Javi pointed. “Look,” he said knowingly. “See how easy it is here? I told you. You pay a few pesos, they bring you back across.”
Small open-air stands with palm-frond roofs sold a variety of goods: food, cigarettes, beer, clothing of all kinds, hats. Several stalls advertised notaries who could provide “expert assistance with documents.” I laughed to myself. This was the border. You could buy anything here. You could get anything here. You just had to pay for it.
Javier nudged me with his elbow. “There, up there, that’s the bridge we cross. Over there is Guatemala.”
He pointed, then shifted his body closer. “But why should we have to cross over, just to come back the same day, or the next? Doesn’t that seem ridiculous to you?
“We’ll stop before the bridge for procedures. You know, the usual paperwork. They’ll take us out of the bus to escort us across.”
He leaned his head even closer, and whispered in my ear. “Watch me carefully. I’m going to try an old trick that’s proved useful several times in the past. If you see a chance, escape.”
Javier looked around the bus at all the young men. He turned in his seat and looked at Elena, then at me again. He smiled to himself, as if he had a private joke.
“Pass the word to everyone,” he said. “Tell them what I told you. Be quiet about it.”
I whispered Javi’s instructions to Elena and to the brothers in front of us. I told them to pass it on. I leaned across the aisle and delivered them to the black man. His brows knit together as I spoke. He leaned forward to relay the message.
Before long, the news of a possible escape traveled the length of the bus. We sat higher in our seats. For the first time since the disaster with Morales began, I felt hopeful. Even if Javi’s scheme failed, whatever it was, we would have tried.
As Javier predicted, the bus ground to a halt next to a small adobe building. A slight, mousy man in a uniform motioned to the federales. One exited the bus and huddled with the border official. Straight ahead was the bridge, a rickety structure that looked like it couldn’t support the weight of a bicycle, much less a bus.
Morales ordered us off and herded us close to the building. I clutched my backpack and eyed Javi sideways, waiting and wondering. Morales gave us a mean look, fondled his pistol in its holster, and moved out of earshot. He continued to stab at his clipboard with his index finger, trying to make some point. The immigration official appeared to disagree, shaking his head.
The other federales wandered over toward Morales. Papers were passed back and forth, heads bent over Morales’s clipboard, check marks were made. I was sure some money would change hands. They’d pay each other to keep quiet about all the things each was doing wrong.
Morales’s face got redder by the moment. I could imagine him running drugs or guns or prostitutes. We were probably nothing to him, just a little extra pocket change.
Javi whispered in my ear, “He wants to dump us like trash in Guatemala. Well, he’s got a surprise coming. Watch me ruin Morales’s day.”
Javi began to walk toward the officials. He swayed and stumbled, clutching his throat and choking. Then he fell flat on the ground, right in front of Morales. His eyes rolled back in his head until I could see only the whites. His legs, then his arms began to jerk violently. White foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. He wailed, a sound more animal than human.
Javi had said it was an old trick, but it looked like the real thing. A crowd gathered, mixing with our group. Morales looked at Javi like he was some strange creature he’d never seen before.
Finally, Morales began a feeble attempt to control Javi’s flailing limbs. He got his beefy arms around Javi’s chest and yelled to the other officials, “Get over here! Get this guy out of here!”
I grabbed Elena’s hand and took one slow step back. I made eye contact with the two brothers, and the black man. We nodded to each other. Already, the indios and five or six of the other men had disappeared. They’d left quickly and silently, melting into the crowd that surrounded Javier. It was as if they had never existed.
I turned and ran, dragging Elena after me. I heard screams, gunshots, and Morales’s booming voice. “¡Alto! ¡Alto! Halt or I’ll shoot!”
More shots rang out. Was Morales mad enough to shoot Javi right there? Had he figured out it was a trick? Javi had taken a big risk. He had more to lose than we did, a lot more. After all, he had a family to think about, a son my age, a daughter, a wife. And he was a lot older, ancient, older even than Papá. He’d already tried once to make it, and had failed.
If he escaped Morales, if he made it across from Guatemala again, he’d be desperate. Who wouldn’t?
We ran faster than we’d ever run before. I held Elena’s hand tighter than I needed to. I wouldn’t lose her. I intended to put her on the first bus that I could find home, to San Jacinto. And then I’d go north, alone.
I didn’t even want to think about what Morales would do if he caught us.
CHAPTER 15
We had two choices for escape: back in the direction the bus traveled, cutting into the dense forest around the bend, or straight toward the center of town. I chose the second. We ran headlong into the crowds of people in the zócalo and the mercado next to it. Maybe we could blend in and lose Morales forever.
“Miguel,” Elena huffed. “Stop for a minute.”
She jerked her hand away and trotted around the back of a little stand selling piles of knock-off watches, cheap jewelry, sodas, snacks, sports caps, and newspapers. She leaned against the back of the stall. I tried to catch my breath, but the air was so humid it felt like I was breathing in water. Sweat streamed down our faces, necks, and arms and dripped to the ground.
“I can’t run anymore in this.” Elena put down her string bag and motioned to her clothing.
Her long indígena skirt grazed her feet, the hem now torn and dirty. Her toes peeked out from a pair of sandals. Her shawl had fallen off one shoulder and one end dragged on the ground.
I looked around. We had ended up behind a long line of stalls on one edge of the mercado. Except for a few stacks of boxes, the narrow, shaded passageway was empty. It wasn’t a bad place to hide for a while. We could at least catch our breath.
Elena squatted down and opened her bag. “Turn around, Miguel. I’m going to change.”
She pulled out a pair of jeans, her sneakers, and a T-shirt. I ignored her command, took her bag, and opened it further. There was only one other shirt and a sweater. At the bottom was the little purse of Mamá’s letters and Elena’s wallet. I grabbed it quickly, holding it over my head, beyond her reach.
“Give it back, Miguel. That’s my money.” She reached for the wallet. I swatted her hand away.
I sat down on the dirt cross-legged, opened the wallet, and took out the money. I counted the bills one by one, very slowly, looking pointedly at Elena in between each. It was not as much as Don Clemente gave me. It wasn’t enough to pay for a coyote, I knew that. Still, it was a lot of money for a thirteen-year-old to be carrying around.
“Where did you get this? ¿Dónde? ¿Dónde?” I demanded. I couldn’t imagine how she got her hands on so much cash. It couldn’t have come from Abuelita or anyone else in the family.
Elena stared at the ground sullenly. “It’s enough to go north, isn’t it? That’s all that matters.” She started to cry, just like she always did when she got into trouble.
“¡Chillona!” I hissed at her. “You got us into this mess. I’d be all the way to the border by now, if it weren’t for you.”
I grabbed her wrist tightly and twisted. “You will tell me where you got this money. Now.”
“Ouch, Miguel. Let go. You’re hurting me,” Elena complained. Her eyes again filled with tears. I tightened my hold. I didn’t care if I hurt her. I hoped I hurt her.
Elena was silent for several minutes. Then she gave in.
“Juanito,” she murmured, continuing to look at the ground.
“What? ¿Qué dijiste?” I couldn�
��t believe I’d heard her correctly.
“Juanito,” she repeated. “He gave me the money. I went to him and asked and he just gave it to me.”
She took up a handful of dirt and let it fall slowly through her fingers to the ground. She did this over and over, as if she was sifting the earth for something she lost and couldn’t find.
“How could you, Elena? Juanito es un vendido. He’s a sell-out—he would sell out his own people.” I was disgusted. “We’ll never be able to pay him back. Never. He’ll always want more.”
I’d never told Elena how much I hated Juanito for using Don Clemente to get on the soccer team. But she lived in San Jacinto just like I did, and in San Jacinto, everyone knew what everyone else was like. Juanito wasn’t just a lazy cheater who cut corners to get what he wanted. He was dangerous. If he wasn’t already, he’d soon be trafficking drugs for one of the big cartels. And he wouldn’t let Don Clemente get in his way.
“Why, Elena? And how? How did you do all of this?” I said coldly.
In a small monotone, Elena told me how she watched every move I made in the weeks before I left. She explained how she looked in my secret hiding place behind the wall to find Don Clemente’s instructions. She told me how she searched out Juanito at the cantina where he hung out, how she went right up to him and asked for the money, how he just pulled it out of his pocket as if it were spare change.
“How could you make everyone worry? What about Abuelita? How could you leave her alone? You were supposed to stay and take care of her!” I said angrily. “¿No tienes vergüenza?
“And didn’t you realize it wasn’t enough money to follow Don Clemente’s plan? Didn’t you understand what would happen?”
Elena wiped the tears off her face, snuffled, and blew her nose into the hem of her skirt.
“You don’t care about me, Miguel. You only care about you, and your plans. You never cared about leaving me alone. I’m the one who wanted to go north more than anyone. But you never bothered to ask how I felt, and you wouldn’t understand anyway,” Elena said finally.
“We’re going home, Elena. We’re going home together. We’ll take the money back to Juanito, every single peso. And then … I don’t know.…” I paused. I felt defeated.
I’d have to talk to Don Clemente again. I’d need to start all over. And I’d have to call Papá and have him threaten Elena with her life if she moved even one foot out of San Jacinto.
In the end, Elena did what I said. We changed clothes and I bought us caps and cheap sunglasses. Elena pushed her hair up under her cap and I pulled mine down over my eyes. We didn’t want Morales to recognize us easily. He might still be in town.
I took the money Juanito had given Elena and tucked it into my own pouch for safekeeping. I left Elena at a small restaurant where we splurged on huevos con chorizo. I went to the bus station to check the schedule. The next bus to San Jacinto left at six o’clock the following morning. I bought two one-way tickets home.
In the evening, I took Elena into the only movie theater in town. We sat through a double feature to kill time. The screen was wavy and torn and the sound system crackled, the words out of synch with the picture. The air conditioner worked off and on, from hot to cold to hot again.
I sat and watched and remembered nothing of the movie. I didn’t think about anything at all. I didn’t want to plan or hope or dream again, not ever again.
Then, late at night, I searched for a place for us to sleep. The hotels cost too much for a couple of dirty mattresses in a small, airless room. The police would be checking the bus station. I decided we’d spend the rest of the night outside. I looked and looked, dragging Elena after me. I finally settled on a portico jutting out from one end of the mercado. I wasn’t the only one with this idea. There were others sleeping here. At least we wouldn’t be alone.
I didn’t ask Elena’s opinion, and she didn’t offer one. I hoped she spent the worst night of her life. And, for the hundredth time since leaving San Jacinto, I wished I didn’t have a sister.
CHAPTER 16
I sat with my back against the only column in the portico not already claimed by another migrant. Even that late at night, the humidity was dense. The mildewed wall felt cold and clammy through my shirt. Chips of dirty white paint littered the ground, mingled with scraps of metal, discarded food wrappers, a doll’s head.
Elena spread out her shawl, curled up, and put her head on my leg. She let out one loud yawn and, within seconds, fell into a deep sleep.
Next to us was a dented, rusted-out oil drum. The stink of old urine crept around from the other side of the barrel. No wonder no one else had chosen this spot. My right leg had already fallen asleep under the weight of Elena’s head. I sighed and tried to stretch out my free left leg. We couldn’t afford to oversleep, anyway. The bus left at six in the morning.
A feeble street lamp cast a dim light into the first few feet of the portico. One couple, their arms around each other, whispered quietly. A drunk lay in the far corner. He mumbled nonstop to himself. At least ten others slept in the shadows cast by the columns. Most of them, again, were men, alone.
A rat strolled across the portico, taking its time. Three or four others followed, their long tails stuck out behind them. The rats didn’t seem afraid of us humans. This was their home. Had I really looked hard enough for a place to sleep? Anywhere would have been better than this.
Another rat ran right over Elena’s shoe. Maybe the rats were a bad omen. I was dead tired, but I needed to stay awake. There was more than one kind of ratero in the world.
I touched the money pouch strapped to my waist. I needed every peso to take us home, to pay off Juanito, to perhaps, if I was lucky, start my trip all over. I pulled up my shirt, took off the pouch, and stuffed it behind the barrel. It would be safe there until morning. The stink would keep everyone away. The only thing I had to do was stay awake.
An hour passed, then another. Elena didn’t move. The rats came and went. I counted them. I named them: Juanito, Juanito I, Juanito II, Morales, Morales I, Morales II. I made up stories about them. In every one, the rats died horrible, gory deaths. I slapped my face and pinched my arm, really hard. I tried to remember every soccer game I’d ever played, in order, and the scores.
I listed the kids in my class, first alphabetically, then by their height, then by how mensos they were. There were the dumb ones, and then there were the ones that just acted dumb. I lined them up both ways.
I thought again about how angry I was with Elena, how she’d messed up everything. Even that didn’t work to keep me awake. My eyes closed, again and again. I looked around the portico, into the darkness of the shadows. All I could hear was scurrying paws and the soft snoring of someone across the open space. Rats or no rats, I was dead tired. We’d have to get up soon, anyway. For sure I’d wake up at the littlest sound. It wouldn’t hurt to sleep for a few minutes, would it?
A vicious kick in my side jolted me awake. I groaned in pain, and rolled over to see Elena sitting up straight, her eyes wide with terror. Two figures hovered over me, their faces hidden by the shadow of a column.
“Wake up,” one growled.
I couldn’t see them clearly, but I saw the gun pointed at Elena’s head. They jerked her roughly to her feet. Before I could stand, another kick landed squarely in my stomach. I doubled over in pain, grabbing my middle.
“What do you want?” I gasped. But I knew what they wanted. These muggers probably came through here every night, taking whatever they could find.
No one answered my question. Instead, they pushed me to the ground again. Rough hands moved quickly up and down my body. The hands pulled Chuy’s knife from my right pocket, along with the few pesos not in the pouch.
The thief dug through my backpack, then threw it aside. The only thing he took was Lalo’s soccer jersey. He fingered the shiny fabric, then put it on. The shirt was now his. He rooted through Elena’s string bag, opened the purse full of letters, and dumped them on the ground. He ba
lled up the little cloth purse in disgust and threw it out into the darkness. Then he kicked at the letters, and ground several of them with his heel into the earth. Elena groaned, as if she’d been kicked herself.
“There’s nothing here, Colmillo. No tienen nada,” he said with disdain. He gave me another half-hearted kick in the thigh.
Colmillo moved into the light. He had acne, a bad case of it. Deep scars and pockmarks covered his whole face. A new set of pimples ran across his nose and cheeks, leaking yellow pus. A scraggly, thin moustache covered his upper lip. He wanted it to make him look older. It didn’t work.
Colmillo was a kid, like me. A boy, un baboso, had tied up my sister and put a gun to her head. How could I have let this happen?
I started to get up again, angry at myself then. This time, Colmillo let me stand. I felt his partner behind me, his bad breath on my neck, so close I could smell the rancid sweat from his armpits. I looked around for help, but the portico was empty. Everyone had either been robbed or scared off.
“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Colmillo grinned meanly.
Then I saw the source of his nickname. A shiny gold canine tooth glinted in the light of the street lamp. Colmillo ran one finger lightly over Elena’s cheek. She looked small, like a child. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly, then shut. Her knees gave way, and she slipped to the ground in a little heap.
A deep, terrible dread washed through every part of my body.
“Wait! Please wait! I have money…,” I said.
The man behind me snorted, but Colmillo squinted his eyes in interest. He’d seen desperation before. He’d gotten money from it before—probably lots of money.
“Really,” I pleaded. “Let us go. I’ll get it.”
“There,” I nodded my head in the direction of the oil drum. “Look behind the barrel, you’ll find it. Take it all. Just leave us alone.”
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