The Crossroads

by Alexandra Diaz

He used the twig instead to draw on the ground. Their feet had compressed the snow around the trailer so much that it was a perfect drawing board. He looked around for inspiration. The cows would be obvious except they were too far away to see the details. Besides, the last time he drew a cow, he’d fallen asleep on the train and his and Ángela’s backpacks had been stolen. He focused instead on sketching the big house, the other trailers, the barn and corral, and of course the mountain volcano in the distance. The bulky glove didn’t allow for much precision so he pulled it off with his teeth and picked up the twig again. Much better. When he drew smoke from one of the chimneys in the big house, the grooves of the chimney he had already drawn collapsed, but he smoothed out the section with his gloved hand and re-etched it. There, perfect.

  Except it wasn’t perfect. His ears getting cold and one hand near numbness, he turned to the trailer wondering what was taking Ángela so long.

  He stepped up the snow-covered metal steps, holding on to the railing so as not to slip. Still that didn’t keep him from flying backward when the trailer door burst open. He landed on the snowblob, which wasn’t as soft as it had looked.

  “Papá just called,” Ángela said, her tan face whiter than the snow. “The Alphas attacked Abuela.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Is she . . . ?” Jaime froze. No, they couldn’t. They wouldn’t dare. Not Abuela.

  Ángela didn’t meet Jaime’s eyes. Instead she blinked rapidly, as if yesterday’s desert dust had blown into hers. “She’s alive. But barely.”

  Jaime let out the breath he was holding. “¿Q-qué pasó?”

  “Come inside,” Tomás called from behind Ángela.

  Some automatic force moved his legs up the metal steps a second time while he imagined Abuela—gray hair pulled into a tight bun so no stray strand would land in the food. Her eyes narrowed as she scolded him and Miguel for sneaking bits of food from the pan when they thought she wasn’t looking, but then her eyes would soften as she slipped them broken pieces of tortillas drizzled with honey, lime, and salt.

  Inside the trailer a puddle of melted snow surrounded the door where Ángela had taken off her boots. Jaime stood in place, his thoughts still on his grandmother. Tomás’s hair stood straight up and his eyes had that dazed look of someone who just woke up and was not ready to deal with the world. Ángela sat on the bed she hadn’t converted back to the table, hugging her knees to her chest. “They’ve really hurt her.”

  Jaime snapped out of his stupor. “But why? Abuela is old and helpl—” but then he stopped. He didn’t want to think of her like that. Like she’d become in the last few years with Abuelo gone and her arthritis taking over. Instead, he remembered her when he was five and some kids who became future Alphas were teasing him for coloring with pink (to be fair, he colored with all of the crayons, not wanting one color to get upset for not being used). Abuela had grabbed both boys by an ear, dragged them to the washbasin, and squirted blue dish soap into their mouths to clean out their dirty words. Then, under her glare, sputtering and spitting out suds, they both apologized. Word got around after that, that you didn’t mess with Jaime and Ángela’s abuela. The shattering of her power over bullies cut into his heart. How dare they.

  “Why would the Alphas attack her?” Jaime asked.

  “Nosotros,” Ángela muttered.

  “Us?” Jaime braced a hand against the aluminum door. The trailer had never felt so small, even though it was about the same size as his house back home. “But why? We’re gone.”

  They’d left their family in Guatemala, almost died in México, and come to live here specifically to avoid the Alphas’ attack. And for what, when they took it out on Abuela?

  “I hope she told them where to shove it.” Tomás swore and scooped three spoons of coffee powder into a mug of water before slamming it into the microwave. “In a Catholic, Abuela sort of way.”

  Ángela hugged her knees tighter. “Papá confirmed she said nothing about our whereabouts. You know she wouldn’t.”

  No, she wouldn’t. When Jaime had stopped Abuela from butchering one of their hens because she was “too pretty to die” (she had beautiful bluish-gray feathers that in the right light looked purple), Abuela had told the rest of the family she wasn’t in the mood for chicken that night. When Rosita, Ángela and Miguel’s older sister, got pregnant with Quico without being married, Abuela was the first one to know, and the one who helped Rosita tell the rest of the family.

  Abuela would do anything for her family. And anything to defend them.

  “Tell me everything Tío said.” Jaime folded his arms across his chest, made difficult with Tomás’s oversize winter coat still on.

  Ángela focused her attention on Vida, who was lying on the bed belly-up showing the scar of the wound that had almost cost her her life. “Papá said Abuela was coming home after selling her tortillas at the market. They robbed her of the few coins she had earned. Then they started questioning her.”

  “About us,” Jaime said with disgust. “They still want us.” Through the window by Ángela’s bed he could see the snow sparkling in the sunlight. As far as he was concerned, they couldn’t be farther away from the Alphas who terrorized their jungle-bordered village. And yet they still weren’t safe.

  “More like pissed that we got away.” Ángela buried her head in Vida’s short brown and white coat while the dog abandoned the belly rub request to provide comfort kisses instead.

  “It’s not going to be hard to figure out you’ve come to me. It’s no secret that I’m here.” Tomás swigged his coffee, then spat it back into the mug as thick steam escaped from his mouth. “But I doubt they’d make the effort to travel all the way out here for you two. Not that they’d find the ranch anyway. You’re safe.”

  “Safe here while Abuela is everything but safe.” Jaime held his arms tighter across his chest. The whole thing made Jaime sick. “And then what? They beat her up when she didn’t talk?”

  Ángela shook her head but kept her teary eyes on Vida. “They pushed her down some steps.”

  This time Jaime swore along with Tomás. And Ángela wasn’t even done sharing the news. “She broke her hip and was knocked unconscious. She’ll probably never walk again.”

  “They’re going to pay for this!” Jaime shouted. “They can’t get away with abusing everyone.”

  Except they could. And they were.

  “I’m going back.” Jaime’s voice changed from loud and angry to low and determined. “I don’t care what happens to me. They have to learn their lesson.”

  “How do you plan to stop them?” Tomás asked.

  “I don’t know.” Jaime took in the things around the trailer he had accumulated in just a week. He’d have to pack—food and a few clothes; his new sketchbook. Crossing back into México would be much easier than what he’d already been through. If he was lucky, immigration officers might give him a free ride all the way back to Guatemala for being somewhere he didn’t belong. And once he was there, the Alphas would remember no one messed with his abuela.

  How exactly he’d teach the Alphas a lesson he’d figure out later. He picked up his new backpack from where he’d dumped it yesterday, but Tomás removed it from his hands.

  “What do you plan to do? Kill them? Do you really want to be responsible for someone’s death? You’d be no better than they are.”

  “I—” but Tomás was right. Jaime couldn’t become like them. That’s what happened to Anakin Skywalker in Star Wars—by trying to rid evil, he became evil. “I’m still going back.”

  “We can’t,” Ángela mumbled. “That’s why they hurt her. To show us, and everyone else in the village, that no one can run away. They control everyone in the village. They told Abuela that if we ever showed our faces again, they’d kill us and the rest of the family. Except for baby Quico. They would keep him.”

  Jaime leaned against the door. The winter clothes he still had on almost suffocated him in the warm trailer. So it was true. He really wouldn’t ever
be able to see his family again. He didn’t care if they killed him; he could live with that thought. His death would be worth it if only to be with his family again, to see Abuela and help her recover. But he couldn’t be responsible for the murder of all of them as well. As it was, the guilt of Miguel’s murder still hung over his head. If Jaime had walked from school with Miguel like normal, instead of staying home, maybe Miguel would still be alive.

  And now Abuela. If she never walked again that would be his fault too. In trying to keep them safe, she had been hurt. No one could say it wasn’t his fault.

  “So we just stay here and do nothing?” Jaime demanded.

  “For now,” Tomás said.

  Outside, their footsteps in the snow were starting to show patches of brown dirt. Jaime finally ripped off his winter clothes and threw them in a pile. Doing nothing. That was worse than everything else put together.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  No one answered Tío Daniel’s phone the next morning when they called to check on Abuela.

  “What does that mean?” Jaime asked as he put on a long-sleeve blue polo he could use as a uniform shirt.

  “Probably that Tío Daniel ran out of phone credit.” Tomás grabbed a coffee can from the small cabinet above the kitchen sink. Inside, Jaime could see a couple of dollar bills crumpled near the bottom and heard the rattle of coins sliding from one end to the other. From the looks and sound of it, there wasn’t much money in there. Tomás’s stressed expression as he shoved it back in the cupboard confirmed Jaime’s suspicion. “In English they have a saying, ‘No news is good news,’ which means everything is okay until we hear otherwise. I’m sure we’ll get an update once Tío can add credit.”

  “How long before that happens?” Jaime asked.

  It was Ángela who answered. “Papá gets paid next week.”

  Next week might as well be next year. Too long to wait for an update. His parents had e-mail, but could only access it through the village computer where the proprietor charged by the minute and each page took forever to load. They might as well be on different planets for all the information Jaime could find out, except NASA had much better reception with Mars than Jaime had with his family in Guatemala.

  “So more doing nothing,” Jaime said.

  Tomás glanced back at the cabinet that held the coffee can piggybank. “There’s nothing we can do at the moment.”

  Ángela bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut as if wishing very hard for something. Jaime did the same. Dear God and Miguel, please protect our family and help Abuela feel better. Jaime sighed. When he had prayed before, he felt Miguel’s presence, but this time there was nothing. Like both God and Miguel didn’t venture out here to the no-man’s-land of cacti and cattle.

  “Pray in the truck,” Tomás said as he headed to the tiny trailer bathroom. “I’ll take you to the bus stop today to make sure you don’t miss it. But we have to leave in two minutes.”

  With Jaime’s thoughts still on Abuela, they loaded into the truck and drove along the dirt road to where Meester George’s property ended and met the highway.

  “Your bus number is thirty-six,” Tomás reminded them as they waited in the warm truck. Yesterday’s snow had melted except for a couple of spots underneath the bushes, but the morning air still held a chill colder than anything Jaime had experienced back home. Jaime turtled himself in the old hoodie Tomás gave him; they hadn’t bought coats when they went shopping a few days ago. “After school, the bus will pick you up first, Jaime, then go to Ángela’s school.”

  “I’m not taking the bus home today, remember? I have rehearsal,” Ángela reminded them.

  “You’re sure you can get a ride home?” Tomás asked as he checked the time on his phone. A few minutes before seven o’clock.

  “This one boy, Tristan, said he’d bring me back. His dad’s the director.”

  Tomás accepted that without even a comment. Back home, Tía or Abuela would have demanded to know more about this random boy. His last name, who his parents were, whether he could be trusted to be alone with Ángela. Instead, Tomás turned back to his little brother. “So Jaime, this is where you get off the bus. Look around so you recognize it.”

  There was nothing to recognize. Other than the fact that there was an open white metal gate and the dirt road that led to the homestead, there was nothing on this stretch of straight highway that made it any different than other parts. All brown and tan with small patches of snow that were sure to be gone by the afternoon. With Jaime’s luck, the driver would just drive him back to where the buses parked at night and Jaime would have a slumber party on the bus all by himself.

  The sound of the bus’s diesel engine roared through the empty highway before it appeared over a hill. Ángela leaped out of the truck and waited by the edge of the road, hopping from one foot to the other. Any more excitement and Jaime would have thought she was awaiting the arrival of a long lost friend.

  “Try Tío Daniel again, will you?” Jaime asked his brother. With the time difference, it would be almost eight o’clock in Guatemala. Tío would be at work but he was allowed to answer his phone in an emergency. The phone rang and rang as the bus neared. Tomás shook his head and hung up when the bus stopped in front of them.

  “I’ll try again throughout the day. I’m sure Abuela is up already and telling the doctors how to set her hip properly.”

  Yes, Abuela would tell everyone what to do, and she was always right. But Tomás hadn’t seen her in eight years. He didn’t know how her arthritis kept her from working on extra damp days; didn’t know that she took naps when she thought no one was watching. And didn’t remember that the nearest hospital was forty-five minutes away by bus.

  “Jaime, vamos ya,” Ángela waited at the bottom step of the bus.

  Tomás motioned Jaime to go.

  As soon as they walked on the school bus, a skinny boy with a mop of bleached hair on the top and short, dark hair on the sides stood up and waved from the mob of teenagers in the back. “Yo, Angela!”

  He said her name the English way, making the A sound as if he was about to vomit and then choking on a sharp G. She smiled, waved, and in an instant, Jaime’s cousin was swallowed by the mob. She peered over her shoulder only once to make sure Jaime had gotten on the bus behind her and gave him a slight wave before joining the older kids.

  “Sit down,” the driver grumbled as he waited before moving the bus.

  Jaime glanced around the front of the bus where the younger kids sat. Most of the seats were taken, either by a person or a backpack. One boy about his age with blond hair and an infestation of freckles glanced up from his book with a small smile, removed his bag from the seat, and went back to his book.

  Jaime slid beside him. “Tank you.”

  The boy ignored Jaime and turned the page of his book.

  What Jaime should have done was introduce himself and ask the boy his name, but the boy didn’t seem to want to be disturbed. Jaime got it. He didn’t like being interrupted when he was reading either. But mostly, he just didn’t want to try to speak English.

  He pulled out his sketchbook and started sketching random lines. A couple of times he turned around to look at Ángela. Her group was loud and each time he glanced their way, he caught Ángela laughing along with them as if she understood everything they said.

  Maybe she did. With more years of school, her English had always been better than his. And her brain had a knack for it.

  He turned back to his drawing. Crazy lines and angles intersected in total chaos, making no sense as each line pushed another out of the way. A self-portrait? Or maybe it was a family photo.

  • • •

  When they got to school, he remembered he didn’t know the way to his classroom. The boy on the bus went in a different direction, which was disappointing since Jaime had hoped they’d be in the same class. Of course, he could ask someone for directions. Except he didn’t know how to ask and he’d forgotten his teacher’s name. Lots of kids passed h
im who looked like they might speak Spanish—at least they didn’t look too different from kids who had gone to school with him back home—but he couldn’t get the words out quick enough before they were gone.

  One mother kept saying, “Vamos, ¡rapido!” to her young daughter, who had dug her heels into the shiny tile and refused to budge. Jaime knew better than to bother a frantic mother with a question like directions.

  The school wasn’t that big, he could figure it out. He found his way back to the bathroom he had gotten to know very well. It was definitely the correct bathroom—he caught a glimpse of a boy entering it while unwrapping a chocolate bar. From there he recognized the science photos outside his classroom. Maybe he should have tried harder to stay lost.

  Meesus Whatever looked him in the eye and greeted him by name and a handshake as soon as he entered.

  “Hi,” he said in English and then rushed to the desk under the window.

  She did the same thing with every kid who came in. Good. It would have been weird if she only greeted him.

  When everyone was present, they all stood and put their hands over their hearts like in sports with the national anthem, but instead of singing, they recited some kind of poem in bored voices. Jaime stood and put his hand on his heart along with them. Once he understood what was going on, he adapted the same bored look too, but kept his mouth shut.

  “Jaime,” Meesus said once they were seated. Busted. She must have realized he hadn’t recited the poem. “I’d like you to . . .” But then she went on and he didn’t understand what she said next.

  His look of complete incomprehension must have clued her in, because she changed her tactics, speaking slower and repeating her meaning with different words. After the “sign out” disaster of the other day, maybe she figured that if you get the same response with the same answers, it’s time to change the questions. Or maybe she just took him for a complete dimwit.

  “Say your name.”

  “Jaime.”