At first I used to get mad at her when she would tell me a story over again for the seventeenth time. Now I expect her to repeat herself, and then I’m not surprised when she does. It’s much better this way. I actually get more worried when she forgets to repeat her stories.
It’s not really that bad. If I’m excited about something at school, or at soccer practice, or with Wolf, I can tell her over and over again and she’s surprised each time. She never gets bored of my stories. Most people will hardly listen once. So I feel pretty lucky. The only thing that’s confusing is I never know what she’ll remember and what she won’t.
My nana yawns. “I’m tired, honey. I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“Good night, Nana.”
“Sueña color de rosa,” she tells me. She thinks dreaming in the color pink gives people the best sleep.
I smile. “I will.”
As she’s walking out of my room, she says, “Wolf will be very happy with how well you made your map.”
chapter 10
THE SWAP MEET
The next morning is Saturday, which is a big deal during the school year, but during the summer it just means my mom’s home. This could lead to a day of shopping or cleaning the house, neither of which are very fun. The only good thing about shopping at the mall is that my mom will buy us corn dogs and lemonades if I make it through all the aisles of the store without complaining too much. The other amazing thing about my mom is that she lets me sleep as long as I want. She hides in her room reading mysteries until I come find her. Every single other kid I know is forced out of bed in the morning, even on weekends. I hold on to Hops and sleep until I have dreams about turning into a dog and racing the other dogs around the neighborhood, or about eating vanilla ice cream with too much butterscotch sauce spilling all over me. I wake up and blink and rub my eyes and lie in bed until I can’t stand being in my room one more minute.
That’s the kind of morning I was looking forward to, but instead, there is a tapping on my window at seven a.m. When I turn over I can see Wolf’s proudly smiling face. He is holding his entire body up in the air by hanging onto my window frame.
Not even my best friend should wake me up early on a Saturday. I turn over.
Wolf whistles four sounds like a mourning dove. It’s one of our secret birdcalls, and he knows it’s my favorite. But I don’t care. My eyes just want to be closed.
He knocks on the window again, a little louder.
Oh, man. Yesterday he cut my hand and today he’s ruined my Saturday sleep-in.
After he knocks a third time, there is loud thumping on the other side of my bedroom wall, a warning from Johnny that I better stop Wolf or he’s gonna come punch me. No one better ever mess with Johnny’s sleep.
Okay, then. I look up at Wolf and point for him to meet me at the front door. I pull on my soccer shorts and go open the front door. Holding my finger over my lips, I say, “Shhhh. Everyone’s still asleep.”
Wolf’s eyes are wide. He whispers, “Does that deed belong to your nana? Does she own Aztlán?”
“Argh!” I say. “Did you wake me up for that?”
“Well, you gotta admit, it would be pretty cool if she did.”
I put my hands on my head and moan. “Turns out nobody owns Aztlán, except maybe the Aztécs, but they mostly belong to it.”
“What does that mean? To belong to it?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug.
“But what about the certificate with the gold seal?”
“It’s not hers. But she said it’s got Chicano words.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, Chicanos are Mexicans living in America, like my mom’s family. They used to march for more rights and stuff when we were babies, like Black people, like Martin Luther King Jr.,” I explain. “Probably not in Rosemead, but maybe in El Monte, or for sure East LA.”
“Oh,” Wolf says. “Did they have uniforms?”
“Some of them had brown ones,” I offer.
“Huh,” he says. “They never talked about that in school.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I only know from my nana.”
“There were soldiers marching right here in the San Gabriel Valley when we were babies, and nobody ever told me?” Wolf says, annoyed. “I’m going to have to look this up at the library.”
“It’s not even open yet,” I say. “You’re going to study on a Saturday?”
“Sure, why not?” Wolf says. “But anyway, we’ve got other business first. I’m taking you to the swap meet.”
“Why do we need to go to the swap meet?” I ask. It’s shopping, and shopping is boring. Plus, it’s clear over on the other side of the city. “It’s so far.”
“You need a uniform,” he announces.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with my soccer shorts?” I hold them out and look down at myself.
“They’re fine for school,” Wolf explains. “But we’re at war this summer. And we’re in the same army. We can’t look disorganized.”
I have to admit, it does sound kind of cool to get a uniform. I’ve never had one before. I’ve never seen one at Montgomery Ward’s department store. Definitely not in the girls’ section. “But it’ll take so long to get there.”
“Not if we go in the wash. It makes a diagonal that goes straight there. I tried it out last week.”
“It’s against the law to be in the wash. And you’re already in trouble with the police,” I remind him.
“I finished those dumb anger management classes they forced me to take.” He smiles. “And besides, nobody’s gonna see us.”
The purpose of the wash is to gather up extra water if it rains hard, but most of the time it’s just got a dribble full of green algae running down the middle. You’re not supposed to go down there. Only workers are allowed. But teenagers do it. They light firecrackers to hear the echoes bounce off the concrete. There are ladders under each overpass if you need to make an escape, but you could basically get trapped and die in a ten-foot-deep cement canal if there was a flash flood. It’s not a good idea. They once found a dead teenager down in the wash, some guy who was in my brother’s class.
“My mom says it’s very dangerous, especially if it rains.”
Wolf shakes his head. “It hasn’t rained in a year. It’s not going to start today. It’s summertime and the sun is already shining.”
“Can we get back by noon? My mom won’t expect me to be up until then.” I scrunch my hair with my hand. “’Cause if she finds out, I’ll be in big trouble.”
Wolf and I quietly scour the house, looking under couch cushions, along the floor, and behind the washing machine, collecting any coins we find. Between us we have $7.35.
He nods at me. “It’s enough.” And we head out.
It’s scary climbing over the chain-link fence and into the wash. I don’t like being so high up off the ground. The top of the fence is six feet up from the street, and then it’s another ten feet to the bottom of the wash. That’s way too high, so I close my eyes as I sling my other leg over. I would die if I fell to the concrete bottom.
My nana told me that the wash used to be a regular river. When there was enough water, she would pack a picnic and my grandpa would fish when they were first together. When there was too much water, it would flood across the whole city. That was a long time ago, before the workers came and poured cement on top of all the water and dirt and animals. I hope they never finish building our street because I don’t want all that cement on top of everything.
Wolf and I walk and run and yell in the wash all the way to the swap meet. He was right. This was a good idea. Nobody can see us here. It’s like we’re invisible. It’s like we’re spies. It’s like our trench back on the street, private and for us only, but full of cooling breezes and graffiti. Wolf thinks we could walk all the way across Los Angeles without anybody noticing, but I’m happy to climb up near the swap meet. I’m out of breath because I can never keep up with his long legs.
&n
bsp; Now I understand where Wolf gets all his army clothes. A big parking lot is covered with rows and rows of people and the stuff they’re selling. At the end of the second aisle is an old man with a big stomach sitting behind a white plastic table. The table is piled high with green shirts and pants and belts and buckles, with tall black boots lined up along the ground.
He smiles at Wolf. “Have you been practicing your whistling?”
Wolf whistles his mourning dove sounds again.
“Wow, that’s real good,” the man says. And then his voice gets serious. “Are you low on supplies?”
“Yes, sir,” Wolf answers, like the man’s his commanding officer. “Alex, here, is in my unit, and we’re fighting over on Muscatel. Could go on for a couple of months.”
The old man nods. “He need a uniform?”
“Yes, sir,” Wolf replies, and the two of them start digging through the stacks.
Mostly when I go out places people think I’m a boy. Johnny says it’s because of my short hair and the way I walk like a cowboy. He laughs when it happens, and I get embarrassed. He doesn’t laugh when people mistake him for a girl because of his long hair. I like it better when I’m with Wolf because he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to tell anyone I’m a girl, and I don’t either, and then it doesn’t matter. I could be a boy all day long with Wolf and it’s fine.
Wolf presents me with size small green camouflage army pants. They’re made of thick cotton, and they’re full of pockets and buttons. And they’re brand new. I never get to have brand-new boys’ clothes. My mom lets me wear my brother’s hand-me-downs because it saves money, but shopping is only for new girls’ clothes. Girls’ clothes always have a ruffle or a flower or a lacy thing on them that makes me feel like crying. But this old man, he doesn’t even sell girls’ clothes. The pants are only five dollars and he throws in a green T-shirt for two dollars. He folds my new uniform up in a brown paper bag and puts it in my hands. This is all mine.
Once we get back into the wash, Wolf says, “Hey, you could put the uniform on. Nobody’s down here.”
But I’m embarrassed to change in front of Wolf. I don’t want him to see how my chest is growing. “Nah,” I say. “I want to wait ’til Monday so it’ll be fresh for battle.”
“Oh, okay,” he answers, and then pauses. “Alex, I’m still thinking about the deed. Even if it’s Chicano words, it’s still gotta belong to someone.”
“It’s probably my nana’s,” I say. “I bet she just forgot she buried it.”
“Can we take it to the library?” Wolf asks. “The librarians usually know things.”
“Is the library even open during the summer?” I wonder.
“Uh-huh,” he responds, like it’s obvious.
“But why do people need it if they’re not doing homework?” I’m baffled.
“To find out stuff. And, well, probably, the free air-conditioning,” he concedes.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “My mom might want me to help her do housework or something.”
“I bet you she’d totally let you go if you told her you were going to the library.”
“That’s probably true.” So much for my plan for a summer without books.
We make our way back to my house through the wash. Whenever we see a big clump of something beside the algae, I turn my eyes away in case it’s something dead. We walk fast and kick rocks that ricochet loudly off the concrete walls.
chapter 11
HE DOESN’T WANT TO
Wolf and I sit in the library, looking into the screen of a large machine that magnifies old newspapers.
“I thought only grown-ups got to use these machines,” I remark.
“Nope,” Wolf says. “It’s a public library, and we’re the public.”
I wonder why Wolf likes the library but hates school. He reads everything but still gets bad grades. He fights back if the teachers tell him what to do but doesn’t mind if the librarians shush him. Maybe he likes the quiet. He talks to me a lot when it’s just the two of us, but he doesn’t really say much when there’s a bunch of kids around.
“Okay, I gotta admit this place is cooler than I thought,” I say.
If you push the button on the machine, it whips a strip of film around really fast. Zoooooom. It’s totally fun.
“Please don’t play with the equipment,” warns the tall librarian with the big orange hairdo.
“Yes, ma’am,” Wolf says in his most polite voice. But then he grins at me and starts zooming it again.
“It says go to N8 for Aztlán,” I direct him.
Wolf slows the film and lands on August 29, 1970. The photos show giant crowds. There are kids and grown-ups with their fists in the air. They have placards with La Virgen de Guadalupe and black eagles and peace signs, with “CHICANO POWER!” and “CHILDREN of AZTLÁN” and “OUR FIGHT IS AT HOME NOT IN VIETNAM” written across them. The newspaper article says, “Protesters demand an end to the war in Vietnam, an end to racism in the schools, an end to police brutality. They want immigration reform, better conditions for workers. They are calling for Chicano liberation.”
“Wow, they had over twenty thousand people marching!” Wolf exclaims.
“Please keep your voices down,” says an old man from the other side of the bookshelves.
“The police shot tear gas canisters into the crowd and killed three Mexican Americans, including Los Angeles Times journalist Ruben Salazar,” I read.
“Salazar?” Wolf says. “Is that one of your relatives?”
“Nah,” I answer. “I think someone would’ve told me. But it’s creepy anyway.”
“Please. Keep your voices down,” the orange-hairdo librarian warns.
“Why would the police kill them?” I whisper.
“Police can do awful things to you if they don’t like you,” Wolf says.
I look at Wolf’s sad eyes and think of the police taking him away from school in their squad car that day last year. I wonder what they said to him.
I look back at the screen and study the photograph. “That street looks like it’s right here, like it’s Valley Boulevard. It looks like someone is getting killed on Valley Boulevard.”
“But it says it’s on Whittier Boulevard in East Los Angeles,” Wolf corrects. “I would guess it’s around ten miles away.”
“It’s still scary,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But sometimes you have to fight, and sometimes soldiers get killed.”
“But look, they were fighting against being soldiers,” I say sadly.
“Rambo would never do that,” he says.
“Hawkeye would,” I retort.
“There’s nothing really here about Aztlán,” he says, changing the subject.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Maybe my nana got the deed at the community college or something.” I lay my head down on the wide cool desk.
“Can I borrow it?” he asks. “I can go ask the librarian if she knows anything about it.”
“Sure, okay,” I say. “Wait. You can just ask librarians about anything?”
“Yep,” he says.
“Wow.” I’ve definitely got a question.
While Wolf goes off to speak with the orange-hairdo librarian, I go as quickly as possible to the other side of the library.
I stand in front of a librarian who’s sitting behind a tall desk. She is busy flipping through a card catalog. There are flyers advertising tickets for the Olympics, with colorful rings and a gymnast holding herself above a bar. I frown. My mom took me and Johnny to one of the Olympic soccer games, but she says it’s too expensive to go to events inside like gymnastics. I take a flyer anyway and stick it in my pocket.
“How can I help you?” says the short, dark-haired librarian with a nice smile.
I look down at the shiny tiles on the floor. “Do you have any medical books?” I ask softly.
“Certainly,” she responds. “What type of medicine are you interested in?”
“Um …�
� I hesitate. “Like about hearts, or heart attacks, or heart sores?”
“Heart sores?” she asks.
“You know”—I point timidly to my swollen chest—“like a sore over your heart.”
Her confused frown changes into a big “Ohhh.” She nods. “Yes, I believe we do have some material about heart sores.”
“Oh, that’s so great!” I say, and then whisper, “Can I check the book out, but like, kind of quietly?”
“Quietly?”
“I don’t want my friend to see it,” I say. “I don’t want him to worry unless it’s something serious.”
“Ahh, right,” she says. “There’s no need to worry him. Let me take your information, and then you can just come by for the book on your way out.”
“Wow. That would be so great. Thank you.” I smile.
I find Wolf back at the microfilm machine, reading more 1970s newspapers.
“Did the librarian know anything about the deed?” I ask.
“She’s checking on it and will let me know if she finds anything,” he says.
“Oh. What’ll we do while we wait?”
“Remember all the times we used to have to wait forever when our parents were filling up at the gas station?” he asks, unable to take his eyes off the screen.
“Yeah,” I answer. It used to get so hot in the long lines of cars, sitting in the back seat of our old station wagon. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I hated it.
“It was because of Iran,” he says, nodding confidently.
“Weren’t they the ones who kidnapped all those Americans? And then they all got off the airplane on TV?”
“Yep, that’s Iran,” he confirms.
“Oh, okay,” I say. I’m not really sure where Iran is. I’m not really interested in facts about gasoline and countries far away. I don’t know why he is telling me this stuff. “Is there just old newspapers on this machine, or other stuff, too?”
“Oh, there’s tons of stuff. Newspapers, magazines, phone books,” he says with excitement, zipping the film back up into the reel. “What do you want to look for?”
The Street Belongs to Us Page 7