Alma handed him the stick, and he touched the flame to the wick of Alma’s candle. They watched it flicker in silence for a while. He felt lighter, surrounded by dim flames and unfamiliar images.
“So, did I just participate in some sort of voodoo ritual?” he asked.
“No, it’s not quite that exotic,” Alma replied. “You made a prayer to St. Jude. Or I guess it would be more accurate to say that you asked St. Jude to plead to God for us.”
“Plead? Wow.”
Evan struggled to keep the heaviness from descending again. They both glanced around the room, taking in the dozens of images and statues that surrounded them. “Why’d you choose him?”
“He’s the patron saint of hopeless causes.”
“That sucks,” Evan said.
“Yeah,” replied Alma, “it does.”
He took her hand in his good one and they stood together a little longer, watching the candle flicker alongside many others, each making a silent, impossible plea.
* * *
They probably would have arrived on time for second period. But Evan offered to stop at the Dripolator on the way back. Evan could always be counted on to feed her addiction. They both stopped by a trash can in an empty hall of the school. Alma sucked down the dregs of her second double cappuccino, and Evan noisily pulled the last droplets of water through a straw. Just as they were about to part ways, Alma heard a deep male voice call her name. She turned to see Mr. Massey, the principal, walking toward them.
Busted.
Alma and Evan tossed their drinks into the garbage.
“Mr. Roland,” the principal announced with a firm voice, “shouldn’t you be in a classroom somewhere instead of loitering in the hallway?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Evan replied shakily. He caught Alma’s gaze and shrugged. “I’m on my way now, in fact.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Alma stranded in the hallway with Mr. Massey.
“I’d like for you to come to my office, please, Alma.”
Alma followed Mr. Massey. Did he already know about what had happened to her father and brother this weekend? Was he planning to offer condolences? Or was he just eager to start the process of transferring her files to the nonexistent high school in her family’s hometown in Mexico?
He motioned for her to sit down in the fake leather chair across from his desk.
“Alma, I’ve just received some very exciting news.”
She wondered where this was going.
“You have been named a finalist for Youth of the Year by the Boys and Girls Clubs of Georgia.”
This had to be some sort of cruel joke.
“We’re very proud of you, Alma. This is a wonderful honor for you and for the school. I know that you and Mrs. King worked very hard toward this.”
He was wrong. Alma had given up on it months ago. She had submitted most of the application in the fall, but she never turned in the teacher recommendations. She was too in love to face Mrs. King and her judgment, so she quit and tried to forget about it. Alma told herself that she could come back to scholarship applications senior year, when they mattered more. But Mrs. King was not a quitter. She must have submitted the recommendations for Alma.
Mr. Massey lifted a letter from his desk and read, “‘High school juniors who show exceptional qualities of scholarship, leadership, and citizenship—’”
This was a cruel joke.
“‘—are guaranteed a one-thousand-dollar college scholarship, and are eligible to compete for the regional and national awards next spring. Those awards carry scholarships of up to fifty thousand dollars.’”
Fifty thousand dollars. She was speechless.
Mr. Massey thrust the letter into her hands, and Alma skimmed it.
“Youth of the Year, a year-round development program, honors Boys and Girls Club members as outstanding scholars, citizens, and leaders. Criteria include poise, public speaking, and demonstrated ability to overcome obstacles.”
“This year’s theme is ‘The Face of Promise,’” Mr. Massey said. “They’re even planning to put your photograph on billboards throughout north Georgia. It’s all very exciting, Alma. We’re so pleased for you.”
She stared at the letter, unable to draw her attention away from one phrase: “Demonstrated ability to overcome obstacles.”
He thrust another sheet into her hands. It looked like some sort of acceptance letter or release form. Her eyes scanned the orderly rows of blank boxes, each waiting to be filled with the relevant information.
“You’ll just need to fill out this form, and we’ll be sure to return it today.”
She found the space on the form that always eluded her—the nine small boxes that would remain empty. Once again, the absence of a string of numbers on a flimsy blue piece of paper stood between her and her dreams. Alma would not overcome the obstacle of the Social Security number. This was one ability she simply could not demonstrate.
She slowly lifted her gaze to look toward Mr. Massey, who gave her an encouraging smile.
“I guess the cat got your tongue, huh? It is a lot to take in.”
She searched for a way out. “Yes. It’s a lot. I need to get to class, Mr. Massey. There’s, uh, a quiz I can’t miss. Can I bring the forms back later, maybe?”
Mr. Massey seemed genuinely surprised. “Yes, uh, sure. I mean, that will be fine.”
Alma stood to leave, but he thrust his hand out to stop her.
“Alma,” he said, “I’m very pleased that you decided to come back to Gilberton High School this year. We all believe this is a good place for you. But please be careful. Don’t let yourself get distracted. You can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
Alma nodded slowly.
“I know that you and Evan Roland missed first period today, and I’ll let it slide this time, but whatever it is that you two are doing, you need to think long and hard. Consider the consequences.”
If she told him what they’d been doing, he’d never believe her.
* * *
Conway was coming toward Evan, with Logan and Peavey. He knew it would happen eventually, and he knew that it would not be pretty. But the force of his rage still surprised him. It almost launched him from the ground. He stumbled back into the wall, his mind urging his body to move in the opposite direction from its instinctive thrust.
“Dude, what’s up?”
Evan felt the cool wall pressing against his back. He leaned in farther.
“Have you heard?” Conway asked. “Logan’s dad’s like a national hero.”
“Huh?” Logan asked, clueless.
“Your dad totally filled the jail with illegals, Logan. I went down there with my cousin Bo last night. It was awesome—everybody’s out there holding signs about how great Sheriff Cronin is.”
The cool wall no longer pressed against his back. Evan’s body seared with heat. He imagined hurtling forward. Conway would hit the ground below him, and his head would produce a satisfying thud against the concrete floor. Evan’s useless right hand would make painful contact with Conway’s chin.
“Get out of my way,” Evan growled.
Logan’s hand was on his shoulder. “What’s going on, Evan?” he asked, pushing Evan away from Conway.
“For starters, he drugged Alma.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Logan asked, confused. “You two are making no sense this morning.”
“I didn’t drug Alma,” Conway said dismissively.
“You cornered her and gave her a Jell-O shot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Conway said. “Your little Mexican chiquita is making up stories.”
Evan barely registered his voice. He was struggling out of Logan’s grip, lurching toward Conway.
“Back-assed redneck son of a bitch! You drugged my girlfriend!”
A teacher leaned through her classroom door.
“My girlfriend was catatonic on my bed. You drugged her.”
“Evan, man. Keep i
t down,” Peavey said in a loud whisper.
Evan stood up straight, glared directly into Conway’s eyes, and said, “Don’t. Go. Near. Her.”
Logan pulled him away and he didn’t resist. He found himself in Dr. Gustafson’s classroom, face-to-face with the old man. Logan closed the door.
“Mr. Roland,” Dr. Gustafson announced firmly, “I don’t know what Davey Conway did to you, but whatever it was, that boy is not worth it. You have got to pull it together.”
Evan nodded.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Dr. Gustafson asked, with an authority that had an oddly calming effect on Evan.
The bell rang.
“Logan,” he heard Dr. Gustafson say, “take Evan to his sixth-period class, and stay with him until he sits down. If you need a late pass, come back to me for it.”
“Yes, sir,” Logan replied. “And, uh, thanks.”
He took Evan’s arm and led him out of the room. They walked in silence to Evan’s classroom, Logan’s grip remaining firm on Evan’s forearm.
“Christ, Evan,” Logan finally said, “You almost got yourself suspended—thrown off the team! What the hell were you thinking?”
Evan didn’t speak.
“Jesus, Evan.” Logan took a long pause. “What is up with you?”
Evan turned away and walked into his classroom. What could he say? He barely recognized himself.
* * *
Arriving late to Evan’s game, Alma scanned the bleachers, looking for a friendly face. She saw Evan’s uncle sitting beside his mother in the front row, and immediately devised a plan to avoid them.
She looked up at the scoreboard. Halftime, and Buford was winning 2-0.
Maritza called her over.
“Hey, y’all,” she said to Maritza and Magda, scanning the field for Evan. Evan was standing in what looked like stunned silence as Coach Nelson screamed and gesticulated wildly in his direction.
“What’s the news on your dad,” Maritza asked, “and your brother?”
“No news,” Alma said. “We’re just waiting to see what happens. It looks like they’ll get picked up by ICE. We have to get a lawyer.”
“That sucks,” Maritza said. “I can’t believe…”
Two girls they didn’t know squeezed into the seat next to Alma.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Maritza said.
“Yeah, OK,” Alma replied.
“It’s not good out there, Alma,” Magda announced. “Your boy already earned himself a yellow card.”
“Evan?”
“Yeah. He was offside a couple of times, he’s been missing tackles, and he can’t seem to get off a pass or a shot,” Magda said. She was into soccer—always good to have around for explaining technical rules.
Alma hunched over on the bench.
“Good thing you missed the first half. It was pretty painful,” Maritza added.
“Do you think Coach Nelson is going to pull him out?” Alma asked.
“I don’t think he can,” Maritza said. “Buford is good.”
The whistle blew and the players took to the field. Alma was relieved to see Evan jog toward the half line, but her relief lasted only moments. As soon as the play started, she knew that something was wrong. He always played aggressively, but his aggression was usually controlled and focused. He knew the limits. Not today.
After eighteen painful minutes in which Evan continued to melt down, a Buford player tackled him just outside the penalty box, and Evan faced a wall of opposing players, poised for a penalty kick. He stepped up and drilled the ball directly into the wall.
“Oh, my God!” Maritza cried out. “What is he doing?”
Alma stood up, shocked.
Two stunned Buford players hit the ground. Another defender cleared the ball out of bounds. Evan turned in tired resignation to face his coach, who called him to the sidelines. Substitution. Evan was taken out of the game.
Evan didn’t fight it. He didn’t resist at all. He lowered his head and jogged off the field, ignoring his teammates.
“Evan Roland riding pine,” Alma heard Magda say. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Alma sat in pained silence and watched as Gilberton High School finished its first game of the season without a single goal. She tried not to look at Evan slumped on the bench, but her eyes kept wandering to his back, her heart lurching toward him. Maritza made several valiant efforts to explain away Evan’s strange performance, but Alma knew the truth.
When the match ended, Magda and Maritza stood up. “Hey,” Magda said, “tell Evan not to worry. Everybody has sucky days.”
“Wanna walk home with us?” Maritza asked.
“No. I think I better wait for Evan.”
They pulled her in for a hug. “Yeah, well, call if you need anything, OK?
“Yeah, OK.”
Alma stayed in the bleachers as they emptied, watching Evan and his teammates walk slowly toward the lockers. She saw Senator Prentiss approach him and watched as Evan turned away, leaving his uncle shaking his head in what looked like disbelief.
She waited on the hood of his car. It took a long time for Evan to come out, and when he did, she almost wished she hadn’t waited. She realized—watching him approach her with wet hair and sunken eyes—that she had no idea what to say to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologize,” he replied without emotion. “It’s not your fault.”
Alma felt confused.
“I wasn’t apologizing. I was saying that I’m sorry you lost your first game of the season.”
She wished that she could explain in Spanish. The difference between apology and sympathy was so much clearer in her native language.
Evan squeezed his eyes together and brought his bandaged hand to his head. He reached out and stroked her face with his other hand. His eyes looked so tired.
“Hey,” she said, “did you know that you’re touching ‘The Face of Promise’?”
“What?” he asked.
“I got offered a scholarship from the Boys and Girls Club. It’s called ‘The Face of Promise.’ Mrs. King put in the application.”
“That’s amazing!” he said. “Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Doesn’t matter. I probably can’t take it,” Alma said.
Evan squeezed the back of his neck and winced, like he was in pain.
“Can we talk about this later, maybe? I need some sleep. I think I’m getting sick or something.”
“Probably all those icy swims,” Alma said.
TWENTY
Voluntary Removal
Evan sat up in bed. It was spring break, and he didn’t need to be up, but he couldn’t sleep. He heard the door to his parents’ room open and the familiar rumbling of suitcase wheels against the wooden floor. His mother spoke, and the rumbling ceased just outside his bedroom door.
“Will you be back?” his mother asked calmly.
“I’m not sure,” his father replied in a low voice. “I’ll stay in the condo in Atlanta. It will be easier that way.”
“Then you’ll need to move forward with the plans to open the clinic there,” she replied.
“I’ve called Jim Watson about the financing already. I’m sure he’ll spread the word around the club.”
“And you’ve got an agent to help you find a lease?”
“Yes, we’re targeting the area around Northside Hospital.”
“I think you should consider Midtown Hospital. It’s…”
“… farther away from Gilberton.” Evan’s father completed his mother’s thought. “You’re right. I need a good reason to be staying down there instead of commuting. I’ll look into it.”
“Evan doesn’t need to know yet,” his mother said. “No one should know. And you’ll need to come back on Sundays for church and brunch at the club.”
“Right,” his father said.
A silent pause, and then the wheels began to roll toward the stairs. Evan heard the doo
r to his parents’ room close gently, and then the tap of their bathroom sink.
His mother was brushing her teeth.
His father was finally leaving them.
Evan waited in his room until he heard the roar of his father’s SUV. Then he scurried out quickly, not wanting to see his mother. Today would be difficult enough. He didn’t have the energy to construct more lies with his mother, to pretend that his family actually existed intact.
Evan got into his car and drove toward Alma in silence.
When he arrived, Alma sat perched on the front stoop, holding a blue gift bag with gold tissue peeking from the top.
“What’s this?” he asked as she stretched onto her toes and enfolded him in a hug.
“An early Easter gift, I guess,” she said, shrugging.
She thrust the bag into his hands, and he pulled out the tissue paper to look inside.
“It’s great,” he said as he examined the small blue-and-gold window decal with “Cal” written in cursive script. “But you probably should have given it to me in a plastic egg, and a bunny costume would have been a nice touch.”
Alma flung her arm out to hit him, but he caught it and pulled her into a kiss.
How could he leave her? In four months, he would be on his way to California to play soccer for one of the best teams in the country.
“Your car will definitely fit in over there,” Alma said, leaning back to look at him. “You may need to add a few leftist bumper stickers, though.”
“Why don’t you bring me one every time you visit?” Evan asked, nudging her.
Alma stepped away and looked directly into his eyes.
“You know that won’t happen, right?”
“What, you’re planning on dumping me when I go off to college?” he asked, trying to force a smile.
* * *
Alma didn’t need to answer. They both knew how uncertain her future looked. If Alma returned to Mexico with her family, she could never get a tourist visa to come back to the States and visit Evan; if she stayed in Georgia, she’d never risk going to an airport with border patrol agents around every corner. Just the thought of it made her shiver.
Alma’s dad and brother had been in the Gilbert County jail for three weeks. Everything was a mess there: Gilbert County sheriff’s deputies had filled the jail with “illegals,” but Immigration didn’t seem particularly interested in taking the next step. As a result, the jail was overflowing with people who had rolled through stop signs, failed to use turn signals, been driving without valid licenses. The sheriff just kept packing them in, hoping each day that the charter buses would arrive to take all of these “criminals” to a federal detention center and off the hands of Gilbert County.
Dream Things True Page 20
