Until I Find Julian

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  “Move.” Angel sounds impatient that I still stand there, the tube like a huge bracelet around my waist.

  I let go with my feet, and the sneakers slung around my neck fill with water.

  “No noise,” she whispers fiercely. “No splashing.”

  I kick against the fast-moving water, my legs deep under the surface. Head up like a turtle, I keep my eyes on the island in the center of the river.

  Crossing this wide river takes forever. Halfway to the island, I rest my cheek against the tube, and even though I can’t see Angel, or hear her, she must be only a few feet behind me.

  And she was right again. I never would have been able to swim across this river; I never would have made it by myself.

  But is she really there?

  Maybe not.

  Keep going.

  She might be back on the bank, grinning as I flounder around in the river. I don’t know anything about her. When I told her about Julian, why didn’t she tell me why she’s here? Why she’s helping me?

  I turn my head, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, or at least to hear her. Then I see those skinny arms slipping silently in and out of the water behind me. One hand reaches out and pushes the tube.

  I hear the soft ripple of tiny waves against a row of stones ahead of me. My feet feel the sand again, and my toes slide along the gritty bottom.

  The trees reach out to me from this small island, thin wispy trunks in the darkness, and leaves rustle the way they do at the edge of the creek at home.

  I drag myself out of the river, dripping wet and so cold my teeth chatter. I pull the slippery tube along; my blistered feet dig into the stony ground. But the north is just yards away, across this side of the river, about the distance from our house to the turning of the creek at the edge of town.

  I can do the rest.

  I know I can.

  Without thinking, feeling joy that I’ve conquered the desert and most of the river, I call, “I’m coming, Jul—”

  I never finish. Angel’s sandy hand covers my mouth so hard that my teeth bite into my lips.

  I bat her hand away. “What’s the matter with you?” I wipe the sand off my mouth with a quick motion, letting her know how annoyed I am.

  “It would be just my luck to save a helpless thing like you,” she whispers, her face an inch away from mine. “And be caught myself with your noise.”

  “Get lost,” I say.

  She sinks down against a tree and pulls me with her.

  My chin juts out. “You’re making just as much noise.”

  She roots around for a stone. Head back, she drops it in her mouth, sucking on it. I can hear it grate against her teeth.

  Something swims along nearby, a beaver maybe, with a white curve of water behind it.

  I look up. One side of the river belongs to my country; the other side belongs to the north. How high in the sky is it before the world doesn’t belong to anyone…or maybe belongs to everyone?

  A cloud moves slowly across the sky, covering it for a moment. It floats over to our side, to our country. For a while the cloud should belong to me, and Abuelita, and Mami.

  Angel snaps her fingers. “Pay attention, Matty.”

  We push off again. The inner tube rubs against my skin; water slaps against my sunburned face and arms. Angel swims ahead. The wake she leaves is no wider than the beaver’s.

  Across the way, I bump to a stop. This is el norte, the United States.

  A small hill rises in front of me, cutting off what’s beyond. Men with guns? A police station? Who knows?

  Angel and I crawl to the top of the hill and peer over the edge. There’s nothing but a few trees, bent and weird, with belongings scattered among them. We scuttle around like a pair of crabs, heads down, to see what we can find to take with us.

  Angel picks through one bag; she finds a cocoa-colored sweater that almost matches her eyes. There’s no food, and nothing to drink. But I spot a wooden handle sticking out of a bag; it’s the same color as the sweater Angel has tossed around her neck.

  I dust off sand and grit, and zip open the bag. Inside is a musical instrument. I ease it out.

  “A guitar,” Angel says.

  Yes, a guitar.

  The strings are loose, lying there on top like the small waves we sometimes see in the creek at home. I run my hands over each one, but there’s no sound.

  The strings should be tight.

  I fiddle with the keys, if that’s what they’re called, turning the knobs one at a time. Each string begins to tighten; the waves disappear.

  I pluck one of them, and…

  I hear Mami singing in the kitchen. Abuelita stirs a pot on the stove, and Lucas drums his fingers against the wooden table, loving music as much as Mami.

  Lucas could probably play this guitar.

  Julian, Lucas, and I used to camp out near the creek when it was too hot to sleep indoors. And one night, a wind came up. “Listen,” Julian said. “The trees with their branches waving sound like music.”

  Lucas tilted his head, nodding.

  I pluck another string and imagine the music Lucas would make.

  Angel pushes my arm. “Stop,” she whispers. “Someone will hear you.”

  I brush my fingers over the strings, then slide the guitar back into its canvas case and loop the strap over my shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  I feel as if I’m holding on to my family. I can’t tell her that, though. She’d think I was crazy. I can’t tell anyone, except maybe Lucas. I’ll bring this guitar home to him and put it in his hands.

  “Let’s go before we’re caught.” Angel brushes the dust off the sweater.

  “I’m ready,” I tell her, and I am.

  I reach into my pocket, feeling for the small notebook and the addresses. It’s soaked from the river! It’s still dark, but in the moonlight, I can see that the book is ruined, water-soaked. I can’t read one word, not one number.

  I’d pictured showing a book of memories to Julian. He’d listen, head bent, smiling a little as he remembered saving me from the creek.

  It’s lucky I remember both addresses. Julian’s is strange, with lots of numbers; the cousin’s is almost as long. At home, we have only one: Six Creek Road, even though there really isn’t a road. It’s a dirt path with overhanging trees, and sometimes a small green snake or two, friendly guys who doze along the branches.

  Angel and I crawl into some of the undergrowth to try to sleep for a while. I lie still, wary of thorns. For the thousandth time I ask myself, What happened to Julian? Was he hurt? Caught by the police? Is he in prison?

  Stop!

  I close my eyes, but I jump at every sound, even the scuttle of insects as they click by.

  What if I hear a truck, or heavy footsteps coming closer with rough hands clamping down on my shoulders?

  And then, just as I imagined it, a hand grips my arm. But it’s Angel’s. “Wake up, Matty. We have to leave soon.”

  A pink sky lights the early morning. Angel wanders over to a bubbling stream that comes out of the rocks and scoops handfuls of water over her face. She ducks her head so the ends of her hair float like small fish, then quickly dunks her head four or five times. When she comes back, there’s a clean round spot on each cheek and her pointy nose is covered with freckles; her hair is lighter and shiny. She sinks down against the tree. “What will you do next?”

  “I have a plan.” Not so helpless after all. “My cousin lives in Samson. I’ll stop there first. Maybe she can help me get across Texas into Arkansas.”

  Angel holds up her hand, palm toward me. “I might as well hang around for a while and see what happens.” She glances up at the sky, considering. “Yes, I guess so.”

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  “Where is this house?” She’s sucking on a stone again.

  I hesitate. “I’ve never been there. They have a farm. Abuelita told me once that it’s on top of a hill, but it looks as if it might slide off any mi
nute.”

  Angel slaps her forehead. “Impossible. There must be dozens of places like that.”

  “I remember the address.”

  “All right. We’ll ask someone who looks friendly.”

  I drag myself to my feet. The sun glows over the horizon now, turning broad leaves green, and earth the color of rich brown silk.

  It’s going to be another hot day, but I don’t mind. My clothes are damp; they need to dry. And I’m cold, trying not to shiver, my arms crossed over my chest.

  We walk forever, and the sun beats down now. My shirt has dried; my hair is plastered to my head; my feet burn. I fall behind Angel, thinking of water and standing in the cool creek.

  She glances back. “What’s the matter with you? It’s that guitar—too heavy, probably waterlogged.”

  “Not the guitar.” I take big steps, almost the way Lucas would, showing her I can keep up, that I can walk even faster than she can.

  She waves both arms at a van that’s coming slowly along the middle of the road, tailpipe clanking. “Wait, please,” she calls.

  The van rumbles to a stop. We run toward it so Angel can ask the driver for directions.

  The driver is a woman with a sunburned face and frizzy hair. “It’s a long way,” she says in my own language. “Miles.” She must see how tired we are. “I’ll give you a lift.”

  We climb in and bump along, listening to the woman singing. Angel and I stare at each other. We never would have walked this in a day.

  At last the woman points with her thumb.

  And yes, there’s a dirt road almost like the one at home; it circles up a hill.

  “Thanks,” I call after her.

  We climb the hill, passing falling-down houses and trees that line the road.

  We see Consuelo’s farm. The mailbox by the road is missing its lid, but it has the right address painted on one side. The house is old; the unpainted boards are silver gray. Chickens wander around in the yard, clucking and pecking at tufts of grass, and at each other.

  A guy comes around to the front, carrying wooden boxes on his shoulder. He’s older than Julian but looks a little like him. He stops when he sees us and puts the boxes on the ground. “Hey,” he says.

  “I’m Mateo,” I tell him. “My cousin Consuelo—”

  “You’re family, then,” he cuts in. “From across the border.”

  I nod. “Consuelo—”

  “My mother, but she’s not here. Sorry.” He raises one shoulder. “She’s gone visiting, back in a week or so.”

  He must see the disappointment on my face. He grins. “I can manage something to drink, though. Maybe some breakfast.”

  Before I can answer, Angel is saying yes, breakfast would be great. Sometimes she’s really annoying.

  Inside the house, we sit at the kitchen table while the cousin, Felipe, warms tortillas and fries eggs for us. He listens as I tell him we’re on our way to Downsville, Arkansas.

  “Where your brother lives,” he says.

  I nod. It’s too much to tell him about Julian, and I have no time anyway. He slides the eggs onto our plates and says, “You’re in luck if you don’t mind riding along with boxes of fabric that I’m going to sell.”

  He slides onto a chair, grinning with overlapping teeth. “I’m on my way. Not exactly to Downsville, but close enough. There’s room in the back, if you want to go along.”

  “Yes.” I can hardly speak, I’m so relieved.

  Felipe nods toward the screen door. “The dog sits in front.”

  A mangy-looking dog with yellow fur and a thumping tail stares in at us. I grin at Felipe.

  I’m starving. I shovel in the eggs, take huge bites of the tortilla, which drips melted butter, and wash it all down with bitter black coffee that Felipe pours from a metal pot.

  On the counter is a thick pad. “Could I take a piece of paper?” I ask. “And that pen?”

  “Sure. Take the whole thing.” He waves his hand, and I slip them into my pocket. The pages are wrinkled, and someone has doodled over a few, but I can’t wait to write.

  We spend the next hour loading the truck with boxes. “Glad you came along,” Felipe says.

  We climb in and settle against the rough side boards.

  Angel grins. She’s half asleep, her voice thick. “A long way.”

  I lean forward. “Why are you coming with me?”

  “Nothing else to do right now,” she mumbles.

  A strange girl!

  Before I can say anything, her head drops; her eyes are closed. “Diego?” I think she whispers, but she’s asleep.

  What can I tell her about Julian?

  What can I write about him?

  I pull the pad out of my pocket and begin.

  A day, just like today, sunny and hot, too nice for school. I sneaked out of the house with my fishing pole over my shoulder, slid down along the mud next to the creek, and sat against a tree, heart pounding.

  What would Mami think about my skipping school? What would Abuelita say?

  I didn’t worry for long, though.

  Fishing in the creek would be better than the math review we were having that day. And maybe with forty kids in the class, my teacher might not notice I was missing.

  I could see a fish, but it saw me too in the reflection of the water: my every-which-way hair that I hadn’t combed, my ears that stuck out a little from my head, my skinny arm holding the pole. With a flick of its silver tail, the fish was gone, over to the other side of the creek to rest in the shade of an overhanging tree.

  I didn’t care.

  But then I heard Julian singing, his voice loud as he came along the side of the creek. It was something about a frog that waited to snap up a fly, one of Lucas’s songs. He was on his way home to sleep after a night working for Miguel at the factory.

  I hadn’t thought of Julian. What would he say when he saw me fishing in my school pants, which I saw now were muddy?

  Before I could dart away like the silver fish, there was Julian’s reflection in the still water. He stopped in the middle of the song and I hunched my shoulders.

  But he didn’t say what I thought he might.

  “Saw a frog,” he began to sing again. And I sang too.

  We finished the song and he kept going.

  I stayed there, the song in my head, fishing, until I was sure school was over and I could go home again.

  Ah, Julian. He never told on me.

  But a week later, a painting hung over my bed. It was me, fishing, my head back, eyes closed. My pants were rolled up and muddy. But only Julian and I knew they were my school pants. We both grinned when we looked at it together.

  It’s more than hours. It’s forever. The next day, until late afternoon. We eat the sandwiches Felipe has put together. Sometimes we hear him slow down and stop; then he talks to people, but we huddle between boxes. We sleep. We wake. Then, at last, he lets us off near Julian’s house. “Straight along that road,” he says. “I’d take you the rest of the way, but I’m late.”

  We stumble out of the truck; the sun is sinking on the far edge of the horizon.

  Felipe gets out too. We hug and thank him; we promise to stop and see him on the way home.

  “Don’t forget,” he calls as he slides back into his seat. We wave goodbye as he pulls away.

  “I’ll tell my mother—” he calls back, but the rest of his words are lost with the roar of the truck.

  We march along the road, faster now, almost there! At the top of the street we stop to stare at a big house with shiny glass windows. It’s painted white with a line of cactus plants throwing their crooked arms up to the sky. The house is even larger than the one that belongs to Miguel, the factory foreman who fired me at home.

  “Whew,” Angel says. “A rich guy.”

  Julian? No. As I count the numbers on the door, I see that it’s not Julian’s place. Of course not. “I wrote about him while we were in the truck,” I tell her. “You can read it later.”

  She
twitches one shoulder. “What is he doing here, anyway? Making money?”

  “He’s not here anymore. At least, I don’t think so. This is just where he was.”

  I walk up the street, searching. “If I had enough money,” he said once, “I’d put up a little house in el norte, or maybe even a tent. I’d farm a bit, and draw foxes at night, and the birds and geese during the day.”

  And there’s his house, in the middle of a row of houses; most of them seem empty. They’re attached and lined up the way Lucas lines his toy blocks along the floor. The roofs are flat. You could run on top of those houses from one end of the street to the other.

  Julian’s house doesn’t look friendly the way ours does at home. Charcoal paint has chipped off in spots, showing paler gray underneath; the front steps list to one side. And the square bit of grass in front is brown in spots. But it isn’t that. Maybe it’s the windows with the faded curtains that hide the inside from the street.

  I shiver. Who’d want to live here?

  I think of our house, the stray cat curious, her sharp claws reaching through the cracks in the boards, the sun drawing square patterns of light across the bedroom floor and the kitchen wall.

  Please let Julian still be here in this terrible house, waiting for me.

  I dream about what could happen next. I’d bang hard on the door. As he pulled it open, he’d mutter, “Who’s making all that noise?” and I’d be standing there.

  Angel taps my shoulder with her fingers. “I guess I’ll leave you here.”

  In the middle of nowhere?

  “So long, Matty.” She takes a few steps away. She doesn’t look like her usual take-charge-of-the-world self.

  “Where are you going?”

  She raises one bony shoulder. “Anywhere.” She keeps going, walking faster, swinging her arms, as if she’s forgotten all about me.

  “Angel?” My voice is loud, almost as bossy as hers.

  She doesn’t turn, but she stops, her hands on her hips, her sharp elbows out like a pair of triangles.

  “Want to hang out for a while?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Help me find my brother?”