“Wait. Did you say phone books?” My heart pounds.
“Yeah,” Wolf says. We look into each other’s eyes, and he sees what I’m thinking. “Oh. I get it.”
“Maybe we can find him,” I say.
“Let’s try.” He opens a small metal drawer full of film strips. “What’s your dad’s full name?”
“Charles Edmund Richardson.”
“Okay, should we start east or west?”
“East,” I say. “He always liked valleys more than the ocean.”
We zip through the film feeds of the cities to the east of us: El Monte, Diamond Bar, Covina, West Covina, Azusa, Chino, Ontario, Pomona, Rancho Cucamonga. A few Richardsons, but no C., no Charles. We go to the west: San Gabriel, East LA, Alhambra, Pasadena, Monterey Park, Huntington Park, Glendale, Burbank. We go south: Montebello, Pico Rivera, Whittier, South Gate, Downey.
“There’s a C. Richardson in Downey,” Wolf announces.
My heart thumps. “Oh, wow!” I can’t believe it. “That could be him.” I copy down the address and phone number. “My mom will be so surprised!”
“If it’s actually him,” Wolf cautions.
“I’m so happy!” I exclaim.
“Shhhhh.” An old lady nearby gives me an evil glare.
I whisper to Wolf, “I’m so excited.”
He smiles.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I say. “And then can we get out of here?”
“I’ll check on the deed,” Wolf says.
I sneak back over to the nice librarian, who has my medical book ready to go. When she sees me, she nods and pulls out a folded brown paper bag with a book inside.
“Thank you,” I say, and head over to the bathroom.
I enter the little hallway to the bathrooms, and I’m just about to open the door to the girls’ bathroom when I hear a loud voice behind me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” booms the orange-hairdo librarian. “That is the ladies’ room.”
Her loud voice is jarring in the quiet library. It shakes me.
I turn around. “Um,” I say. I am not sure whether to tell her I’m a girl or go to the boys’ washroom. I’m not sure which one will make me less in trouble.
She spots the bag in my hand with the library book and grunts, “Books are not permitted in the bathrooms.”
“Oh, uh.” I’m in more trouble.
I look up at her face. Her lips are pursed and her forehead is wrinkled. Maybe I shouldn’t try to go to the bathroom at all. I could make it the ten-minute walk home if we leave soon. But if Wolf starts running, I could end up peeing myself. The orange-hairdo librarian is standing between me and the exit, and I don’t know how to get past her body. I look back down at my tennis shoes, dirty from our muddy street.
“It’s okay, Helen.” I hear the other librarian’s firm voice. “She has already checked out that book.”
The orange-hairdo librarian takes a long look at me, up and down my body, shakes her head, and leaves.
Thank you, I mouth at my nice librarian.
She nods, her lips dropping slightly. Her eyes look soft.
I go to the bathroom quickly, stash my book in my backpack, grab Wolf, and head for the door.
We hit the July sun, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. Hot air must be as good as cold air for breathing, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s full of smog, and it hurts if you fill your lungs all the way up. This doesn’t stop us from half walking, half running back to my house, though.
“Guess what?” Wolf says with excitement.
I am thankful that he has something to talk about, because I do not want to think, or talk, about the bathroom.
“What?”
“She found the artist,” he says.
“What artist?”
“An artist made that deed.” He smiles. “Actually, he made two hundred of them, and we’ve got number one hundred and fifty-one.”
“Wow,” I say. “What artist?”
“Gustavo Ortíz. G-O!” he exclaims. “That’s why it says GO151 in the bottom corner.”
“No way!” I say. “I didn’t notice that.”
Gustavo Ortíz. Chicano artist and muralist. Important works: a portrait series of members of the Brown Berets in East LA. Those were the Chicano soldiers my nana told me about.
“We should look for his phone number, too,” I say. “Maybe he can tell us why it’s buried in the yard.”
Wolf frowns. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“He died of AIDS in January,” he says quietly. “Nineteen forty to nineteen eighty-four.”
“Wow, that’s sad,” I say. “That’s not very old.”
“Yeah,” Wolf agrees.
When we walk by some kumquat trees, Wolf hoists himself onto the fence next to them and picks a couple off the branches for us. We suck on the tangy fruit until we reach the corner.
I look over at Wolf. “I think I want to be alone to ask my mom about my dad’s phone number,” I say.
“I get it,” he answers. “Good luck. See you Monday.”
When I get home my nana is setting my mom’s perm in the kitchen. One of her proudest possessions is her 1931 Hollywood beauty school certificate. She claims that cutting people’s hair got her through the Great Depression. She forgets all kinds of things, but she doesn’t forget how to style hair.
My mom is sitting on a stool, reading one of her mystery novels. She doesn’t look happy to be trapped there with my nana, but she’s told me before that she likes the price of a home permanent.
“Mom, you’ll never guess what I found at the library!” I shout.
“A book?” she says sarcastically.
“No.”
“You didn’t find a book to read at the library?”
“There were plenty of books.”
“Did you skate to the library?” my nana asks. “I used to love to skate to the library when I was a little girl.”
“No, I just walked, Nana.”
“What about a magazine?”
“No, Mom, stop. Listen.” I’m getting frustrated.
“Okay. Tell me.” She smiles. “What did you find at the library?”
I sit down next to her stool and dig around in my backpack, looking for the little paper with the name on it. It’s probably squished underneath my book. I pull out the deed to Aztlán and put it on the floor beside me. I feel the corner of the little paper under the book and tug. I look up again at my mom.
She stares down at the deed and speaks very calmly. “They had that at the library?”
“No, no, that’s not it,” I say. “I found that buried in the yard.”
“Buried? Where?”
“By the rosebush,” I say. “But that’s not what I’m trying to tell you!” I am exasperated.
“Lift your head up, mija. I’ve got to trim the top.” My nana nudges my mom’s chin and snips at her hair.
I look at my little piece of paper and read, “C. Richardson, 10805 Myrtle Street, Downey, 555-2182.”
“Where did you find that?” my mom asks in the same calm voice.
“It’s gotta be Dad, right?!” I exclaim. “It was amazing! The library had phone books from everywhere, and I found Dad inside one of them!”
“You found Charlie,” my nana says. “That’s so wonderful. Did he come home from the party?”
“What party?” I say.
“C. Richardson could be a lot of different people, Alex,” my mom says.
“He was out too late,” my nana explains, as she twirls my mom’s hair onto rollers.
“Who was out too late?” I ask.
“It’s probably not him,” my mom declares.
“We used to go out really late during the war,” my nana says.
I’m so confused. I answer my nana, “Because you had to look for the buried gold.”
She nods and smiles. “If we didn’t draw the maps well, we would be out there half the night digging.”
; I turn to my mom. “But we’ve got this number, so we could just call it and find out if it’s him or not.” I run to the white-painted phone and start to dial. “Is Downey in our new area code or the old one?”
“I don’t know,” my mom answers, irritation in her voice.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll just try both.”
“Hang up the phone, Alex!” my mom shouts in her emergency voice.
I drop the receiver fast, like I picked up a burning pot handle. I turn and look at my mom. Her eyes are big and red. “Why?” I say softly.
She knocks the bits of hair off the apron she’s wearing and unsnaps the neck. She stands up and speaks in a really slow voice. “Your dad knows where we live, Alex.”
“Yeah, but now we know where he lives,” I say in a hopeful voice.
“You need to listen now, Alex.” She looks into my eyes. “He can find us easily, anytime he wants to.” She pauses. “He doesn’t want to.”
I feel like someone hit me. Tears fall out of my eyes, and I think I might barf. “You don’t know that!” I cry. “I could tell him that I’m older now and not as messy in the house or picky with my food. And then he’d like it better.”
“Alex, honey.” She reaches her hand out to me, but I turn my head away from her.
“Mija,” my nana says to my mom, interrupting us, “he might come home if you lost some weight and found a pretty outfit.”
“Not now!” my mom shouts at her.
My nana looks confused and shakes her head. She turns to me. “Your mother has always been a bit emotional.”
Johnny suddenly walks in with his hand pushed down into a big box of cereal. He scoops up a bunch and throws it into his mouth.
We all stare at him.
“What?” he says defensively. “If I eat out of the box, I don’t need to wash a bowl.”
chapter 12
THE STREET BELONGS TO US
Monday morning. 08:52.
My mom has gone off to work, and Wolf and I can resume our battle. I want to go out there early and start my watch from the trench.
“La soldadera!” my nana exclaims with delight when I walk into the kitchen wearing my uniform.
I smile because, even though I’m still mad that my mom won’t let me call my dad, I can’t help but feel happy in my new clothes.
“Have I told you before about my tía Alicia in Chihuahua?” My nana’s eyes shine.
Of course she has. “She’s my favorite,” I say. “She cut her hair, stole your abuelo’s suit, and signed up to fight for the revolution.”
“With Pancho Villa!” My nana is still so proud, even though that was a long time ago.
“That must have been exciting,” I say. “She got to be a real live warrior.”
“Pues, sí. Alicia was excited and so was my mother. But not my tío Ernesto, because he was her big brother and didn’t think a woman should carry a gun.” My nana takes a sip of her coffee and launches into the story.
“Alicia was one of those kids who always got bored at home, in the kitchen, in my abuelo’s shoe shop, everywhere. She couldn’t sit still. She wouldn’t take the time to sew the leather on the boots, and her littlest sister, my tía Lupe, would have to finish them, or mi abuelo would be disappointed in everyone.”
“Lupe used to pinch Alicia to get back at her, but Alicia would stare right at her sister and say, ‘You can’t make me cry.’” My nana shakes her head. “Tía Alicia would say, ‘I was born to wear soldier’s boots, not waste my time fixing up other people’s boots.’”
My nana’s eyes fill with tears. “She wore them, but she died in the first battle right outside our town.” She shakes her head again. “I don’t think she was born for that.”
I hug my crying nana. It’s not fair that she has to feel every sad thing in her whole life over and over again.
“Cuidado, mija,” she whispers to me. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Oh no, Nana, don’t worry. It’s just pretend,” I explain. “And I’m very careful.” Don’t adults remember what it’s like to pretend?
It’s what happens to Wolf when he wears his army uniform. The teachers at school worry that Wolf is going to “injure someone someday with the way he behaves.” They tell him right in the middle of class that “war hurts people,” and that “he’s too young to be a soldier.” Wolf doesn’t say a word; he just stares down into his notebook. The teachers sigh, shrug, and go right back to talking about fractions or whatever.
09:37
I search the street with my silver binoculars. I spot Wolf rounding the corner and sneaking along the dirt paths. He whistles the mourning dove signal as a greeting before jumping into the trench with me.
“Sergeant Salazar, did you find your dad?”
“Negative, Captain,” I say.
He slumps over for a second, disappointed. “We’ll keep searching,” he reassures me. “But first, we’ve got to do extra preparations this morning,” he commands.
I don’t want to tell Wolf that my mom won’t let me call my dad’s phone number. I don’t really want to explain that my mom thinks my dad doesn’t care enough to see me. So I simply say, “Yes, sir, Captain McCann. Like what?”
“No less than twenty mud balls lined up and ready to go, ten water balloons, and four stinky bombs.”
Stinky bombs are a new invention. I steal Johnny’s dirty socks, the smelliest items known to humanity, and then fill them with dirt. Gloves are required because we can’t risk contamination. We tie the socks at the end, whip them in circles over our heads until they are fast and unpredictable, and then, finally, release them.
“Yes, sir. This should be no problem,” I assure him. “Diego’s gone to his swimming lesson and is not expected to return ’til thirteen hundred hours.”
“Not good enough, soldier.” Since jumping into the trench, Wolf has not made eye contact with me. He is climbing from one end of the hole to the other, scanning all the way from the corner north of us to the bend in Muscatel south of us.
“New intel was obtained last night,” Wolf says. “I was trying to steal a Snickers bar at Fred’s Liquor. I was crouched down and I was quiet.” Wolf takes a drink from his canteen and continues, speaking quickly and seriously. “At approximately nineteen hundred hours, Greg and Doug Wilson entered the store. They bought two Like Colas, one bag of Cheetos, and another bag of barbecue chips. They spoke about coming to the new Muscatel dirt track to try out their bikes today. To our street! They did not identify my location.”
Even though Wolf doesn’t actually live on my street, he spends so much time hanging out with me here that he’s like an honorary member. So I don’t mind that he thinks of it as his street, too. I actually kind of like it. It is, however, definitely not Greg and Doug’s street.
“Oh no!” I say.
Greg and Doug are the worst kids at school. They live right at the top of the city and act like they’re better than other people. Anyone who lives near the freeway, like us, is a lower life-form. They know mean words, and use them. I can’t believe they would even bother to come down to our street.
10:18
We act fast and make almost all the required weapons by the time Greg and Doug round the corner on their bikes. They have big clunky bikes with thick tires. The brothers are jumping over the tiny bridges in the dirt that Johnny and his friends made out of wood and bricks. They are splashing through the little stream that the smallest Eftychiou brother from down the street makes with his garden hose when his mom is out shopping. Greg and Doug, who don’t belong here, are laughing and enjoying our street.
It should be fine. We renovated the street for kids to play on. It’s our own summer carnival, made by and for kids. But Greg and Doug are bigger than us, and if we have to fight them, it will hurt. I think maybe, if we’re quiet enough, they don’t have to know we’re here.
We lean against the side of the trench and don’t make a single sound while they ride around above us. I close my eyes and wait
and hope that they go away. The problem is that the air grows thin in the trench, and there’s not enough for me to breathe. I put my hands on my chest and feel myself breathing faster and faster.
“Oh no,” I whisper to Wolf. “We’re running out of air.”
“No, Alex,” he pleads. “Trust me, there’s plenty of air.”
It doesn’t feel like it. Why does my body always fall for this?
“Please, stop it. Please, just breathe.” I try to convince myself. “I can’t jump out of this trench, right now. Alex, listen! There’s enough oxygen, just please breathe.”
Right when I’m sure I won’t be able to take it anymore, Doug almost slides into our trench while speeding around the figure-eight track. At first, he is scared. He gulps a bunch of air and his eyes spring wide open when his leg drops halfway into the trench. But then he stops moving. He takes a big breath and closes his eyes.
We don’t know what to do. We could start firing bombs now, but even if it is Doug Wilson, it seems unfair to bomb a kid when he’s crashed partly down a hole on his bike.
Doug opens his eyes, looks down, and sees us. His eyebrows are scrunched up in confusion, but then he recognizes our faces. He begins to smile, but it’s not a nice smile. It’s a crooked smile that means he’s thinking of something bad to do.
“Hey, Greg,” he yells. “Look at this!”
Greg peers down into our trench and shakes his head. “Look at all this nice equipment you’ve got for us: binoculars, sleeping bags, Snickers. I’ll take that canteen.” He laughs. “What do you want, Doug?”
“You’re not taking anything,” Wolf says defiantly. “Get off our street. We don’t want you here.”
Greg repeats Wolf’s words in a high-pitched voice. “You’re not taking anything.”
Doug says, “Oh yeah? What do we have here, Greg? Two little gays in a hole.”
“You’re the gay,” I shout back.
Doug laughs. “You don’t even know what that word means, do you?”
“Yeah, I do,” I say confidently. Except, I really don’t. All the kids at school say it, but nobody ever really says what it means.
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