I’ve watched him take down robots that invaded Earth. I’ve watched him catch a team of art thieves. I’ve watched him coach a hopeless Little League team through a turn-around season. It’s slowly dawning on me that I’m not the object of everyone’s attention. They’re looking at Gavin Hopewell.
I’m looking at Gavin Hopewell.
Gavin’s getting tugged by his impatient dog. He’s signing autographs for a teenage girl, his hat hiding the expression on his face. Now I know what it means to be starstruck. I can’t look away. In the science fiction movie, he had biceps as thick as fireplace logs and used them to swat off evil droids. He has the best lines and makes them sound even better because he has an Australian accent. The movie with the Little League team was my favorite, though. A bunch of kids from the wrong side of town couldn’t afford uniforms or equipment with parents working two or three jobs. Gavin Hopewell played a coach who’d been fired from the major leagues so he was used to dealing with real athletes, not a bunch of kids. They could barely find first base when the movie started, but a hundred minutes later, they were sliding onto home plate like World Series winners.
Gavin did that for them. He turned them from losers into champs. In the final scene, Gavin was saying good-bye to one of the kids he had coached that season. He put his hand on the kid’s shoulder, and the kid smiled at him. It was the kind of story that made everybody feel good because, in the end, who doesn’t want a kid to win?
I remember that I have Max’s phone in my pocket. I pull it out and flip it open. I press on the camera button and point it at Gavin. It’s hard to catch more than his elbow because people have started to flock around him. I look around quickly and see that no one’s looking at me. Why would they when a Hollywood star is a few feet away?
“Gavin, loved you in Gripped!”
“‘The sun doesn’t come up unless I tell it to,’” a boy yells, deepening his voice and doing his best Australian accent. It’s one of those lines that stays with you long after the movie ends.
Gavin raises a hand and smiles. I move in closer. If I can ever get this phone back to Max, it would be really cool to have a picture of Gavin Hopewell on here for her. I slip between onlookers and keep the backpack close to me, trying to make myself as slim as possible. It works, and I find myself close enough to see that he has double-knotted his shoelaces. I have the phone’s camera pointed at him. I click and snap a couple of pictures of Gavin talking. They’re blurry, though. I want to think it’s because Gavin’s moving around, but the truth is my hands are trembling.
“Brilliant day today. Good to see everyone out and about,” he says cheerfully. He’s not shouting, just talking loudly enough for the people around him to hear. He’s acting like we all live in the same building and we’ve just bumped into one another in the hallway.
“That accent is delicious!” someone calls out, and laughter erupts. I turn around and see it’s the woman with the yoga mat under her arm.
“As is yours, love,” he says, and his mouth slips into a smile. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. I notice that he’s not as tall as he seems in the movies. People are staring, waiting for him to break into character or do something that they’ll be able to post on Facebook tonight. He looks around and raises a brow. Then he leans over to scratch his dog’s head. “Look at them, Rex. All these people have just run a marathon and all you do is walk.”
There’s more laughter.
“Right, right.” He shrugs and gives Rex one last pat. I remember the dog that stole my backpack from me in Elkton. This one seems a whole lot friendlier but just to be certain, I check that Max’s bag is securely on my shoulders. I’ve got to get a better picture but I don’t want to look like I’m pestering him either.
“What about you? You a runner, mate?”
Gavin Hopewell is talking to me. I clear my throat and nod.
“I guess . . .” He’s looking at me as if he really wants to hear my answer. A bit of truth escapes my lips. “I guess it depends on who’s chasing me.”
Gavin chuckles and taps his fist against my shoulder. He did the same thing as coach to the team’s best player, a kid whose parents barely spoke English.
“Ah, you American kids are a clever bunch for sure!” he says brightly. “Are you a moviegoer?”
“For your movies, sure. You never let anything stop you,” I say, forgetting that there’s a ring of people around us. “I think that’s why my friends and I like your movies so much.”
Gavin takes his sunglasses off and hangs them on the collar of his shirt. He blinks twice. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he leans in and looks me directly in the eye.
“It’s easy to be brave in front of the camera and on fake sets. Real life. Now that’s a whole other story, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“Real life is real hard,” I say quietly. Why can’t he become one of those heroes he plays in the movies and track down my mother and bring her back to me? I can picture it happening as if it’s a movie I’ve already seen. My mother hugging me, both of us looking over at Gavin with gratitude as he walks away with a small tip of his cap.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently, his eyes falling on the phone I’m still clutching. He holds out a hand and raises one eyebrow. “Do you mind?”
I hand the phone over. Gavin steps over Rex’s leash and stands beside me. He crouches down a bit and, with one hand, manages to snap a photograph of the two of us together. I can see both of us on the small screen. Gavin is smiling and my face looks like it doesn’t know what to do. He hands the phone back to me and lifts a hand to the crowd, a simple farewell.
You American kids. That’s what he’d said to me.
Do I look American to him? I suppose I look like the kids around me in class, but I’m not sure which of them are American either.
Gavin is walking away. People watch him disappear down the block. Rex looks much happier now that he’s on his way, his fluffy tail wagging behind him.
“That was so cool!” A girl has come up to me. She’s eyeing the phone in my hands and grinning. “He just snapped a selfie with you like you guys are BFFs or something! Wait, do you know him?”
I shake my head, and she says something else that I can’t hear because my thoughts are too loud. I watch her back as she walks away. I’m still wondering if I am an American. Sure, I was born in this country, but if my mom isn’t supposed to be here, am I still American?
The cluster of people has melted away. I need to keep moving if I don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention. I see the food trucks still lined up on the park side of this avenue. I make my way to the crosswalk and join the handful of people waiting for the light to change.
The park is calling me. I want to disappear into it and let the trees and bushes hide me from the rest of the world. I walk past the food trucks and see that some are starting to shut down. I have just ducked between the trees when the walkie-talkie crackles loudly.
“Amber Alert child spotted on Seventy-Fourth speaking to homeless man by someone living in the neighborhood. Any units in the vicinity, let’s get out there and ask some questions.”
I press my back against a tree, wishing its trunk were a hollow I could hide in. My breathing is quick. Real life is scarier than any movie I’ve ever seen and all the movies my mother never let me see.
I look around and see nothing but empty fields and long walking paths. I’ll be out in the open no matter which way I go. I look up at the afternoon sky. There’s a full, white moon, so pale it looks like I can see through it. Clumps of clouds are scattered about. Nighttime will be here soon too, which makes me nervous. What am I going to do?
They’re closing in on me, I think, remembering my school photograph on the television screen. They’re on my trail, and it’s getting harder and harder to hide.
Twenty-Seven
I come back to the park’s edge. I need to see if there are any lights and sirens approaching. Are they really going
to question Bartley? He’s only going to tell them things they already know. I’m glad I didn’t figure out I needed to get to 174th Street before I left him. He can’t share what he doesn’t know.
I’m a few blocks north of Seventy-Fourth Street, but that’s not very far, and I imagine the police will start to search the area once they get through Seventy-Fourth Street. Do I dare try to get back into the subway? That would be the quickest way to move through town, but it’s risky because I have to find a subway station, and I don’t know where the nearest one is.
I duck behind an elm tree and crouch to the ground. I’m mostly hidden by a round, green trash can. A scraping sound comes from inside the trash can, something scratching against the metal container.
Two of the food trucks are still there, but the kebab truck is gone. There’s a man shutting the window of the taco truck. He waves at the brown-haired woman by the La Casita truck that is striped in red, white, and blue. She waves back and watches from the sidewalk as he slides into the driver’s seat and pulls his door shut.
She’s wearing jeans and a quilted blue jacket, the same shade of blue that covers a third of her truck. She is picking up the napkins and plastic forks people have dropped just outside her vehicle and putting them into a plastic bag. That’s when the passenger-side door of the truck opens and a girl steps out.
“Mami, let me help,” she calls as she reaches to take the bag from her mother’s hands.
“It’s okay, amor. Just work on your homework. That’s more important. I can finish here.”
There’s something warm and familiar about this woman. She reminds me of my mother even though they look nothing alike. Like my mom, she’s got a light accent, though hers sounds very different.
Her daughter, a girl with straight black hair and dark eyes, tucks a pen behind her ear and takes the bag from her mother.
“You can take care of the food inside. It’ll be faster this way.”
Her mother kisses the top of her head as a sign of agreement. The woman goes into the truck through a door in the back and closes the panel of the serving window. The girl picks up a few more napkins and a paper cup. When she’s satisfied that there’s no other litter to collect, she walks over to the garbage can just a few feet away from me.
As she gets closer, I can see that she’s probably still in elementary school. She’s got tiny, gold hoop earrings and a puffy, pink jacket on. I try to look away so she won’t think I’m spying on her, but as I do that, the walkie-talkie crackles with static. She turns sharply around and spots me by the tree.
“Oh! I didn’t see you.”
I give her a quick smile, get to my feet, and dust off my pants. “Sorry, didn’t mean to surprise you.”
She nods, and I watch as she tries to put the bag of collected trash into the waste bin. The trash can is full, so she pushes the bag into the pile with two hands.
Just as she’s pulling her hands away, there’s a rattling and rustling inside the trash can.
“What is tha—!” she exclaims.
That’s when a gray squirrel leaps out of the trash like a firecracker on the Fourth of July. Unbelievably, he lands on her shoulder. She lets out a scream, and the squirrel bounces onto the sidewalk. His tiny legs moving so fast that they’re a blur, he vanishes into the greenery of the park.
I’m at her side in a second. She stumbles backward and her foot catches on a bicycle rack. I manage to catch her just as she’s teetering toward me. Together, we topple over, but I’ve braced her fall.
“Are you okay?” I ask her. For a second, I’ve forgotten about wanting to stay hidden.
She touches her hand to her ankle and laughs nervously.
“I am. Are you okay?” she asks, looking at me to see if I’ve got any injuries. I don’t. I’ve landed on my hip but barely scraped my palms on the concrete.
“I’m fine. That was some crazy squirrel, huh?” I say, and get to my feet.
“Liz!” a voice hollers. I turn to see the passenger-side door of the truck open. The woman in the blue jacket rushes out to get to her daughter. “Did I just see a squirrel on your shoulder?”
“It’s okay, Mami!” she says, though she’s still on the ground. “I think I scared the squirrel too!”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Her mother looks worried.
“Oof, I think so.” She scrambles to her feet, and I hold my arm out. She smiles as she uses it to rise.
“Thanks!”
“Sure,” I say quietly.
“I’ve never been hit by a flying squirrel,” she says with her hands on her hips. Her mother is at her side now, her brown eyes warm with concern. She’s looking her daughter over to be sure she’s really okay.
“Where did that come from?” her mother asks. Again, she reminds me of my mom. Maybe it’s the soft lines on her face. Maybe it’s the way she smiles or the way she touches her daughter’s head. Then she turns to me.
“And what a gentleman you are!” she says.
“No big deal,” I say with a shrug.
“Unbelievable,” the woman says, shaking her head. She looks at me through narrowed eyes, the kind of look a mother gives when she’s figured something out. “You were nice to help. Are you hungry? I have some spinach-and-cheese empanadas in the truck—still warm.”
“They’re really good,” says her daughter with a nod.
The woman beckons me to follow her with a wave. She climbs in through the back door and hands me two empanadas, warm as promised, wrapped in wax paper. The cheese crackers didn’t do much to curb my hunger, so these smell really good right now.
“Where’s your mother or father? I want to tell them they should be proud of you, coming to help a young girl.” She’s looking around, waiting for an adult to appear and claim me.
“My mom’s around here somewhere,” I say, trying to sound believable. “She’ll probably be by any second now.”
“You’re not here alone, are you?” the woman asks. Her face has turned serious.
“No, no. I’m here with her and a bunch of other people.”
A bunch of other people? Why would I say that?
“Oh, okay,” she says, unconvinced. She’s still looking around for all the people I’m with.
“I’m . . . uh . . . I’m here filming a movie,” I say. I would kick myself if it wouldn’t make this moment worse. “With Gavin Hopewell. Do you know him?”
“I know him!” shouts Liz. “He’s my brother’s favorite movie star.”
Liz’s mother squints a little. She’s either not buying my story or she’s got a massive headache. It’s also possible that my story is giving her a massive headache.
“Yeah, I’m just taking a break from the filming. We’re shooting in the museum, actually. Lots of cameras and lights . . . and . . . and . . . and . . . action,” I say, fumbling for words.
I see Liz’s mom has her mouth half-open. She’s about to poke a hole in my story, so I grab Max’s phone out of the backpack.
“I wouldn’t normally share this, but here’s a picture we just took together.” I click on the photo gallery and pull up the last picture taken, the selfie Gavin snapped with me across the street. I show Liz, and her mother peers over her shoulder.
“Wow!” exclaims Liz.
I slide the phone back into the backpack.
I see her mother’s forehead relax. She almost looks impressed, actually.
“Yeah, so we’ve still got a bunch of work to do in there, and I better get back.” I point to the museum with my left hand while the empanada warms the fingers of my right hand.
“See that, Liz? You’ve met a real movie star today! But we better get going. I don’t want to get home too late,” she says with a sigh. She points her daughter to the truck.
“So cool,” Liz says excitedly. “I can’t wait to tell Marlon.”
I take a bite of the empanada and have to fight the urge to run up and hug this kind woman. It is warm and cheesy and just what I needed. Liz walks to the passenger-si
de door while her mother walks around the front of the truck to the driver’s side. As my eyes follow her, they fall upon the black lettering on the door of the truck.
La Casita
215 177th Street, #201
New York, NY
That’s three blocks away from Auntie Seema’s apartment. Could it be that this truck is headed there now?
My heart starts to race again. Liz is looking at me curiously.
“Are you sure your mom is around here?” she asks.
“Yeah, yeah. She just stepped away to say hi to a friend,” I say, debating if I dare ask for a ride. How am I going to explain where I’m going? “Are you . . . are you going to 177th Street?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Just . . . just curious.”
I stuff the rest of the empanada in my mouth, partly because I’m hungry, but also because I want to stop myself from saying anything else. Liz reaches for the handle of the door then stops short.
“You look a little . . . a little nervous or something.”
“Me? Nah!” I say, and wave her suggestion off as if it’s ridiculous. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if I’d be able to grab on to the back of this truck and hitch a ride. “Just a little tired from all the . . . acting I’ve been doing today.”
She nods, accepting my answer in that way kids do.
“All right. See you.”
I hear the truck’s engine start and a lump grows in my throat. That’s when I notice that the back of the truck is half open. Liz’s mother forgot to close it. I move toward the truck to close it for them and peek inside. On the right side is the window that opens to customers. It’s closed, but I can see the handle to open it. There are shelves beneath the window with stacks of paper bags and small cardboard boxes. On the left side of the truck is a kitchen. There’s a long grill and a stovetop. There’s even a sink. It really is a kitchen on wheels. I can see straight through to the front of the truck and the two seats where Liz and her mom are sitting. Neither of them has noticed that I’m standing at the back of the truck or that the rear door is open.
The Sky at Our Feet Page 15