“I guess so,” I said.
“Your mother would be proud of you,” said my father. It was the first time he’d ever said anything like this to me. I stuffed a forkful of beans into my mouth. Happiness rose inside me like bread.
13
Carla
I TRIED TO REMEMBER everything I knew about preparing for a trip to America. I made Junior memorize our mother’s phone number, starting with the magical Austin, Texas, area code, 512. I piled on layers of clothing and strode around our yard, to see if I could take the heat. I practiced tying bottles of water to my waist. I took every centavo I had and filled the coffee can, then jammed it deep into my backpack.
“I’m not leaving,” said Junior, sitting cross-legged in the yard.
“Oh yes you are,” I said.
Junior stood. “See you later,” he said, hitching up his pants.
“Where are you going?”
“None of anybody’s business and especially none of yours,” said Junior. I scowled, and he ran off.
“Be back tonight,” I called. I had decided we would leave first thing in the morning. I hoped—dear God, I hoped—that Humberto would join us. I knew it was stupid to try to go to America without a coyote, but even with the money my mother had sent that week, we had only thirty U.S. dollars. This was a lot, but it was not enough. When we reached the American border, I hoped it would get all three of us (if Humberto came along) across the Rio Bravo on a raft.
As I’ve said, I believe in God. I could worry about what I could worry about, and I had to trust God to take care of the rest. As my story continues, please remember this. Some of the things that happened to me would ruin a person who did not have faith. If despair runs as deep and fast as the Rio Bravo, my belief that I am not alone forms a lifeboat underneath me, keeping me from drowning. This is hard for an American to understand. Having enough—having too much—enables you to forget that you are not in charge. God is in charge. But letting go of your fear also means you must accept whatever life God gives to you. I believed, as I prepared for my journey, that God had great plans for me. I saw my reunion with my mother, our picnic lunch, as clearly as I saw the pale sky. I thought this faith gave me strength. Then again, I also believed God would save my brother.
So I rummaged through the kitchen, finding the last bits of flour and salt, tying a pillow to my backpack so I could be comfortable until someone took the pillow or I had to leave it behind. To reach The Beast, we had to spend two days hiking through jungle, so I washed our socks and shoes and laid them to dry in the sun.
Humberto stopped by that evening, on his way home from the dump. “You’re not really leaving,” he said, “are you?”
“I am,” I said. “Are you coming along?”
“You’re crazy,” said Humberto. “What about me?”
“You’re invited,” I said, returning to my preparations. Humberto made a huffing sound and kept walking.
“Don’t go without saying goodbye,” he said over his shoulder.
“Okay, I won’t,” I said.
My brother had not come home by dark. I lay down on the pallet and closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was next to me, warm and smelling of sweat and glue. I breathed in slowly, trying to calm myself. Having an addict along on my trip to America was a bad thing. But maybe in Austin, Texas, Junior would be different. A younger, sweeter boy. I cried for just a short time.
When Junior woke at dawn, I said, “Just tell me why, Junior. Why are you sniffing Resistol?”
He looked straight at me, unashamed. “When I have glue, I’m not hungry,” he said. He reached inside the pocket of his pants. Before he could unscrew his glass bottle, I slapped it from his hands.
“No more,” I said. “No more.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” said Junior, his tone attempting bravado.
“Please,” I said.
“Give it to me,” said Junior. “Give it to me or I’ll go get more.”
“You don’t have any money!” I said. But then I understood. All I had to do was look to see the empty coffee can on the floor.
14
Alice
IN COLORADO, YOU felt fall in your bones—the temperatures dropped, the leaves turned flame-colored, and snow began to accumulate on the mountains. In Texas, fall felt about the same as summer: hot as hell. I could only tell that the school year had begun by the hordes of UT students who arrived at Conroe’s, sipping beer through the sweltering mornings. Principal Markson stopped in to celebrate the first day of school with a Sweet Stacy and a lemonade.
“Are you still up for visiting Evian?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, not feeling sure at all.
“Excellent,” she said, grabbing a Conroe’s BBQ pen. She jotted down directions to Evian’s house on a napkin using her left hand, not wanting to put down the sandwich she was clutching in her right. (In her defense, the Sweet Stacy does fall apart if you loosen your grip; there’s a lot of meat jammed into that bun.)
The following weekend, I told Jake I wouldn’t be able to make our usual Saturday afternoon paddle. He had already laid out picnic ingredients in the kitchen. “What do you mean?” he said. “I can’t go without you—I need a shuttle. We always canoe on Saturdays!” Jake put down the mayonnaise and crossed his arms.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was—I loved our lazy trips. I explained that I’d made plans to meet Evian, the troubled teen.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” said Jake, exasperated.
“I guess because I figured you’d act like this,” I said sharply.
“All right, fine,” said Jake, lifting his hands and walking out of the kitchen.
“Hey!” I called. But Jake didn’t answer.
Though I’d lived in Austin for thirteen years, I had never turned off Oltorf by the train tracks before. I consulted my napkin as I drove.
Turn south on Claiborne. When the road ends, keep going. Evian lives in 3rd trailer on right, though might be running around area. Just ask! Good luck! Watch for dogs.
Watch for dogs? Good Lord. I turned off Oltorf, ignoring the clumps of grubby folks who gathered underneath the trees, waiting to hop on the next train. At least I assumed they were waiting for a train. Maybe they were just sipping beer in the shade. In a Texas heat wave—it was 112 degrees—all bets were off. Whatever you had to do to stay sane was all right by me. Canoeing was our Saturday pastime, but on Sundays, Jake and I filled the tub with icy water and beer and settled in. It was sort of like relaxing in a pool, I told myself, but without the risk of melanoma.
As promised, Claiborne Street ended, and I drove the Bronco along a dirt road into a ramshackle trailer park. Two large dogs ran toward my truck. One, a German shepherd, barked loudly, exposing a red mouth. Terrified, I hit the automatic locks. I pulled into the driveway next to the third trailer on the left, a tilted structure with empty window boxes. The shades were drawn, and an air-conditioning unit hung outside, humming loudly. At least they had AC, I thought. The big dogs watched me for a few minutes, then retreated.
Uneasily I opened my truck door and the heat slammed into me, a burning steamroller. It was strange to think of the beginning of the school year in Colorado, how we’d worn sweaters and jeans. In Austin, the kids wore shorts and flip-flops into December. I gasped for breath, scorching my lungs, and stood, my thighs peeling off the driver’s seat with a revolting sound. I locked the car and plodded torpidly toward Evian’s trailer.
I tapped at the metal door but there was no response. I put my hands on my knees, then stood and pounded a bit harder. The door opened, revealing a short black girl with frizzy hair spilling out of a high ponytail. She was plump, her tummy pooching out between a midriff-baring tank top and a pair of neon yellow stretch pants. “Hi,” I said. “Are you Evian?” She nodded without smiling. “I’m Alice,” I said. “Alice Conroe? Did Principal Markson tell you I’d be coming by?”
The girl nodded again, not taking her big, sad eyes off my face. De
spite the AC unit, Evian’s trailer was hot, and smelled like cigarettes and corn chips. “Is your mom here?” I asked.
“She’s asleep,” said Evian.
“Oh, okay,” I said. Evian’s mother had signed the release forms allowing me to meet with Evian and take her on “afternoon outings,” but I’d figured she’d want to meet me before I spirited her daughter off. “Should we wake her?” I said. “Maybe tell her I’m here?”
Evian shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said in her queer, hoarse voice.
I nodded. The room behind Evian was dim, filled with an overstuffed orange couch and a big TV. Was this where Evian’s little brother had died, bleeding into the brown shag rug? I shook off the thought. “Okay,” I said. “Well, we can do whatever you’re in the mood for. Bowling, or a movie …?”
Evian shrugged. “I don’t care,” she said, looking down.
“I need some clothes, too,” I said. “We could hit the thrift stores. Or go boot shopping?” As soon as I spoke, I realized how stupid this sounded. Evian likely lived on government cheese and the Bugles I saw spilling out of a bag on the floor. I berated myself: boot shopping! I hadn’t even realized how privileged I was until I’d spoken. Evian wore large sneakers without laces or socks. “I feel like I’d better talk to your mom,” I blurted.
“Okay,” said Evian.
“Can you … can you wake her?”
Evian didn’t move. “She doesn’t like it if you wake her,” she said finally.
“Oh, of course!” I said, my voice as big and cheery as a circus tent.
“I can do whatever I want,” said Evian. “She doesn’t mind.” This was said with tentative pride. The whole scenario was beginning to depress me beyond measure. And then inspiration struck.
“How about we cook?” I said. “We can hit HEB down the street, then come back here and make … well, what do you like? Brownies?”
“I’m not really interested in cooking,” said Evian politely.
“Oh … okay,” I said.
“Can we go to the mall?”
“The mall?” I repeated, dumbly. I was not a fan of malls. I knew Austin had them, and I’d once been to the movies out at Gateway, but something about malls gave me the heebie-jeebies. All that recycled air, the smell of cheap fabric and pretzel bites. “Sure,” I said, recovering. “The mall! Why not? Why not the mall?”
Evian slipped past me into the driveway. I followed, unlocking the truck. When dogs ran toward us, Evian quickly clambered into the Bronco, and I did the same. “Scary animals,” I said after we’d slammed shut the doors.
“They fight them,” said Evian.
“Oh,” I said, locking the car and peering out at the dogs. Who the hell was they? “That’s sad,” I noted.
Evian shrugged. “Wow,” she said, “this car is like, vintage.”
“I like it,” I admitted. The truth was, I loved it—loved the idea of myself as someone who belonged behind the wheel of a powerful vehicle. The Bronco was a truck even my father admired. I even adored the tape deck and kept a shoebox full of tapes (Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Wilco, Janet Jackson) between the front seats.
We pulled out of Evian’s driveway and headed toward Oltorf Street. “Are those guys waiting for the train, do you think?” I asked Evian, to make conversation. She shrugged again. “How old are you?” I tried.
“Fifteen.”
“Oh, fifteen!” I said. I could scarcely remember being fifteen, a ninth-grader at Ouray High. “How many kids are in ninth grade at Chávez?” I asked.
“Like ten thousand,” said Evian.
“What?”
“I’m joking,” said Evian. “Who knows? Anyway, we call it Johnson, even though it’s officially Chávez.” She used her fingers to put quote marks around “officially.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“They fired all our teachers and changed the name, but they can’t stop us calling it what we want,” said Evian. She looked at me, eyebrow lifted, challenging me to disagree.
“Right,” I said in solidarity. At a stoplight, I consulted my phone. “Now, which mall are you interested in?” I asked.
“Barton Creek,” said Evian.
“Great,” I said, getting directions. We headed toward the highway. “Do you need something specific?” I said. “Maybe some new … earrings? I could use pajamas, actually.” I smiled in her direction, deciding to treat her like a little sister. I could even buy her a pair of earrings. Or some bigger pants … or better yet, a flattering sundress!
“I’m meeting my boyfriend,” said Evian.
I was barreling down Lamar and did not know how to respond. I was certain this was not how Principal Markson wanted my afternoon with Evian to unfold. “Your boyfriend?” I said, trying to sound fun and lighthearted.
Evian picked at her nails.
“So …,” I said. “What’s his name?”
“Sam,” said Evian.
“Sam,” I said. “I don’t think I know anyone named Sam.”
Evian was silent, and the awkwardness of my words and the whole damn outing huddled between us like an ugly pet. “So Principal Markson thought it might be … um … thought it might be fun for us to hang out this year,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Evian.
Emboldened by this vague affirmation, I went on, “You could come by my restaurant after school once in a while. We could … spend time together.”
“Could you pay me?” she said, turning toward me. “Like, give me a job?”
“You’re not old enough, I don’t think,” I said.
“Are you sure?” asked Evian hopefully. “I need some money. So I can get my own phone and save up for things.”
“What sort of things?” I asked, happy to change the subject from labor laws to hopes and dreams.
“I don’t know,” said Evian, putting her floppy sneakers on the dashboard. “Like a house, you know?”
“A house!” I said. “I thought you meant clothes. Or, I don’t know, an Xbox.”
“I’m not into video games,” said Evian. “But Sam, he loves them. No, I want to get my own house. I’m going to move to California or New Zealand.”
She spoke so matter-of-factly, I wasn’t sure how to respond, other than nodding enthusiastically, Muppet-like. We were zooming along 360, the mall coming up on our right. I concentrated on the road, murmuring, “I’ve never been to New Zealand.”
“Me neither,” said Evian. “Or California. I’ve never been anywhere except Six Flags once in San Antonio.”
“How was it?” I said, merging into the right-hand lane.
Evian didn’t respond. I followed the turn to Barton Creek Mall, passed rows upon rows of parked cars baking in the sun, then finally found an empty slot. I shut off the engine and turned to Evian, which was when I noticed she was crying.
“Evian?” I said, putting my hand on her back. Sweltering air began to seep inside the Bronco.
“I’m fine,” she said, but she leaned toward me. She stopped crying, rubbed her eyes angrily. “My brother threw up on the Pandemonium,” she said. “I told my mom he was too little, but she took him on it anyway.”
“Evian …,” I repeated.
“You’re supposed to be forty-two inches to go on the Pandemonium,” said Evian, looking up at me. I nodded. “My brother was only forty inches. She shouldn’t have let him go,” she said. “It was too scary.”
I paused. Like lobsters in a pot, we began to grow red-faced from the heat, and I wondered whether I should turn the truck back on. Was this what being a parent felt like? Confused, tongue-tied, wishing you had the right words or were somewhere else entirely? My stomach hurt. “What’s the Pandemonium?” I said.
“It’s a ride,” she said, annoyance creeping into her tone. “At Six Flags, in San Antonio.”
My head spun. “I’ve never been to Six Flags,” I said.
“My brother’s name was Bruce,” said Evian. “Even though we’re black, my mom named him after Bruce Willis.”<
br />
I turned the car back on, and air wheezed from the vents.
“He’s dead,” said Evian. “That’s why you’re taking me to the mall, right?”
“Um,” I said.
“Principal Markson, she told you I killed my brother, right?” said Evian.
I opened my mouth, but did not speak.
“It’s okay,” said Evian. “But you can see why I need a job. In New Zealand, nobody knows about Bruce.”
“I can give you a job,” I said.
“Awesome,” said Evian. “But can we get going? Sam told me to meet him in front of Foot Locker at two. He’s nineteen, so he can’t just come and pick me up. He’d be arrested, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” I said noncommittally. Sitting in the mall parking lot, as the car began to cool and the sun beat down on the windshield like a terrible beast, I wrestled to find something to say to Evian. Clearly, I was in over my head.
15
Carla
NEEDLESS TO SAY, we did not leave right away for America. The following Wednesday, when my mother called, I asked her for more money. She did not say anything, and then, just when I thought the call had been dropped, she said, “Carla … I’m having a hard time.”
“What is it?” I asked. My throat felt as if I had swallowed coins.
“I don’t want to burden you,” she said.
“Mami, what?”
“It’s just … life is not perfect for me,” she said, her voice as threadbare as Junior’s only pair of pants. “I will do what I can,” she said, in reference to sending money.
I looked at the floor of the Call Shop. It was dirty, covered with a film of the reddish dirt that makes up the hills that enclose Tegu. High in the hills, I had heard, there were rows of stores and sparkling restaurants. Guards with guns stood in front of every beautiful house; unlike us, rich people did not need to rely on cement walls lined with broken glass bottles for protection.
“I will do what I can,” said my mother again.
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