in them but not knowing how to acknowledge it. Right now, though, all he wanted was for her to stop avoiding him.
“The point is, Alma, I want to be with you,” he said quietly, “and I’m pretty sure you want to be with me,”
Alma shrugged.
“So why can’t we just do this?”
Alma paused, and then she looked directly into his eyes. “You can’t handle me.”
He leaned back, reeling. Alma didn’t know what he could handle—what he handled every day. He absolutely could handle her—if she would just give him a chance.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, anger rising in his voice.
Alma sank against the Hummer, arms hugging her chest.
“It’s complicated, Evan.”
She sounded vulnerable and sad. His anger gave way to something else as he leaned in close, almost touching her, with one hand still raised, gripping the rack. With his other hand, he gently pushed a strand of hair from her face.
“Try me,” Evan whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’d be surprised by what I can handle.”
She raised her chin and touched Evan’s hand, which lingered below her ear. He stepped back, hearing the scratchy voice of the principal calling for students to return to their classes.
“I should get back,” Alma said. “I can’t afford to get in trouble.”
“Can we talk tonight?”
Alma hesitated.
“I guess,” she replied. “I’m still grounded for another week, but my dad gave me my phone back. Just don’t call late. I have to be up by six to catch the bus.”
“Six?” Evan asked. “Why so early? You don’t strike me as the primping type.”
Alma laughed. “No, I’m not waking up to flat-iron my hair every morning. The bus comes at six thirty, something about busing schedules for the middle school. We get here an hour before school starts.”
“Bummer,” said Evan.
“It’s not so bad. It gives me time to do homework. I just wish the bus would stop downtown at the Dripolator on the way to school. A double cappuccino would make the morning way more bearable,” she called out as she took off toward school.
Evan leaned against the Hummer and watched her perfect legs carry her across the field, and a plan took shape in his mind.
“Hey, Mr. Country Club!”
Evan heard a stern voice behind him. He turned to see a Latino guy about his age with a shaved head and tattoos snaking up from under his wifebeater and around his throat. If he hadn’t been in Gilberton, Evan might have thought this guy was a gangster.
“Are you talking to me?” Evan asked, turning to face the guy. He didn’t mean to sound aggressive.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” the guy said, slowly approaching. “Do you see anyone else in this parking lot?”
Evan didn’t answer.
“That your Hummer?”
“Who wants to know?” Evan asked.
This guy was pissing him off.
“I said, is that your Hummer?”
The Hummer was Conway’s. Evan drove a hybrid, a constant source of mocking from all of his SUV-driving buddies. In Evan’s world, driving a hybrid was an act of rebellion. But he had no intention of sharing this information with the asshole standing in front of him.
> “It’s none of your damn business.”
“And what if I tell you it is my business?”
The guy was up in his face.
Evan laughed involuntarily. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me?”
The whole scene was absurd.
“If this is your truck, then your feeble-ass mind can’t even imagine what I’m about to do to you!” The guy grabbed Evan’s collar.
Maybe Evan had been wrong earlier. Maybe this school was the set of some bad high school movie.
“I need to know whose truck this is,” the guy spat in his face. He was so close that Evan smelled his breath. The smell was unmistakable: Juicy Fruit gum.
“Are you planning to volunteer the information?” the guy asked. “Cuz I’m planning to get it out of you one way or another.”
Pondering the fact that a guy who smelled like Juicy Fruit might very soon kick his ass, Evan didn’t notice the football coach approaching.
“Manny García,” Coach Kelley called out, “correct me if I’m wrong, boy, but—as I recall—you are no longer enrolled at Gilberton High School.”
Manny—if that was his name—released his grip on Evan’s collar.
“In which case, you are trespassing, Mr. García.”
The guy turned and jogged toward the street.
“Yes, sir,” called out Coach Kelley, “you just keep on running because there’s nothing I’d rather do than call Sheriff Cronin down here to escort you to jail.”
Coach Kelley’s reaction seemed a little extreme, but Evan had to admit he was relieved.
“Shouldn’t you be in class, Mr. Roland?” Coach Kelley asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” he called out, leaning against Conway’s Hummer, “get on along, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Evan said, bewildered, as he set out toward the school.
NINE
Addictions
Alma stepped off the school bus and walked toward Evan, who was holding a cup of coffee out as a sort of offering.
“Double cappuccino?” she asked, taking the cup from his hand.
“We’ve got to feed that addiction.”
“No sugar?”
Dream Things True Page 8
