Until I Find Julian

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  The man shakes his head.

  “He worked here, before…”

  “Before,” the man repeats in Spanish. “There’s no one working now. Everyone is gone, and the building might never be finished.”

  “But maybe you knew my brother,” I begin, but something makes me turn. On the other side of the fence I see a police car, turret turning, red and blue lights flashing. Two policemen burst out of the car, shout, “No trespassing!” and come through the fence, slats breaking off.

  Angel darts one way, and I go another.

  I duck under a girder, just as the security man did, and then I’m climbing high.

  My mouth is dry; my throat burns from the dust that rises from the building. My breath is loud and ragged; my hands reach for something that will help pull me up.

  I try not to look down, because if I do, I’ll paste myself to one of the girders and stay up here for the rest of my life.

  But I can’t help it. I have to look now that I’m on the seventh or eighth floor, or maybe even higher.

  Below me, the world tilts; I close my eyes to stop the dizziness, and when I open them again, I see stores, rows of houses, maybe even the one that had been Julian’s, and in the distance, a train station.

  In the other direction, the policemen chase Angel as she darts down the street away from them.

  On the street, a woman shades her eyes, looking up at me.

  How will I ever get down? The wind is strong, pulling at me. How will I let go of this girder, with the world spinning below?

  “One step at a time,” a voice says.

  My eyes are closed, but I’m sure it’s the watchman who has followed me up here.

  I may not be able to move, but I can talk. “My brother Julian was here.” I shout a little against the wind.

  “Illegal, like some of the others?” the man says.

  I nod.

  “I have a green card, so I can work here,” he says.

  I can’t believe we’re talking as if our feet were on the ground. The wind wants to sweep me away from the girder I’m straddling, my sweaty hands grasping it in front of me.

  I duck my head, reminded of the top of the train I rode north, the wind pulling at my shirt, my jeans, my hair, burning my face.

  The watchman isn’t bothered. He steps along the girder and comes toward me, both hands free. “A while ago,” he yells, “someone notified the police that there were many illegals here. A few were sent to prison.” He shrugs. “And maybe deported later.”

  I manage to raise my head to take a quick look at him. “My brother?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  There’s no help here, and I don’t even know how I’ll ever get back down.

  But he sees how afraid I am. “Just slide over. That’s it, come toward me.”

  I can barely move.

  “You’re doing fine.” I hear the smile in his voice. “You may even get a job working on high floors somewhere.”

  “Never.” I try to smile too.

  I edge along behind him until we come to some kind of elevator. It’s nothing but a floor with a metal railing around the edges. You could fall right through.

  “Just ease yourself on,” he says.

  I think I’ll never be able to take the step that will put me on that elevator. But somehow I do.

  And instead of standing at the edge of the platform, as the worker is doing, one hand relaxed on the railing, I crawl onto the floor and lie there, my hands close to his feet, ready to grab them if I feel as if I’m going to fall.

  We begin to move. I don’t open my eyes until we get to the ground floor. And when we do, I see that woman below, a large clip in her hair. The woman who’s tall and thin, who glances up at me, and then away. I think she’s crying, but probably not for me.

  “A million thanks,” I tell the watchman, standing at last. “My brother’s name…”

  “I know,” he says. “Julian.”

  “My name is Mateo. If you ever see him, tell him I’m at his house.”

  “I will,” he says. “I wish you luck. The absolute best of luck.”

  I raise my hand in a half wave as I walk away, but then he calls after me. “Hey, kid.”

  I turn. Has he remembered something?

  I wait to hear what he has to say, heart pounding. Don’t let it be prison.

  “Some of the others…like us,” he says, “work at a factory.”

  He points with his thumb. “It’s this road, straight out of town. It’s a terrible place; they make fertilizer. Only the most desperate try it, and most of them don’t last. But it’s possible that your brother is working there, or that someone knows him.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s great that you remembered.”

  “Not so great if he’s there.”

  Julian, who hates to be indoors, who wants to breathe the fresh air or the clean smell of the creek!

  I thank the man again, and then I run back along the avenue. I have to find Angel. In front of me is the food store with its delicious smells, and now the man with the apron is standing outside. I hesitate for the barest second because the apron reminds me so much of the one Abuelita wears with the loops tied around her neck.

  The man sees me and smiles. “Hi.” He raises a bottle of water to his mouth.

  I try out my English. “Hello.” Did I say it right?

  The man grins. He drops the bottle and the water spills all over the sidewalk.

  I dive for the bottle and hand it to him. “Good kid,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say, and he grins again.

  Then I lope toward the house. I wonder for the first time who owns it and whether he’ll ever come to check on things.

  I can’t imagine what will happen to us if he does. I hurry now, hoping I’ll find Angel there before me, safe. I think of her laugh, her bossiness, and get cold all through when I wonder if the police have caught her.

  I move much more cautiously, making sure there are no police cars in front of me, no one following me.

  How long have I been sitting here at the kitchen table, glancing out the window, waiting for Angel?

  Suppose she’s been caught! What will I do if she’s in prison?

  I won’t let myself think that. Instead, I think about my stomach rumbling. I’m so hungry.

  I stand up and peer into the cabinets, rubbing my hands over the shelves, but there’s nothing there. Not even a crumb.

  I hear the door creak open and turn.

  It’s Angel!

  She must know from my face how glad I am. But she looks terrible. Her face is dusty, the back of her shirt is torn, and her hair is more knotted than ever.

  She goes to the sink and turns on the faucet. She puts her head underneath and gulps down water. “I didn’t want to come back here right away. I ran and ran, and after a while they stopped following me. There were trees, a small forest of evergreens, looking so cool, so I hid there. But I knew you’d be waiting.”

  She wipes her mouth with her fist. “I circled around the streets, watching, making sure no one was paying attention to me.” She grins then. “I knew you’d be here, and I didn’t want you to get in trouble either.”

  I grin back at her, and then we’re quiet for a moment.

  “Where’s Diego?” I blurt out before I even realize what I’m saying.

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes fill. Angel crying? She turns away.

  I try something else. “Why are you here? Why are you helping me?”

  “You were lying in the desert sand. I could see the back of your head, your hair poked out, just like his. No matter how he combed it. For just that second, I thought—”

  “That I was your brother. Is he missing too?”

  “Not missing.” She stands by the window, looking out. “Enough.” All right, I tell myself. For now.

  “We have to have money for food,” she says. “We’ll go through this whole house. Even at home, there’s always money
when you least expect it, under the bed, on the floor of the closet.”

  I think of the money from Abuelita. I promised myself I wouldn’t use it, not unless I was desperate. I reach inside my pocket, feeling the two bills. Maybe now is the time. But will I be able to use Mexican money here?

  Angel runs her fingers through her hair. “You’ll see. We’ll find something. Then we’ll clean ourselves up and wait until school has to be over for the day. We’ll just be two kids shopping.”

  It sounds all right, but I can’t imagine that there’s money here.

  “Which room do you want to search?”

  “The bedroom, I guess.”

  I wander inside and touch Mami’s quilt. Then I crawl under the bed, the dust balls rolling around me, making me sneeze, and only find an old newspaper and a sock.

  I try the closet, crawling on the floor in there, too. Nothing.

  Back in the kitchen, I raise my shoulders. “No good.”

  She marches into the bedroom. “It takes longer than that to search. Did you look under the pillows, the sheets, the mattress?”

  I shake my head.

  “The closet shelves? The jeans pockets? Especially the pockets.” She taps the door molding hard, and goes back into the kitchen. “Get with it, Matty.”

  The pockets. Of course. I turn them inside out, but they’re empty. Standing on tiptoes, I run my hands over the dusty shelves. Next I pull the bed apart. Nothing.

  I sink down under the window, leaning back against the wall and the dusty curtains.

  I hear a crackle. I reach back. Something’s in the hem of the curtain. I work it out and sit back.

  It’s a very small, tight roll of American money!

  I rub the bills. How much is it? Not much, I can tell. It must be Julian’s money; Mami used to hide money in her bedroom curtains too. He won’t mind; I’ll tell him as soon as I find him anyway.

  I stand up and go into the kitchen. Angel has the oven door open. Her head’s inside as she searches.

  She reminds me of the girl in that fairy tale about two children and a witch.

  “I’m with it, Angel,” I tell her.

  She backs out and kneels on the floor, her hands out to show me how filthy they are.

  I hold out the money.

  “Yes!” Then she glances at the window. “It’s late, dark. We can’t go to the store until tomorrow.”

  I frown. “That man will remember you.”

  “What man?”

  “The owner of the food store. You had to walk inside and stand there. Maybe he thought you were going to steal something,” I say. “I’ll go alone.” Maybe the man will remember me too. But he was friendly.

  She sinks down at the table. “I guess you’re right.” But it’s almost as if the words are forced out of her.

  And then she teaches me a few words. “Beans,” she says, and I repeat it.

  She slaps the table. “Not beens. Beeeeenzzzz.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Apples.”

  I say that too but she’s not satisfied. “Just wait until tomorrow. He must be closed now. But then we’ll pick things up.”

  “Maybe you should write it all down in English.”

  “Waste of time,” she says. “You’re driving me crazy.”

  Good.

  It’s morning. We can’t wait to eat any longer.

  “Kids will be going to school,” I say.

  “If the store owner asks, say holiday.”

  “Holy day?”

  She slaps her head. “Say ‘I’ve been sick.’ ”

  “Sick. I’ve got it.”

  I go into the bathroom and turn on the water in the shower. It’s icy cold, but there’s soap, and I try to clean my clothes. I have to look decent.

  I dry myself, and the clothes. Better, much better. I see the old Mateo in the mirror.

  I walk along the street; kids weave back and forth. One tosses a ball to his friend, and I duck to get out of the way. No one pays attention to me, not even the police in a car that rolls slowly down the street.

  If only I could go to that factory right now. But we both have to eat. I can’t imagine Julian in a place like that. I picture his face, the time he planted a small tree out back, and painted that same tree on our bedroom wall. I hear him singing that frog song. What else about him? I hear him say: “A house in the woods. Watching the fox at night, the geese and birds in the morning.”

  Coming along next to me, someone says, “That kid is talking to himself.”

  He means me.

  I have just time to see his face and sandy hair. He rams into me, his elbow sharp against my ribs, and I feel that old pain from the desert. My feet go out from under me and I sprawl on the ground. He steps around me and dashes away, and I see…

  Do I really see?

  With both hands, he holds bills over his head.

  My money!

  He’s already at the corner. He turns and is gone.

  I lie there for another moment, catching my breath. It’s too late to go after him, even though he isn’t bigger than I am. If I see him again, I’ll push him against a wall. I’ll go through his pockets. I’ll take my money back.

  Ridiculous. He’ll probably spend the money within the next few minutes.

  I scramble to my feet, holding my side. I’m so hungry, and what about Angel? I think of beans and bananas, cold soup. Abuelita’s chicken.

  I think about stealing. The food store is just down the street and outside is a bin with fruit and vegetables. I’m fast; I could scoop up two pears, or a bunch of carrots, before the man in the apron could come after me.

  I see the man’s kind face.

  I can’t steal.

  Something crosses my mind, a vague memory. Something about Julian. Yes, I’ll write about it when I can.

  I walk back to the house slowly and go in the back door. Angel is still sitting at the table. She looks up and it’s almost impossible to tell her what’s happened. “I’m going to try for a job.”

  “Where’s the food, Matty?”

  “Someone took my money.”

  Her eyes widen. Then she really looks at me. She must see how sorry I am, how terrible I feel. “We’ll think of something.”

  And then the memory crosses my mind again, the quickest thought. I raise my hand to my forehead, but it’s gone.

  Something about…a secret.

  That makes me think of Angel. What is it she doesn’t want to tell me? But before I can try to ask again, she says, “Are you writing something about me in that notebook?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  She doesn’t answer. Head high, she walks away.

  I stand at the back door. What should I do next? I go into the living room, and my notebook is gone. I know how to look for things now. I look all over the place.

  It’s in the kitchen litter basket.

  “Why would you do that?” I yell. “Why?”

  “It’s a nuisance. In my way.”

  “It belongs to me.” I’m still shouting.

  “Sorry.” She raises one shoulder. “You’re making so much noise. Do you want the police to come?”

  I take a breath. It’s all too much. I take the notebook and toss it on the table.

  “Sorry,” she says again. “I guess I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No. But now I need to get a job, to get some money so we can eat.”

  She nods, sits at the table. “I’d go, but the police saw my face. Maybe I’d better stay in here.”

  She’s right. I tell her I have to learn English. “Teach me some words, Angel.”

  “What words?”

  I say them slowly in my own language. “I need a job, please. I’m a good worker.”

  She looks up at the ceiling. Is she trying not to laugh at me?

  “We’ll starve to death if I don’t work.” I push away thoughts of Mami and Abuelita cooking in our kitchen. What are they eating? Will the tablecloths bring them enough food for a
while? Are they as hungry as we are? And poor Lucas.

  Angel says the words over and over. They seem strange on my tongue; they don’t fit in my mouth.

  Angel raises her hand to her mouth to hide her smile as I repeat them.

  Fifty times?

  Sixty?

  Then I hear myself getting closer to what she’s saying until, at last, I have it.

  “Ineedajob.” I take a breath. Count one-two-three-four. “I’magoodworker.”

  “Slow down.” Angel nods, looking pleased with the way I sound. We go through other words: string beans and meat, sweep and dust.

  By this time it’s afternoon, after school. And I’m ready. I don’t have to think about holy days or I’ve been sick.

  “You’ll get a job,” Angel says. “Don’t worry.”

  “At that grocery store.” I feel as if I just might be able to do it.

  I straighten my collar and smooth down my every-which-way hair, even though it pops up again almost immediately. “How do I look?”

  “Good.” She leans forward. “Matty, hurry. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry.” She shakes her head and speaks in English. “You look spiffy.”

  Spiffy.

  I keep saying that to myself as I go to the kitchen door. It has a great sound.

  I hop off the back step and head down the street counting as I go, four blocks one way, and then turn at the wide avenue with zebra stripes.

  And there’s the store on the corner. Up on top there’s a sign: Deli. It blinks back and forth in orange.

  I give my hair one last pat, take a breath, and open the door.

  I walk in, looking at the rows of cans with pictures of oranges and pineapples. I pass a bin that has a few sad-looking plantains, pale, as if they didn’t have a chance to ripen in a warm sun. Behind the glass counter are lumps of meat: red and pink. There are chickens too, pathetic things with skinny tan legs.

  The man with the Abuelita apron watches me from behind the counter. His face is friendly, and he smiles under his droopy black mustache. He nods as I walk toward him, my hands behind my back, my fingers crossed. He remembers me.

  I say the words slowly, to be sure he understands them. I even try an extra bit. “I swip,” I say, and make sweeping motions to be sure I have it right.