Illegal

by Bettina Restrepo

  Was this God’s way of talking to me? What if it was just a stain, not something meaningful? What if faith was just something a church made up to get money from villagers?

  I needed to believe in something.

  I pulled the shirt carefully over my head and folded it gently. The bloodstain would be my secret until I could figure out what was really going on.

  There were plenty of signs in the bathroom. It looked like someone had gone crazy with a marker and scribbled everywhere. I couldn’t even make out the words.

  Mama switched places with me and headed to the bathroom. While she was gone, the food arrived. I saw the skinny girl sitting in a nearby booth. Her eyes followed people around the restaurant like a hungry tiger.

  “Are you going to eat this all by yourself?” asked the waitress with the gold chain as she placed down our food. The waitress raised her painted eyebrows waiting for my answer. She looked over her shoulder at the kitchen, then sat down as if we were old friends. “What’s with the bruise on your cheek?”

  I answered her question with a question. This worked when a teacher pointed at you and you didn’t know how to answer. “What’s all that scribbling in the bathroom?”

  “Oh, just graffiti from the gangs. I don’t bother cleaning it anymore, because it’s back up the following day.”

  “Gangs?” We didn’t have any of those in Cedula. There wasn’t much of anything to steal. A few people tried to grow mota, but it didn’t do well in Cedula because of the drought. The drug dealers preferred villages that weren’t starving. It’s hard to sell drugs to people who can’t even afford to buy a decent meal.

  Cecelia gave me a warning. “Stay away from the gangs. Or is that bruise from one of them?”

  Maybe those girls I saw were in a gang. The clothes they were wearing said nothing but trouble. “No.”

  A man across the room pointed to his coffee cup, and Cecelia rose from the table.

  “Buen provecho,” said Cecelia. She reached out to my cheek and pulled my chin up. “Was the fight worth the pain?”

  So many questions and not enough answers. “I don’t know. It was necessary.” I couldn’t reveal our problems to a stranger. What if she wanted to call the police, even out of pity? Were all Americans this nosy?

  Cecelia patted my shoulder and moved on to the next booth to fill empty coffee cups.

  The skinny girl rose as Cecelia walked by. “I can work just for tips and food. It will be good for both of us,” said the girl.

  “No, you can’t. You aren’t of age, and that isn’t legal. Next thing, your brother would be dealing drugs out of this place. I’m sorry, Flora, but you can’t hang around here. You gotta go.” Cecelia pointed at the door.

  I looked away from the girl, because I had enough problems of my own.

  Just like Mama said in Matamoras, I couldn’t feed every beggar.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ponytails

  Mexican pesos.

  I approached Cecelia at the front register. “I have a problem.” A tight feeling gripped my stomach, because it would be easy for the waitress to trick me and steal the money. She smiled with her golden teeth. Why would she help me when she couldn’t help the skinny girl?

  I held in my hand a few thousand pesos, what I thought would be the equivalent of the same meal in Mexico. It’s not like we ate in restaurants in Cedula, either, so who knows if I was even close.

  When in doubt, pretend that you know what you are doing. Grandma always whispered this to me when I was left alone at the market with the fruit.

  “I don’t have dollars—” I paused, grasping for confidence. “Yet.”

  Papa once told me to look people in the eye. The first one to look away is weaker, and you can dictate the price. “Can you tell me a place to make a fair exchange?” I asked. I had to sound like an adult.

  Mama savored the word “fair.” She avoided saying “best” or “final,” because there was always a lower price than best or final, but a fair price, that was the deal you wanted.

  Cecelia squeezed her lips into a fat smile, which made her eyes close. “No problema.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. Everything had been so hard. All we had to do was find Papa. Or was it?

  Cecelia wrinkled her forehead in concern and touched my cheek in kindness. “It’s okay, you know. You’re not the first person to arrive here like this,” said Cecelia.

  How did Cecelia know we’d just arrived? Was there a blinking sign on my forehead?

  “I must see two or three people a month like you. Hot, sweaty, tired. Like you’ve escaped a cage. My parents arrived by crossing the river in a wagon from Laredo. My mother almost drowned until my grandfather saved her by grabbing her ponytail and pulling her out of the water. Many people come this way.” She told the story as if it were coming from a book.

  I pulled my hand to my forehead. “We came hidden in the back of a truck. We’re looking for my father. The truck driver fought us for more money.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She pushed my hand with the pesos toward my pocket. “The meal is free. As for your papa, do you have any idea where he is?”

  “No, we don’t even have an address. No family here. Not even a place to stay.” I realized that this entire trip had been my idea, and I didn’t know what to do next.

  “I thought this was going to be easier.” We were lost and had no place to go. “We just want to find him and go home.”

  Cecelia offered a suggestion. “My cousin has some rooms to rent. It’s not far from here. Safer than the streets or shelters.”

  “I need a fair price.” There was that word again. “Fair.” Not best. Not lowest. “We can pay, but it must be fair.” I didn’t even know what a fair price was.

  I saw Mama’s eyes flutter open at the table. Her cheeks had a warm glow, instead of the pallor of old, stale coffee, as we walked out into the hot air.

  Grandma’s voice echoed in my head. When in doubt, start at home.

  As we walked out of the taquería, I took in the details all around us. The wooden apartments had better paint than in Mexico. More room existed between each building. Sprouts of grass tried to grow. I didn’t see as many dogs eating garbage, either. Other than that, this place looked just like Mexico, except with newer cars.

  I wondered how we would find Papa, because home would be where he was.

  Here in the streets of Houston.

  CHAPTER 15

  Eye of the Beholder

  Every part of me was hot. The trash by the curb smelled ripe, like a new version of stink candle. Even though our place in Cedula was falling apart, we kept it very clean. Neat and tidy made things feel safe. A flimsy screen door opened and out came a large woman in a flowered dress.

  “Hola, ¿como estás?” said the woman extending her hand to my mother.

  I stepped forward. “Buenas tardes, señora. Cecelia sent me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said, turning to face me. “I’m Yolanda. I have a good place for you. One bed, a small kitchen with a table, and a baño. Sixty-five dollars a week. Rent is due on Sundays.”

  I peeked inside. The place smelled like someone had already been peeing inside, and not in a toilet. I tried to convince myself I had still done a good thing.

  “We’ll have an indoor bathroom?” Mama asked. Papa promised when he returned we would install indoor plumbing from a new well. Both ideas dried up in his absence.

  “Yes, Mama,” I said softly.

  “The park is across the street. A nice place, full of people on the weekend. This is a great location,” said Yolanda.

  The empty park was dotted with picnic benches. In the distance sat a barbecue pit inside a pavilion.

  I gave Mama a sideways glance, but she looked a bit dizzy. Perhaps we could find something better? It seemed like a lot of money, but she was in no condition to continue looking. I got us into this mess; it was my job to get us out. Besides, it shouldn’t take that long to find Papa, and then we could leave.


  A cool breeze came from nowhere and blew hair into my eyes. I took a deep breath. Salt. Brackish air floated from the park. How far away was the ocean? The trees rustled like a gentle giggle. I turned and saw large trees behind the building. They were larger than the grapefruit trees from our orchard and they waved a welcome hello.

  I would just clean it up. I would show Mama how smart I really was.

  “We’ll take it for sixty,” I said.

  This was our new home. It didn’t matter what it smelled like.

  CHAPTER 16

  Paper Products

  Mama pulled the suitcase into the room and sniffed at the beds. Just as I thought she was about to complain, she collapsed onto a naked bed.

  I flopped into the hard-back chair, but I felt the need to scrub. I wanted to erase the previous occupants. Grandma would have a complete heart attack if she knew we were staying in this filthy place.

  Dim light spilled into the room from a dirty window. Mama looked older as she closed her eyes to rest. I felt drained myself and my head throbbed.

  Something had changed me in the back of the truck. How many minutes had passed since I had left my bed in Cedula? Instead of the faint smell of mangoes, I could hear noisy trucks and smell hot garbage. I thought Texas would be a beautiful place; instead, it looked very much like Matamoras. Dirty. Smelly.

  I watched a man pushing a cart full of soda cans. He had a long beard, and he was talking to himself. From across the street, he smelled like our apartment. Foul.

  I let Mama sleep for a few hours while I walked around. Our street was named Quitman. On the next corner was a large plain building surrounded by a fence. I had never seen letters put together in that way. I wondered if “school” meant escuela.

  Bright-colored playground equipment littered the yard. The windows hid under brown paper. Hope filled my chest. Papa always promised me I could go to school when we came to America. Maybe this was another sign. Why would God put a school so close to our new home if he didn’t want me to go?

  We were now in the future. The place where things could happen.

  I tried to read every word I could see. I rolled them around my mouth like candy. Wherever I looked, there were words. Some I could understand; others I couldn’t.

  A neon sign blinked and flashed one block ahead. I could hear the loud music and see cars turning into the parking lot. As we approached, I could hear announcements in Spanish about a special in the bakery. ¡Bollios, ten para un dollar! He mixed English and Spanish. I understood the Spanglish.

  The cars in the parking lot looked as different as birds on a fence. Some were new and shiny. Some trucks had spinning hubcap wheels and writing on their rear windows. Children ran around chattering in Spanish. They ignored a car pulling out that screeched to a halt, almost hitting them. Their mother pushed a cart full of groceries. “¡Niños! ¡Cuidado!”

  I missed the open market in Cedula where I knew the name of the man who roasted corn. The sweet smell of the smoke mingling with spices and the odor of older cars passing around the village. The smell of our fruit and Grandma’s candles.

  I shook off the homesick feeling and concentrated. Papa. We were here to find Papa. I couldn’t tell who was Mexican and who was American. I wondered if we looked like we fit in.

  As I walked into the produce section, I smelled mangoes and almost fainted. My stomach flipped over. Bile crept into my mouth.

  I thought about Grandma. She would have loved to sell our grapefruit to this market. There was more food here in one section than we had in our entire market in Cedula. This was like her fruit fairy tale—magnified.

  My strength returned as I walked toward the side of the store where a small office was labeled CAMBIO.

  I went back to our apartment and woke Mama. “You have to see the neighborhood! A school and a market—with a bank inside.” She followed me numbly down Quitman Street.

  An older man behind the desk came and explained the rules for exchanging money. He wasn’t as nice as Hector and was as ugly as sin, with long nose hair.

  “There’s a fee. Do you understand how to use American money? There are new coins, and bills mean different things.”

  I missed my friend and his woolen tie. I opened the wallet. “I understand.” American money looked smaller than Mexican pesos.

  “My lucky Nora,” Mama said.

  “Your exchange will equal nine hundred U.S. dollars.”

  The money in America felt like a lot less. The stack was definitely smaller. I think we had more money in Mexico. Now I truly missed Hector.

  “Is this all? Shouldn’t we have more?” I challenged.

  He raised his eyebrows so that even more of the hair from his nose showed. “I didn’t cheat you. I wouldn’t steal from poor people.”

  I didn’t know we were poor. I felt like the beggar outside of the bus depot.

  Mama slanted forward and whispered to the clerk. “I also need to get a job.”

  He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I can arrange to have someone meet you outside tomorrow. She does good fake papers.”

  Her words shrank. “How much?” asked Mama.

  “How much for what?” I asked, even louder.

  “Only fifty dollars,” he said, as if it was a bargain.

  I didn’t know what they were talking about.

  Mama glowered. “Work papers.”

  “Ladies, talk about this outside.” The clerk placed a CERRADO sign on the counter and went back to his desk.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large pink cake being decorated in the bakery and the smell of buttercream floated toward me.

  Behind the glass, a woman in white twirled the layers in different directions. First a bright fuchsia trim, then a softer pink flower. On the fifth layer, she made soft swirls that looked like confetti and topped it with a sparkly crown.

  I closed my eyes to seal in the moment. Pictures formed in my mind. The music in the market morphed into the band playing at my party. Grandma would be at the head table, near this cake, and Papa would be next to her. I would be wearing white gloves.

  Find him.

  The voice had returned to remind me to stop being selfish and continue looking.

  CHAPTER 17

  Wishing and Hoping

  I couldn’t get the clerk’s words out of my head. I wouldn’t steal from poor people. He didn’t know anything about us. If Papa had been there, he would have yelled at him. Who is he to judge me? My emotions felt mixed up, like I was a Coke bottle shaken too hard, ready to explode on the first unsuspecting buyer.

  Grandma taught me, When something is wrong, clean until it’s better. “It smells like something ha muerto,” I said, looking under the counter of our apartment. A dead rat lay in the corner, half rotten, melting.

  I didn’t even have the energy to scream. I stuck my hand into the plastic bag, scooped up the decaying creature, carried it to the large trash bin, and flung the tiny body away. A shiver ran down my spine, and suddenly tears sprung from my eyes. I couldn’t stop shaking or crying. I would have to fight harder to make this work.

  “Stop. Stop,” I gasped to myself. But it all hit me. We had left. I was standing by a Dumpster. I didn’t know where my father was. I didn’t know anything. I was living in a place with rats, and I had almost died.

  I covered my face and rubbed my eyes and tried to catch my breath, but I just felt so lost. I reached inward for a jagged deep breath and wiped my eyes and nose across my arm. I looked upward, trying to dry the tears out of my eyes in the hot sun.

  Back inside, I scrubbed my hands and arms with purple Fabuloso. I even poured a little on the spot where I found the dead rat.

  “I’m going out to the park,” I called to Mama. She raised her head from the bed and nodded sleepily.

  The shade loomed heavy in parts of the park, so that the grass had stopped growing. The crazy man pushed his cart in the opposite direction we had seen him go this morning, like he was returning from a long day of w
ork.

  I banished the dark thoughts from my head. It was only our first day, and I couldn’t let my heart trick me into sadness. I observed a few houses with bars on the windows, but others had neat, green lawns and golden-orange marigolds lining the path.

  In the park, I saw a father pushing a little girl on a swing. Her head tilted back as she squealed for him to push higher. I stared at them just long enough to realize that I couldn’t recall the exact shape of my father’s face. I only felt an intense longing and silent heartbreak.

  A car passed by playing loud music. I felt like I was vibrating. Then it faded away, and the soft hum of the freeway danced in the streets.

  I walked past a large statue of a cowboy on a bucking horse. A plaque had lots of words in English on it. The white cowboy had one hand flung in the air. The brown horse had an angry look and the cowboy tensed with concentration to stay in the saddle.

  I decided I would be like him. I would hang on. I would tame my fear.

  Up ahead, I saw splashing inside a gated area. The water glowed blue like a clear sky, and kids were jumping and giggling. I could feel the droplets of water floating in the air as I stood watching. I could be one of those girls. Happy, with friends and clothes—with a complete family waiting at home.

  CHAPTER 18

  Legal or Not?

  In the morning, we went back to the market and met the woman. She snapped her fingers as if we were dogs lingering next to a bush. “Hurry up.”

  “Señora, will these papers get me a job?” asked Mama.

  “Where in Mexico are you from?” I asked.

  “I’m not Mexican,” the woman said, as if it were an insult. “I’m Colombian.” Her Spanish was very fancy. She drawled out her words with a flamboyant th sound.

  I didn’t know where that was exactly, except they had great soap operas that were funny. Was Colombia south of Mexico? All I really knew was that Texas was north of Mexico. The world was much bigger than I had thought. But these are things I would know if I had gone to school.