The thunder stops but the rumbling continues. One person stops talking, then another, and suddenly we’re all silent, staring at the sky. In the distance a thin plume of smoke is rising, the same color as the lichens growing on the ceiba trees. For a moment it’s quiet, and then the sound comes again: the low, continuous burst of heavy-caliber machine guns. The sound of approaching army helicopters.
“They’re using smoke bombs,” one of the lieutenants says. “Like in the canyon assault. I can tell from the color.”
The smoke keeps rising. For now the air still smells like dirt, the cicadas are buzzing, and the air is warm against our faces, but without needing to say it aloud we all know it won’t last. Suddenly everybody is looking at me. Everyone’s skin looks gray and pinched, the expression of a twenty-day march, of gathering everything up and leaving at a minute’s notice, of burying important documents and medicine in plastic bags. Crossing rivers, walking all day without stopping, stepping in the footprints of the person ahead so that you don’t leave too many tracks, the rear guard squad erasing prints with branches. It’s like I can feel it already, the weight of the pack and the days, on my back and shoulders.
The shooting in the distance grows louder. Nobody says it, but I hear it anyway: What do you want us to do? They’re waiting, but I don’t speak. I don’t say anything.
—You didn’t say anything. You knew what they were going to do, and you didn’t tell me. You knew what was going to happen.
I didn’t.
—You did. I saw you when I came into the classroom, even though everybody else was laughing. You were grinning too, tilting your chair back against the wall, arms crossed behind your head. Sitting with Stephanie and Katrina and Sebastián and all the rest. I was turning in your direction when they threw a bra over my head, and my eyes got covered by one of the D-cups and I heard Stephanie say, Hey, Fatty, you left something here. I pulled it off as I sat down, and that’s when I felt it, something wet and squishy on my butt. I reached underneath me as the laughter grew louder, Stephanie and Katrina and you and everyone else shouting, Eeew, gross! Sat there looking at the bloody tampon in my hands, toilet paper from the garbage can still clinging to it, the stained note with “Fatty” written across it in your handwriting. That’s when I looked at you. You kept your face turned away, eyes not meeting mine, but your mouth was open and you were laughing. That was it. That’s when it happened. Everything ended.
It didn’t. A lot of things happened after that—
—Nothing did. That was it. But you know what? Who knows? Maybe it’s still too early to tell, but maybe it’ll be years in the future and I’ll be touching your face on the jacket of a hardback book, displayed on a front table covered in bestsellers. Maybe your face will be on soccer match scarves sold in marketplaces, or stenciled on walls covered in bullet holes that by then will be ancient. At that point nobody will know what your real name is anymore. But I know what it is. I remember, because I wrote it down—
You wrote it down—
—in the back of my notebooks, on the very last pages. I wrote it on the sweaty palm of my hand and on the sole of my shoes. I used Liquid Paper, the thick bristles of the brush stuck stiffly together, or permanent markers I stole out of plastic cups sitting on teachers’ desks. I wrote down your full name and I wrote down mine. Then I wrote down our initials. And then I wrote down the very first letter of both our names, the one that we share, because I liked the way they looked sitting next to each other, with only a plus sign to separate them.
Listen. When this—all of this—is over (whatever this means, whatever over means), I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll come strolling down the mountainside. Maybe I’ll bring the gun and radio transmitter with me, but probably I won’t. I’ll go past the ancient indigenous temples hidden deep beneath the jungle canopy, the abandoned villages with adobe walls covered in bullet and shrapnel scars. Maybe my legs will grow long and elastic like the Rubber Man in that one comic book we read together, and I’ll take giant steps over everything, since that’s a good way to cover more ground and get there faster. I’ll take a giant step over the fields of sweet-smelling leaves and processing plants filled with burning chemicals and black garbage bags. I’ll cross over frothy churning rivers and fields of bored cows, the massacre sites and unmarked graves. I’ll be getting close then. A couple more steps and I’ll be there. At the school. When I cross the soccer field I’ll step over the patches of grass that never grew back properly from all the time we spent sitting there and tearing blades out of the ground. The lockers in the hallway will have dents from the hours we spent leaning against them; the bathroom walls are still covered in the song lyrics you wrote down in Liquid Paper and permanent marker. And who knows, but maybe that’s where I’ll find you. You’ll have survived. You were smart, you got away, you weren’t there at the party at your country ranch when they came for your father, with their guns and their rifles and their business stuff. No, you escaped, you got away, you’ve been hiding out this whole time, hunting and scavenging, living off your wits, being resourceful. You were wise and tricky and sly, and that’s why you’ll be waiting for me in the classroom with the ceiling fan. That’s where I gave them the bra I snuck out of your bedroom, handed over the bloody tampon I stole from the girls’ bathroom trashcan. Where I wrote down the words on that note. But when I open the door and see you there, I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to take another step, my very last one, reach out, and pull you toward me. You’ll feel soft and not at all like a weapon. I’ll pull you close and I’ll pull you hard. If I try to speak I won’t be able to because my mouth and face and skull will be covered with your hair, black mixing with blond. I’ll hold you—
—you’ll hold me—
—and we won’t speak. We’ll be silent, and even if you start opening your mouth and moving your lips, I won’t listen, I won’t hear you when you say,
—Why. Why didn’t you tell me.
VALLE DEL CAUCA
The first day back from Thanksgiving break, Ms. Simón says we’re going to spend the morning making cards for Penelope’s family. She writes a few sentences on the board for us to copy, in case we can’t think of anything to say: I am so sorry for your loss. Your daughter was a wonderful person. With much affection, [NAME], Class 3-B. On the front of his card, Sebastián draws a picture of an Avianca plane on fire, flaming pieces disintegrating in the air. Tiny stick figures dangle from red parachutes or fall headfirst into the water below, arms outstretched. When Sebastián holds it up to show everybody, Mariela says, “They weren’t flying over the ocean, dummy, they got blown up over the mountains.”
Ms. Simón tells Sebastián to please make a different card.
Penelope usually sits next to Stephanie and in front of La Flaca and Betsy, but today her desk is gone. Instead of what’s on the board, we copy what Mariela has written in enormous bubble handwriting, two seats away: God bless you and your family and may the Virgin Mary keep your daughter safe with all of the angels forever and ever. She’s drawing an enormous flower, scribbling it in carelessly with her red marker until the ink is streaky and pale. While Ms. Simón wipes the board clean, we take our stencils out of our zip cases: hearts and triangles, circles and stars. We carefully color in our cards with our razor-sharp colored pencils until not a single white spot remains.
—
We Siberian tigers are suddenly orphans. Even though our mother is gone, never to return, we still must fend for ourselves. It won’t be easy: Life on the tundra is hard, the winters long and ruthless. But we don’t have a choice. One way or another, we must find a way to survive.
—
During recess, Katrina stands by the ficus tree and tells stories about the survivors to a group of fifth-grade girls. They’re members of the basketball team: tall girls, older girls, with ponytails tied near the crown of their heads and long legs like those of the herons that lay eggs in the grass and attack people who get too close. There were just three of them, Katrina says: a crippled man,
a seven-year-old girl, and a Labrador dog stowed away with the luggage in steerage. When the bomb went off they fell through the air for thousands of meters, still strapped in their seats, and were buried beneath a pile of debris for hours—tree branches, scraps of metal, suitcases filled with presents for family members in Miami. When the search party finally came, walking right past them in the dark forest, the little girl did the only thing she could think of. She squeezed her brand-new American doll as hard as she could, the one she’d been holding tight in her arms during the entire flight, and its high-pitched cries of Mama! Mama! led the search party directly to them.
“God help her,” one of the fifth-grade girls says, almost sighing, and her friend reaches out and rubs her on the back.
(Penelope’s sister lived in Miami—she was a business major in college. Penelope visited her during Thanksgiving every year.)
“Why didn’t they just call out?” Mariela asks. “For help, I mean.” She’s hanging from one of the nearby branches, her flip-flops dangling precariously from her big toes. We’re standing near but not exactly next to her, tearing leaves off the tree and shredding them into tiny pieces.
Katrina says they were definitely dehydrated; they hadn’t had any water to drink for hours, let alone food to eat, so their throats were too sore to cry out. At least that’s what it said on the news. “Does that make sense?” Katrina asks, her voice rising like Ms. Simón’s when she’s trying to get Álvaro and Sebastián to stop arm-wrestling. “Do you have any other questions?”
“Not right now, no,” Mariela says. “But thank you for clarifying.”
One of the fifth graders is staring at us, like they always do. We keep our eyes fixed carefully on Katrina, but the fifth grader reaches out and waves her hand in front of our faces to get our attention.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Have you heard from her family? Is there going to be a church service?”
We look at one another, but none of us speak. All her friends are staring at us now too, turning in our direction. Now that no one is looking at her, Katrina is scowling.
“Did you hear what I said?” the fifth grader says. “Hello?”
We shuffle our feet, placing one shoe on top of the other. We pick at our nails and the frayed edges of our T-shirts. We look up at the sky and down at the ground.
Her smile has disappeared by now. “My God,” she says. “It’s like they’re retarded.” She curves her hand like a claw, swiping it through the air by our faces. “Meow!” she says.
We keep staring at our feet as everyone laughs, including Katrina.
“They’re always playing that stupid game with each other,” Katrina says, raising her voice to make sure they’ve heard her.
Then the bell rings and it’s time to line up at the brick wall. The boys run over from the soccer field like a scattered flock of birds, Fernando hugging the ball close like an enormous white egg. As Katrina walks away, Mariela shouts out, “What about the dog?” but Katrina keeps going like she didn’t hear a thing, touching her earrings like she wants to make sure they’re still there, walking as close to the fifth-grade girls as she dares. They’re marching in perfect rhythm with one another, arms draped over shoulders or wrapped around waists. One of them is still laughing with her head thrown back, ponytail hanging down.
We’re straightening up, brushing off our arms and collarbones, when Mariela reaches out and plucks a leaf from a branch. “Forget them,” she says. “Siberian tigers never meow.” She pinches the stem until a white bubble forms and gazes at it in fascination. “Anyone who’s not a total idiot knows that.”
She places the leaf carefully between her front teeth. While standing in line she twirls it like a jaunty cigarette, until Recess Monitor Adriana tells her to spit it out.
—
In London we’re orphans. Our faces are permanently smudged with coal dust, our knees rubbed red and raw from clambering up the side of brick buildings. We tap-dance down alleyways, sing the choruses from VHS copies of Oliver! and Mary Poppins, and leave our chimney sweep brushes behind in the library cubbyholes, crammed in with our backpacks and water bottles.
—
In the library Ms. Simón tells us (in a voice that is somehow both loud and a whisper) that we have thirty minutes to choose a book, and to please remember that our words and actions and behavior overall will be representative of Class 3-B. The cubbyhole Penelope usually uses is empty, until Álvaro shoves his rain jacket in it at the last second.
We find Mariela reading downstairs in the middle school section. She’s sitting on the floor, leaning against a bookcase, even though it’s an official rule that we have to sit at the tables. She sucks the tip of her long black braid, then brushes it thoughtfully against her lips like a paintbrush as she turns a page. We stand there for a while, shuffling our feet and nudging one another, until finally La Flaca is pushed forward.
“What are you reading?” she asks, raising her chin defiantly.
Mariela doesn’t look up. Instead she just raises the book so that her face is completely covered. We stare at the title: Jurassic Park, spelled out in shiny red letters, a black T. rex skeleton in the background.
“What’s it about?” says Stephanie.
“It looks good,” Betsy whispers, looking at her feet.
This time Mariela lowers the book into her lap. The braid is back in her mouth, and she pulls it out, along with a thin strand of saliva, delicate like a spider’s thread. “It has swear words in it,” she says. “Wanna see?”
She points them out to us one at a time, jabbing her finger on the page. Jesus Christ, hell, shit. Is Jesus Christ a bad word?
“Of course it is,” Mariela says. “You know what that means?” She leans in close, speaking in a dramatically hushed whisper. “It means…the Bible swears.”
La Flaca looks worried, but Stephanie laughs. Betsy manages a smile, eyes darting up quickly from the ground. Mariela tilts her head as if studying us one by one.
Later we stand in line and wait for Mrs. Thompson to stamp our books. We hold Mary Poppins close to our chests, novelizations of Star Wars tucked snug in our armpits, the spines of Arthurian tales sticky in our hands. As usual, Katrina’s at the front of the line getting Babar, while Sebastián has the exact same picture book he always gets about the World Cup. Ms. Simón returns Penelope’s books quickly, sliding them across the table when she thinks no one’s looking. Even though the covers are facedown, the titles hidden, we know exactly what they are: an enormous animal atlas, The Endless Steppe, A Day in the Life of the Siberian Tiger. Books whose entire sentences we’ve memorized, whose lines we can recite by heart.
Mariela is still carrying Jurassic Park. “Hey,” she says, drumming her fingers against Betsy’s copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. Betsy looks away, blinking quickly as if trying not to cry. “That’s one of my favorites,” Mariela says.
Mrs. Thompson doesn’t let her check out Jurassic Park and says that maybe she would like The Mouse and the Motorcycle instead. That would be far more suitable for her age, wouldn’t it? “Suitable how?” Mariela says, but Ms. Simón sends her back to the shelves. Betsy gets sent back too and returns with a Narnia book. “Another good choice,” Mariela says, and Betsy smiles bigger than she has in days.
During Journal Time, it’s impossible not to notice that Mariela’s writing furiously, pen scurrying across the paper, flipping her notebook page with a dramatically loud crackle.
“Hey!” Stephanie says. Mariela doesn’t stop though, doesn’t even look up, so Stephanie has to lean over and tap on her desk. “What are you writing?”
Mariela pauses. She puts her pencil down, then stands up slowly: Holding her notebook with one arm, she picks up her chair with the other. Carries it casually to the spot left vacant by Penelope’s desk, the enormous empty space. And just like that, before any of us can say Wait or What are you doing? or wave our arms around in a frantic air-traffic-controller gesture to stop her—she puts her chair down an
d sits in it.
And just like that, it’s as though she’s been there all along.
“Look,” she whispers, and we can’t help but lean in close to stare at the words scrawled across the paper, the bubble-handwriting title. “I wrote it myself—it’s a love poem.” She smiles, her mouth stretching like rubber across her face. “For Mr. B.”
“Oh my God!” La Flaca says. Betsy covers her eyes. Stephanie studies the page. “Wow,” she says. “You made the whole thing rhyme.”
We all know Mr. B. He’s one of the new teachers from America. We’ve glimpsed him during the school-wide assembly: kindergarten babies sitting up front, seniors at the back, us in the middle with the other third graders. We had to crane our necks back to see the middle school section, but there he was, standing by the other American teachers. Top buttons of his plaid shirt undone, sleeves rolled up (what was he thinking wearing a long-sleeved shirt in this weather?). Sunlight hitting his hair so that his head lit up the dim auditorium like a flashlight. Scratching his beard and smiling like he was listening to a joke that only he could understand. Everyone in the class thinks he and Ms. Simón are in love (Katrina swore that she spotted them together at the mall; Sebastián claimed they climb into the same car at the end of every school day), though so far nobody has provided any concrete proof.
“That’s right. And you know what?” Mariela taps the bottom of the page. “I can copy Ms. Simón’s signature pretty much perfectly. Remember that letter she gave us, about donating food for landslide victims? I’ve been practicing.” She flips to the back of her notebook, and there it is, just like she said: rows and rows of Ms. Simón’s loopy cursive signature. Even the capital S, one of the trickiest cursive letters ever, is done correctly.
“How are you going to give it to him?” Stephanie asks, at the same time that Betsy starts to giggle nervously, as if Mariela has already started creeping down the corridor toward Mr. B’s classroom on her belly, army-style, a crown of leaves on her head and black camouflage ink smeared across her face.
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