Halfway through her senior year.
Mrs. King and her son launched in, firing questions and hypotheticals. Alma heard but barely registered their words. Then Evan spoke quietly.
“What if she graduates early?” Evan asked. “She already has a lot of college credits.” He reached under the table and took Alma’s hand. “Right, Alma?”
Alma recalled the most recent meeting with her so-called adviser.
“I still have to take health if I want to graduate, and a couple of other electives. That’s what my so-called adviser said.”
“We can look into that,” Alma heard Mrs. King say. “But it will be tough to graduate early if she’s missing those, and if she goes for a GED she’ll lose eligibility for some scholarships.”
Alma couldn’t really hear them anymore. All of the “What if—” and “If only—” formulas coming from the lips of these people, all of these people who cared deeply about Alma and her future. They spoke of scholarships and student visas; they spoke of the difference a few months might make.
“What if—”
“If only—”
And none of it mattered. None of it mattered because she was, as she had always known, one of the kids stuck in between.
* * *
Evan wasn’t sure why he did it. When the meeting was over, he made up some lame excuse to return, leaving Mrs. King and Alma waiting in the snack bar across the street. Alma probably thought it was because he needed to get away from her. And there was some truth to that. The way she held her shoulders, the weariness around her eyes, her stubborn silence. All of these suggested resignation, a defeat that Evan would not, could not, accept. So here he was, arriving again on the forty-eighth floor.
When the brass doors slid open, Sue Chen was standing with a small group of men, waiting for the elevator. Surprise registered on her face.
“Have you left something?” She reached into her purse for her cell phone. “I can have my assistant help you.”
Evan inhaled deeply.
“No. I was hoping to speak with you, Ms. Chen.”
She glanced at her phone and motioned for him to follow her. They stood around the corner from the elevators, alone in the small alcove that opened onto an emergency exit.
“What can I do for you, Evan?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. What was he doing here?
“I know that meeting was difficult for you,” she said.
Her voice sounded hard. It had been a mistake to return.
She pushed open the exit door and motioned for Evan to enter the emergency stairwell with her.
Figuring he didn’t have a choice, Evan followed. He sat down next to her on a cold concrete step.
Ms. Chen turned to face him.
“As a lifelong feminist and an immigration lawyer with fifteen years of experience, I can’t believe I’m about to say this. But there’s something about you and Alma that is simply breaking my heart.”
Evan stayed quiet.
“There may be a way out of this, and it involves you—to put it mildly. But first, I need to know—do you love her?”
Was this the same Ms. Chen he had been sitting across the table from for two hours? The woman who shot poison darts from her eyes? Who delivered terrible news as if she was reciting the daily specials at a restaurant?
“More than you can imagine.”
“And if she weren’t in this mess, would you still feel the same way about her?”
It was an odd question, and it took a while for him to formulate an answer.
“I don’t really know what our relationship would be like, but I can’t imagine not loving her.”
“And you’re eighteen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.” Her voice was cold again. But then she smiled and continued, “It makes me feel old.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, instinctively. He quickly corrected himself, “Uh, OK.”
“Do you have any money of your own, in a bank account or a trust?”
What did this have to do with anything?
“Um, I know that there’s a trust. I mean, my mom has told me that, but I don’t think I have access until I’m older. And I have a bank account, but there’s not a lot of money there. Maybe ten thousand dollars.”
“Evan, sweetheart, to most people ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.” She chuckled and shook her head. It made Evan feel stupid and childish.
She was completely transformed, calling him sweetheart, smiling and laughing. She looked intently into his eyes, making him feel extraordinarily uncomfortable.
“If you were to marry her—”
“Marry her?”
Evan was in total shock. This all-business lawyer, perched on the edge of the steps in her dark suit and black pumps, was telling him to marry a seventeen-year-old girl?
“Yes. If you were to do it now, it’s possible—but not certain—that she would become an LPR before she turns eighteen and a half.”
She was starting to talk legalese again.
“An LPR?”
“Yes, Lawful Permanent Resident, with a green card.”
“And a Social Security number?” He conjured an image of Alma’s face, just as it had looked when she’d told him the news of her scholarship, and of the nine little boxes she would have to leave blank.
“Yes.”
“And all I have to do is marry her?”
“No, you have to prove that you have money to support her, and you have to prove that it’s not fraudulent. But you have the money, and I can’t imagine anyone sitting in a room with you two for more than sixty seconds and not seeing that you love each other. You would have to live together, of course, at least for a while.”
How would they live together? He was on his way to Berkeley, and she was trying to get a Georgia scholarship. His mother would have a heart attack if he moved in with Alma. And, oh, Christ, his uncle Sexton. Evan pushed them out of his mind. He needed to focus.
“What about the penalty?”
“You’d need to get married immediately, Evan, and then hope for rapid processing. Normally, they are able to schedule an appointment within nine months.”
“What appointment?”
“With the Immigration officer. They basically just interview you to make sure that you are legitimately married. They ask you to show photographs of where you live together, of trips you’ve taken. They ask sort of silly questions, too, like what kind of toothpaste Alma uses. They’d just want for you to talk about your life together.”
Their life together—Evan wanted that so much.
“You would need to do it at the consulate in Ciudad Juárez.”
“Where?”
“In Ciudad Juárez—it’s a city on the border.”
“We can’t do it here?”
“It would be best, in your case, to go there. It’s more expedient. She would need to be there for a few days, at least, before the interview. It would all need to happen before Alma turns eighteen and a half.”
“What if it took longer?”
“Then the bar would apply. She’d stay in Mexico for at least three years.”
Evan tugged at his bangs. “Three years? So, we’d be married and she’d be in Mexico for three years?”
“Yes, that’s right, unless she stays here for more than a year without permission. Then the bar increases to ten years.”
“This is a little overwhelming.”
“I know. And you need to keep in mind that, if she goes home now, she may still be able to come back here for college, legally, as an international student.”
Home. That was such a strange way to describe it.
“But how would she pay for it? I mean, would she be able to get financial aid or scholarships as an international student?”
“I doubt it, Evan. Of course, she wouldn’t qualify for federal financial aid, and most scholarships are for citizens or lawful residents, but not all of them.”
“If I married her, she would qualify?”
“Yes.”
“And could she apply for her dad and brother?”
“Yes, after she’s twenty-one, but the penalty is almost certain to hold for them both.”
“So they’d have to wait ten years?”
“Yes.”
“When do we need to figure this all out?”
“If the two of you decide to marry, you should do it immediately. Her birthday is coming fast.”
“OK. Well, thanks, uh, for the information.”
Ms. Chen rested a cool hand on his forearm. Her fingernails were manicured, with little white tips.
“Evan, I know this is confusing and overwhelming.”
“Yes.”
“Please promise me that if you two move forward, it’s for the right reasons.”
“What are the right reasons?”
A deep silence filled the space between them.
“I’m not sure, to be honest.” She lifted her hand from his forearm to her temples as the muscles in her face tensed. “I still can’t believe I’ve even suggested it as a possibility. As a lawyer, it’s irresponsible, but I’m not your lawyer, technically. And I thought you should know.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“OK. That’s helpful.”
Ms. Chen smiled. “I’m just being honest with you, Evan.”
“My parents, they’re married for the wrong reasons. A lot of people I know are.”
“Yes, I’d have to agree with that. But Evan, knowing when it’s wrong is a start to understanding when it’s right.”
“Do you think that loving her is enough?”
“Probably not.”
They sat together in silence for a few moments.
“I have to get to court now, Evan. Call me if you want to discuss this further.”
She pulled a business card from her jacket and then dug around in her purse to fish out a pen. Writing a phone number on the back of the card, she said, “This is my cell. You can call me anytime.”
She walked through the door, leaving him alone in the emergency stairwell.
TWENTY-ONE
Fishing Without a License
“It sucks.”
Alma had gone way off script. She glanced around the room at all of the earnestly smiling people.
“It totally sucks, but I can’t be here any longer. If this place doesn’t want me, then I don’t want it. I’m going home. I’ll finish this school year, and then I’m going back to Mexico.”
There. She said it.
It was a little weird that she was unloading this here since she didn’t have the nerve to tell Evan or any of her friends in Gilberton.
“And it will be good. I want to know more about my country, my culture. I’ve heard so much about it, but I’ve never been there—not since I was two. And my family can be together, and we won’t have to worry all of the time.”
She made the mistake of finding Mrs. King in the crowd. Instead of smiling encouragingly or scolding Alma with her eyes for ruining yet another opportunity, she was just staring at the wall behind Alma, tears streaming down her face.
Crap. Do not cry. You will not cry.
“It’s not fair, though. My dad and my brother and I, we have done everything right. We have followed all of the rules. But we’re being sent away while my tax-evading uncle and his good-for-nothing son get offered citizenship. It just doesn’t make any sense. But … whatever.”
Fantastic.
Not only had she said a sort of bad word in front of the scholarship people, she was rambling and divulging family secrets. Why couldn’t she just stick with the script?
Alma was the second of the three finalists to speak at the “Face of Promise” luncheon. The room was filled with business leaders, chairs of nonprofit organizations, and lots of other important people from across Georgia. They were here to listen to the heartwarming stories of “underprivileged” high school juniors who had overcome the odds. They expected to be inspired by teens who surmounted any obstacles that stood in their way. Alma had worked for weeks to prepare just such a story: nice young girl, the “model immigrant” sharing her tale of hard work and achievement.
Then, yesterday, she had met with Ms. Chen. The whole system seemed to be such a mess—random and unfair. This morning, Alma woke up furious. She had to do something. So she pulled out her speech and started to revise. She decided to tell everyone about her status—to “come out,” to quit being afraid and ashamed. She would win over the crowd with her story of hard work. But then she would ask them all to help her, and others like her, reach their American Dreams by seeking fair immigration laws.
She had a script. It was pretty good. But then Alma walked into the room and saw her—Evan’s mom, sitting front and center. How could Mrs. King not have warned her? Alma knew she went to lots of fund-raisers, but this one? She was falling apart, and her eyes wouldn’t focus on the words.
Alma had to find a way to get through this. She could not look at Mrs. King, and she would not dare look toward the front row, so she tried to make eye contact with a stranger in the crowd. Her gaze fell on a white-haired lady in the center row. Bad choice. She was wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. Alma looked toward the back of the room and saw another woman with tears in her eyes. She frantically searched for a man in the crowd, under the assumption that men are less likely to cry in public. No luck. The man she locked eyes with in the crowd was teary, too.
Damn. This was getting embarrassing.
“But it’s OK. In many ways, this country has been good to us. My brother and I got a great education. We got to live in a good house in a great neighborhood. We are bilingual and bicultural. And no one can take that away from us. We will be fine.”
A quiet sob escaped from Mrs. King’s lips. How could she do this to Alma? She was dependable, strong—a solid rock.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Alma was going to have to wrap up quickly—before any more public displays of sympathy.
“So, I invite you all to come and visit me in Mexico anytime!” She forced a big, friendly smile. “I’ll even throw in a free Spanish lesson.”
As she scurried back to her seat, Evan’s mom caught her gaze. The room was erupting into frantic applause, but Mrs. Roland just looked hard at her. She wasn’t teary; she wasn’t smiling. She showed absolutely no emotion at all.
* * *
Evan sat in the parking lot and tried to get up the nerve to go in. He ran himself through the pep talk one more time: You’re in Atlanta. No one knows you here. You don’t have to buy anything. Just go in and browse.
He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. There were several other cars in the parking lot, so he knew the store would be busy, too busy for the salespeople even to notice him, right?
Wrong.
The glass door swung shut behind him. Evan looked up to see a dozen eyes on him. There was not a single customer in the store, and standing at attention behind the long cases that lined each of the store’s walls were six unoccupied salespeople. Their eagerness pulsed through the air like electricity.
Evan felt like he’d been thrown to the sharks. He locked eyes with the least threatening-looking of them, a compact Indian woman with long dark hair, and headed in her direction.
“I’m just looking,” he said.
“Ah, wonderful. Because I’m just here to help,” she replied cheerfully, in a lilting accent. “Do you seek a gift? Maybe something for a special young lady friend?”
There was a gentle teasing in her voice that made Evan squirm. Maybe he should have chosen the burly black guy at the counter across the room. He wouldn’t tease about a “lady friend.”
Too late.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for a ring for my girlfriend.”
“Do you have anything special in mind? Her birthstone, perhaps?”
A plan took shape in his
mind.
“Uh-huh. But, um, do you have, like, a birthstone chart or something? Uh, I don’t really know what her birthstone is.”
The truth was that he had absolutely no idea which month was assigned to the diamond.
She led Evan across the room, toward a display case filled with rings.
“That won’t be necessary, young man,” she said, shaking her head. “When is her birthday? I know these things.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” He looked down at his feet.
Feeling something nudge against his shoulder, he looked up to see the burly black guy thrusting a laminated sheet toward him.
“Here you go, man. This should help.”
It was confirmed. Evan definitely should have picked that guy. He frantically searched the sheet to find a diamond.
“April. Her birthday is in April.”
“Indeed? What a fortuitous coincidence. My birthday is also in April,” the saleswoman said, grinning broadly. “Which day?”
“Uh, the thirty-first.”
Alma’s birthday was August 31. He figured he could lie about the month but still be honest about the day.
“Hey,” said the helpful black guy, in a deep, sonorous voice, “I think you mean the thirtieth.”
Right. Of course. There was no thirty-first of April.
“In any case, perhaps you should consider a necklace with a lovely diamond pendant, or a bracelet possibly?” She pulled a gold necklace with a diamond chip from the case.
“Uh, that’s pretty. But, uh, she likes rings.”
What a joke. Alma wasn’t exactly into sparkly jewelry.
Another salesperson joined her behind the counter—a chubby woman in her fifties with perfectly coiffed white hair, pink lips, and lots of eye makeup.
“What she means to say, sweetheart, is that a diamond ring might give a girl the wrong message. Do you get my drift?”
“Oh, yeah. Uh … right,” Evan stammered.
“Ladies!” The black guy broke in, arms crossed on his chest and voice booming. “Enough. If the man wants to buy a diamond ring for his girlfriend, then show him some diamond rings, for God’s sake.”
Dream Things True Page 22
