There was still a scar on his lower abdomen that Apá liked to call his zipper. Claimed it was where he kept his wallet and keys.
Efrén sat and watched as David claimed yet another victory.
“Don’t worry, guys,” said David. “When I become school president, I’m gonna return the Chromebooks they assign us and buy Switches for everyone instead.”
Abraham turned and raised his hand high in the air. Efrén high-fived him back. Like it could really be that easy, he thought.
David shut the game off and slipped his device back into his backpack. “You guys wanna help me after school?”
“Help with what?” asked Abraham, picking at a scab on his elbow.
“Make posters and flyers for the election.”
“Sorry, I’ve got soccer practice. Our coach makes us run laps if we’re late,” Abraham said.
David’s goofy grin vanished. “C’mon. How ’bout you, Efrén?”
“Well, since I did walk to school alone, I’m guessing it’s all right if I stay late and walk home alone too. But I better leave my mom a message. Can I borrow your phone?”
David’s grin reappeared as he handed over his phone. “Great. We’ll start with the bathroom posters.”
Efrén and Abraham turned to each other. “Bathroom?” they asked in perfect sync.
“Can you guys think of a better place?” He raised his arms as if he were spreading out an invisible set of plans. “I was thinking of placing one in each stall. Maybe even over the urinals.”
Efrén closed his eyes and laughed.
An hour and a half later, after leaving a message for Amá, he and David were up to their elbows in paint. The ASB leadership room was huge and had everything a future president elect could ever need: rolls of poster paper, glue, popsicle sticks, straws, markers, tempera paints, watercolors, foam, paintbrushes—even foam brushes.
Efrén ripped off another yard of yellow paper from the roll. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yeah. Haven’t you ever heard of a word-of-mouth campaign? Once a few kids see our posters, they’ll start telling their friends and, presto! Free publicity.” David held out his completed poster.
Even with the uneven letters slanting to one side, the caricature at the center showed an uncanny similarity to Jennifer Huerta.
David pointed to the slogan beneath the drawing. “Check it out: DON’T GO NUMBER TWO. VOTE FOR DAVID AND GO NUMBER ONE! Dude, get it? Number two? Number one? The posters are gonna go inside of each stall door.”
Efrén stood there, dumbstruck. “Well, I guess. If your goal is to get people talking, then yeah, why not?”
David’s face lit up. “The only problem is, which one of us is gonna sneak into the girls’ bath—”
“Not me!” exclaimed Efrén, cutting off his friend.
“You have to. Girls go in there in huge groups. And I need their votes. The future president can’t be seen inside the girls’ room. What would people say?”
Efrén was about to argue, but caught himself. What was the point? A best bud is a bud for life and Efrén wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Fine. But you owe me, big time!”
Before long, Efrén found himself standing outside the girls’ bathroom, a role of painter’s tape hanging from his forearm. “There better be some awesome perks coming my way after you win.”
David smiled and nodded, his head bouncing up and down.
Efrén searched the hallway for signs of anyone coming. No one. The coast was clear. “Well, here goes nothing.”
The entranceway pretty much resembled that of the boys’ restroom, minus the nasty smell of day-old pee. Efrén rounded the corner. “Whoa!” This bathroom was twice the size. Twice the number of sinks. Twice the number of stalls. “David! You wouldn’t believe it in here. It actually smells clean.”
“Dude, hurry. The after-school program usually does a bathroom break about now.”
Efrén hurried over to the handicap stall at the end. He opened the door and his eyes went wide at what he’d found inside. “Oh, man. You won’t believe this!”
“Believe what?” asked David.
Efrén ran outside and grabbed David by the sleeve, practically pulling him out of his sneakers. “Come inside,” he said, leading him to the furthest stall.
“This better be import—” David froze as Efrén held the door open. “No way! This was my idea.”
An impressive caricature of David, drawn on yellow poster paper, hung over the toilet.
“Go Number One, vote Jennifer Huerta. Or go Number Two, and vote for David Warren.” David pointed to the drawing. “Look at that nose! I look like that bird on the Froot Loops cereal.”
Efrén did his best to stifle a chuckle.
David shook his head. “This is just wrong.”
“But kind of funny, right?”
David let out a breath. “I’m gonna fix it.” He reached into his backpack and rummaged through a mess of papers.
“What are you looking for?”
“Wite-Out. I’m gonna make the nose smaller.”
“I don’t know, dude. The bylaws say that messing with a person’s campaign poster could get us disqualified.”
“By-what?”
“Bylaws. The rules Ms. Salas went over. Remember?”
David’s shoulders dropped. “Can I at least make the diamond earrings larger? I don’t want people thinking I’m cheap too.”
“You really think that—”
Without warning, David clamped his hand over Efrén’s mouth. “Shh . . . I hear someone coming.”
Both Efrén and David barricaded themselves inside the stall.
David whispered into Efrén’s ear and pointed. “Our feet.”
Efrén nodded and the boys squatted over the toilet seat, hands stretched along both walls for balance, ears wide open.
A stall door opened and slammed shut.
The boys stayed perfectly still, each holding his breath to keep quiet. But what came next was a surprise to both of them. It was a girl, crying.
“Come on,” said David, gesturing with his hand.
The door creaked and the boys inched their way toward the door. But Efrén froze at the stall where the girl had entered. Under the door, he could see a bright pink rolling backpack—Jennifer’s.
Efrén didn’t know her too well, but this didn’t stop him from wanting to knock on her door. But what could he say: “Hey, Jennifer, I was a few stalls away and couldn’t help but notice you crying?”
David waved his arms frantically to get Efrén’s attention.
There wasn’t much for Efrén to do but follow David’s lead.
It was about five o’clock by the time the two boys parted ways along Highland Street. David was on his way to the Boys & Girls Club for some sort of foosball tournament, while Efrén hurried home before Max ate both their shares of dinner.
Reaching under his collar, Efrén unfastened the key from the safety pin and let himself in. “Amá, I’m home!” He headed toward the restroom, the only other room in the studio apartment. “Sorry I’m late. I had to help David with his campaign posters.” He knocked three times. Nothing. “Amá?”
He went in. No one was there. He scanned the kitchen table. There were no place mats or plates or any other sign that dinner had even been started. It wasn’t like Amá to not cook, not with her dislike of eating out. She always said that you couldn’t trust strangers to wash their hands before handling your food and that there was no sense in paying for something she could make cheaper—and better.
Maybe she’d taken the Minions down to the school playground to get the wiggles out of their system. Especially Max. He didn’t do well in confined spaces.
The mattresses filled the living room space, which seemed odd because Amá usually lined them up against the wall during the day. Efrén shrugged. Maybe she’d forgotten. With a running start, he tucked his chin in and flipped onto the pile of mattresses. Finally, he could enjoy some peace and quiet. He re
ached into his backpack and pulled out his new library book.
Half a chapter in, hunger made his belly quake. Efrén got up and looked around. Strange. Very strange.
He opened the front door and felt a cold breeze coming in. Hmm. He scanned the pile of winter jackets behind the door. A different feeling now filled his stomach. Something was wrong. Amá never let anyone—including Apá—leave the house without a jacket if there was even a single gray cloud overhead.
Two steps at a time, Efrén zipped downstairs toward the school playground. The cold chill caught him off guard. He looked up at the setting sun and then around at the last of the neighborhood kids straggling home. Soon, the riffraff (or chusma, as Amá liked to call them) would begin trickling out, and it was best to try to avoid them.
Efrén picked up speed, stopping only as he approached the school’s closed gate. He looked down at the heavy-duty padlock, his mind now doing sprints. Other than the food truck, corner market, and laundromat, there was nowhere else Amá could have gone.
He did a quick check of the playground, then raced back home. He stopped short of his front door and bent over, trying to catch his breath. That’s when he discovered a paper caught in the metal screen door. He stuck his pinky finger between the metal designs and pushed the paper out. It was a note from Doña Chana, the Tupperware lady a few doors over. The slip read: LA SRA. SOLOMON ME DEJÓ LOS NIÑOS. ESTÁN BIEN.
It didn’t make sense. Why would the little ones’ teacher, Ms. Solomon, drop them off there? Amá should have picked them both up hours ago. With his heart thumping, Efrén bolted over.
However, before he could even knock on Doña Chana’s front door, Max and Mía came rushing out, their arms outstretched. Max’s itty-bitty arms wrapped tightly around Efrén’s waist while Mía tried climbing up to hug him. As relieved as Efrén was to find the twins, the question still remained: Where was Amá?
The answer lay somewhere in Doña Chana’s worried look. “Mijo, les hice un caldito de pollo bien rico. Por favor, entra.”
A bowl of warm chicken soup sounded great. Normally, he would have politely waited for her to insist, but something about her voice made him nervous. There was something she wasn’t telling him. “Sí, gracias,” he said, determined on finding out what.
The inside of her studio was pretty much a mirror image of where Efrén lived. Only, instead of piled mattresses, the entire room was surrounded by stacked boxes. Doña Chana was on her way out; the only thing not packed was the television, which sat across a floral sofa bed that looked like it’d been picked off some highway curb.
Efrén, Max, and Mía crammed around a table so small that it made the entire kitchen area feel much larger than theirs. Doña Chana reached into a box, pulling out a plastic spoon for each of them.
The soup was great. Maybe not Amá great, but enough to help calm his nerves. Enough to gather the courage to finally ask, “Doña Chana, where’s my Amá?”
Instantly, her face tensed. “Max. Mía. ¿Por qué no se van a ver la televisión?” When it came to watching TV, they didn’t need to be asked twice. That left Efrén alone with Doña Chana at the dinner table. Efrén braced himself.
“Mijo,” Doña Chana said, her voice high and tortured, “tu mamá . . . she called. La migra la tiene. Los descarados de ICE la recojieron buscando trabajo en una fabrica.”
Efrén’s body chilled to its core. He’d heard the word “ICE” whenever someone brought up immigration—usually in the same way kids talked about El Cucuy, the Latino version of the boogeyman. He’d grown up hearing about it, fearing it.
It made sense to arrest bad people. But Amá? She’d never done anything wrong.
“¿Y Apá? Does he know?” Efrén asked.
“Not yet. He was out on a job. I left a message for him to call me.” Doña Chana studied Efrén’s pale face. “Mijo, everything is going to be okay.”
Efrén turned toward his brother and sister and then back to Doña Chana. “We have to get her back.”
Doña Chana’s worried look returned. “Yes, claro que sí. Your father will get her back. You will see.”
Efrén wanted to believe her. Only he kept thinking about the neighborhood gossip he’d picked up from a few of Amá’s comadres at the communal laundromat—stories about nearby factories getting raided and somebody—usually someone’s distant cousin—getting caught and deported. From what Efrén could gather, the word ICE wasn’t something people liked to talk about—at least not around kids. He wondered what the comadres might say now. He imagined them blessing themselves, imploring la Virgen María and any of a long list of patron saints to pray for Amá’s safe return.
Efrén turned his attention away from the yellowed apartment walls and watched Doña Chana tap her purple nails against the table. He had heard of Doña Chana’s repeated attempts to stop smoking. The smell of smoke had apparently slowed her Tupperware sales. Seemed people didn’t want to buy items reeking of cigarettes.
Now, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a silver lighter.
Efrén was about to hold his breath when she reached for a glass candle from a kitchen cabinet with the image of some saint he didn’t recognize. She placed the veladora down on the edge of the table.
Efrén watched her struggle with her lighter.
“Ay, qué cosa tan inútil,” she said, getting up and struggling to light the candle over the stovetop.
Useless . . . That was exactly how Efrén felt.
Three
Although it didn’t happen very often, Max and Mía were still awake when Apá returned from work. No matter what books Efrén read, or how many stories he told them, Max and Mía woudn’t go to sleep. Probably all the Pulparindo candy Doña Chana gave them.
Dressed in matching fleece onesies, they clamped onto each of his legs the second he entered the apartment. He looked up at Efrén, his lips pressed tight—a sure sign he had something important on his mind.
Apá tossed his heavy jacket and lunch pail onto the floor while trying to keep his balance.
“¡Ándale, burro!” Mía hollered, waving her arm in the air as Apá bounced his leg up and down.
“Now me.” Max sat on Apá’s other foot, calling for his turn. Apá took a deep breath and braced himself before playfully straining to lift Max off the floor.
“Ay, muchacho. ¿Qué tanto estás comiendo?”
Max’s weight sent Apá tumbling down onto the mattress closest to the door. Everyone in the room laughed, all except Efrén, who sat alone at the table, waiting to talk with his dad.
Apá looked up, his face still covered with streaked dirt from where he’d wiped away sweat earlier. He exchanged a worried look with Efrén.
Having to chase work wherever he could find it, Apá did not get to spend much time with his family. But when he did, he made a point of spending as much time with them as possible.
Sometimes he and Efrén would kick a soccer ball around while Max and Mía went up and down the playground slide. Other times, when Apá’s back was too sore to play—and Max and Mía let them—they’d pop a fresh batch of popcorn, plop themselves onto the mattresses, and watch a soccer game on TV.
But there’d be no playing today. Apá approached Efrén, tousling his hair and pulling him into a tight hug. “No te preocupes, hijo. Tu madre volverá. Te lo juro.”
Efrén wanted to believe him and trust Apá would find a way of bringing his mother back. Only Efrén couldn’t think of a single person who’d been deported and made it back to the neighborhood.
And that scared him more than anything else.
“Apá,” Mía said, walking up while shamelessly adjusting her underwear, “¿dónde está Amá?”
Again, Apá pressed his lips tightly together. “She went to visit your aunt Martha. She said she’d bring back some of that tamarindo candy you guys like so much.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Mía’s curiosity. Efrén wished it were that simple for him.
As much as the adults liked keeping ki
ds in the dark, Efrén had heard enough. He knew about the raids happening around the country. Around the state. Around his city.
And there’d been other changes too. Take Apá, for example. Last summer, he’d made a point of coming home early on at least one day and taking the entire family to the beach. Max and Mía would stay seated exactly where the waves ended, and with plastic shovel and bucket, they’d work on creating the largest castles possible. Efrén would take his cheap Styrofoam boogie board, and ride each breaking wave until he ended up face to face with Max and Mía.
But over the last few months, Apá seemed to come up with all sorts of excuses not to take the family outside the neighborhood. And Efrén understood why. He’d heard about ICE setting up checkpoints and literally taking people off the streets. He’d heard about ICE helicopters scaring people out of their homes and hauling them away. He’d even heard of ICE making stops at Mexican-geared supermarkets and handcuffing anyone who couldn’t prove they belonged. Whether the rumors were true or not, they sounded real enough to worry him.
And he wasn’t the only one.
One time, Denny’s was having a kids-eat-free deal, so Apá and Amá decided to treat the family to something special. But when they were escorted to a corner booth, Efrén could sense something was wrong. Both Apá and Amá looked nervous, jittery even. The reason was simple. There were two white officers seated directly across the aisle, each wearing khaki cargo pants and black shirts with the word “ICE” printed in giant, white letters.
And no matter how hard Apá or Amá tried hiding it, Efrén could sense their fear. And that was scary in itself. Apá was the strongest, bravest man he knew. And yet, he was no match against an entire country trying to get rid of him.
Apá looked over at Efrén and, as if he could read his mind, leaned over and kissed the top of his head before turning his attention back to the little ones. One at a time, he picked them up and swirled them about the room as if they were superheroes. Max extended his arms out in front of him, pretending to be Superman. Mía, on the other hand, waved a pretend mallet like her favorite Mexican TV hero, el Chapulín Colorado. But even this crimson grasshopper couldn’t bring a smile to Efrén’s face.
Efren Divided Page 3
