I’m not the bravest kid in the world, but maybe, just maybe, I can act like I am. I slip one foot onto the back of the truck, just to see what it would feel like.
That’s when I hear sirens.
Twenty-Eight
My heart leaps into my throat, and I move without thinking. I step into the back of the truck as quietly as I can and crouch low as I pull the door closed behind me. I don’t slam it shut, but pull it hard enough that it makes a soft click. The noise is hard to hear, though. Police sirens are wailing so loudly that they must be just outside the truck.
“What’s going on here?” I hear Liz’s mom ask. Is she talking to me? I hold my breath and wait.
“No clue. Did you do something you’re not telling me?” Liz asks playfully. Her mother starts to laugh.
“Ha, ha, ha,” she says sarcastically, and I feel the truck shift gears and lurch forward.
I press my back to the stainless steel cabinets and inch inward until I can duck into the hollow space beneath the grill.
“Three police cars. Something’s got them excited.”
That reminds me that I need to do something. I unzip Max’s backpack and take out the walkie-talkie and the phone. I mute the phone and flick a switch on the side of the walkie-talkie to OFF to be sure nothing crackles to life or starts ringing to give me away.
“Hey, Mom, do you think that kid was okay?”
I freeze.
“I hope so. Why, did he say something to you?”
“No. But he looked like he wanted to say something.”
The radio comes on. Spanish lyrics fill the car. I hear trumpets and drums and a man’s voice singing. Every few minutes, I am bounced off the floor so hard that I wonder if this truck has run over a small car. How long will it take to get me to 174th Street?
The truck is stopped, probably because of a red light. I’m panicked, though, thinking that at any moment Liz or her mother will turn around and see my sneakers or my elbows and call the police on me for sneaking into their truck.
There are no windows, so I can’t see how close we are to 177th Street. My plan, which is not much of a plan, is to jump out the back door once they park the car. Then I’ll have to run and hide, because they’re sure to be angry that I’ve hidden myself in their truck.
The truck starts moving again. This time it pulls forward with a bigger lurch.
“Agh, my math book,” Liz exclaims. Her textbook has fallen in the open space between the driver and passenger seats. She reaches over to retrieve it. I hold my breath and try to pull my toes and knees closer to me and out of sight.
“Oh!” Liz says sharply.
“What’s the matter?” her mother asks.
My palms get sweaty. I can’t make myself any smaller.
“Um, nothing. Nothing. Just grabbing my book.”
“Did you finish your homework?”
“I did,” Liz says slowly.
I poke my head forward, just enough to spot Liz looking over the armrest of her seat. Our eyes meet and I pull my head back quickly.
Now what?
My breathing quickens, and I wait to see what Liz is going to do about me sneaking into their truck.
“Liz, are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Nope,” Liz replies. “No ghost.”
“I should hope not,” her mother mutters. “We’re going to stop by your tía’s house to drop off some of the food left over from today. I don’t want it to go to waste.”
“Sure, of course not,” Liz says. Her voice is high-pitched and musical—more than a little suspicious. If Max were here, she would not be impressed. Then again, Liz is probably not used to hiding a stowaway from her mom. This probably doesn’t come naturally to her.
The truck slows to a stop and Liz’s mother turns the engine off.
“All right, here we are. I’m going to run in and drop off that tray of food. Don’t open the door to anyone, got it?”
I hear the unclicking of a seat belt and a door opens.
The tray of food.
In a second, that back door is going to swing open and I’ll have no choice but to leap past Liz’ s mother and make a run for it. My mother would be terrified and angry at the things I’m doing today, but how else am I going to keep myself out of foster care or jail?
“Mami, let me get that tray for you!”
In a flash, Liz has unbuckled herself from her seat and bounded past me. She’s so fast that she could have put that squirrel to shame. She doesn’t say a word to me, but climbs over the divider into the back. She shoots me a strange look, grabs a plastic bag holding an aluminum tray, and reaches the back door just as her mother cracks it open.
“Here you go!” Liz sings.
Her mother is silent. I hear the crinkle of plastic and know she’s taken the bag from her daughter’s hands.
“Liz, you’re going to bed early tonight. You’re not acting like yourself, and I’m worried about you.”
“Just trying to be helpful,” Liz explains, her voice bright and cheery. She’s got her hand on the door handle, ready to pull it closed and not allow her mother to open it any wider. The door closes with a loud click and Liz turns around to face me.
“What are you doing in here?” she whispers.
“Thanks for not telling on me,” I say. “I don’t know why you did that.”
There’s something about the way she’s looking at me, her head tilted to the side and her eyes demanding answers, that reminds me of Max.
“I could tell you were in trouble. I’ve seen that same look on my brother’s face a million times. And if my brother were here, he would tell you that you can’t hide from my mom for too long. What are you doing in here? Are you running away from home?”
Yes, I want to tell her, but only because it’s not home anymore.
“I’m trying to get to my aunt’s house. She lives on 174th Street.”
“Where are your parents?” she asks.
“Not here.” I don’t want to get into the details with Liz. Sure, she didn’t tell her mother that I’d snuck onto their truck, but how do I know I can trust her? What if she tells her mom everything as soon as she gets back?
“Maybe this is a bad idea,” she says slowly. “Maybe you should leave.”
“Look, I only have my mom and she’s just been sent back to her country. I have nowhere else to go but to my aunt’s house.”
“Oh,” she says. Her reaction is quiet and contained. “You’re alone?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Aren’t you scared?”
“Doesn’t matter if I am. I’ve got to keep going.”
Gavin Hopewell would be proud if he could hear me.
“Where’s your mom’s country?”
I can see that Liz is softening toward me. She’s not going to kick me out of the truck or report me to her mother.
“Afghanistan.”
“So you’re Af-ghan-i-stani?” she asks, struggling with the syllables.
“Afghan. And no. My mom is Afghan.”
“Then so are you.”
“No, I’m American.” I have to be. How else can I explain why my mother goes and I stay?
“My parents are from Dominican Republic. I’m Dominican and American. You can be both, you know.”
Being Afghan didn’t seem to help my mother very much. I don’t see how it’ll help me.
“Right now, I need to get to my aunt’s house.”
“You said 174th Street, right? That’s not far from where we live,” Liz says thoughtfully.
“Where are we now?” I want to get up and take a look out the windshield, but I’m afraid Liz’s mother is on her way back and will spy my face in the window.
“This is Ninety-Seventh Street. We’re still a long way from home.”
We are both quiet. Liz glances out the window.
“She’s coming!” she says in a hush. She looks back at me and then over to the back door.
“I should go,” I say,
even as my heart breaks to think how far I’ll still have to travel on my own. I get to my feet and slip the backpack onto my shoulders. Liz purses her lips, then folds her arms across her chest.
“And get me in trouble for hiding you?” she says in a loud whisper. “No, thanks! Just stay where you are!”
“But what about—” I protest.
“I don’t know. Shoot, she’s coming!” she says, stumbling her way back into her seat and fastening her seat belt. I go back under the grill, pressed against the side of the truck. I can hear Liz muttering nervously. “Man, Afghans are just as stubborn as Dominicans.”
Twenty-Nine
“Your aunt’s got the flu or something. She was wearing a red-and-white bathrobe and socks. Big white socks that go up to her knees. She looks like Santa Claus on his day off. You wouldn’t like it, mija.”
Liz laughs, a small and nervous chuckle.
“A red-and-white bathrobe? That’s pretty funny.”
Her mother pauses for a second.
“Are you sure you’re okay? If you’re stressed out about the math test, you’re going to do just fine. You’ve been studying hard, and you have two more days before the exam.”
“I guess you’re right, Mami. I’ve just got to believe that everything will be fine,” she says, and I feel my chest relax.
The truck is back in motion and headed to 177th Street. This is as close as I’ve been to Auntie Seema’s home, but I wonder if I’m going to be disappointed again. Is it possible she’s moved? Maybe that’s not her address anymore. I push the thought aside and open Max’s backpack and pull out the notebook. Do I dare read more of her private thoughts? When I was in the castle, the book flipped open without my help. This time, I lift the cover on purpose. I really want to hear Max’s voice.
The middle of the notebook is where Max started writing her list of things to remember about herself after the surgery. I turn the pages slowly, doing my best not to attract attention with the rustling sound of pages turning. Max’s handwriting now looks familiar to me. I can hear her voice as I read her writing. I open to the beginning of the notebook. There are two blank pages and then Max’s handwriting appears.
One of these days, I’m going to get a passport and fly all around the world. I’m going to hop from one country to another, and try to learn lots of new words along the way. Dad brought home a container of gelato yesterday. (That’s ice cream from Italy.) It was the most amazing chocolate thing I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of chocolate. So, I have this idea for my tour around the world. Everywhere I go, I’ll stop and taste the ice cream. I’m going to write a book about all the different kinds of ice cream, and then share my reviews with people who are wondering what ice cream in South Africa tastes like.
I hope that I’ll be able to fly around the world. Right now, my mom gets nervous when I go into the backyard alone. Epilepsy is with me everywhere I go. Every time my mom fills out a camp form or RSVPs for a birthday party, someone’s got to find out that Max is epileptic. I don’t want to be an epileptic. I just want to be Max. Maybe even Max who sometimes has seizures. But mostly just Max.
I wish I could talk to Max. I wish I could tell her that she’s not just an epileptic. She’s way more than that. I don’t know if I’ll ever get this notebook back to her, but I reach into the bag and pull out a pencil with tiny bite marks in the wood. I can picture Max nervously chewing on the eraser end.
The road is getting a little rougher, and I do my best to stay tucked into the small space under the grill. Liz and her mother are talking quietly, and the radio is turned up so I can’t make out what they’re saying.
I flip to a blank page and hold the pencil, its tip bouncing on and off the paper as the truck jostles us about. I start to write. My thoughts are as messy and jumbled as my handwriting.
Max—I’m sorry I looked in your notebook. Please don’t be mad. You’re a riddle that I can’t seem to figure out. That’s what makes you fun to hang out with. I never would have gotten as far as I did without you. I’d probably still be in the hospital. If you can break out of a locked hospital floor, you can definitely make it around the world. I just hope you’ll find your way home after you do because I will try to find you. You’re a really cool friend.
I close the book and slip it back into the backpack. Slowly, so that it doesn’t make much noise, I zip the bag shut and hold it against my legs. Just as I’m wondering how far the truck has driven, I hear Liz’s voice over the music.
“Hey, we’re on 169th Street already? Mami, you’re driving fast today!”
“Liz, with all this traffic . . . you think I’m speeding? You could walk faster than I’m driving.”
Liz swings her head around. She and I make eye contact for a split second and I nod, thanking her for the secret update. We’re getting really close now, and I’ve got to come up with my exit plan. I’ve got only eight blocks left before they stop the truck.
I think about what Liz said and wonder if it’s possible to be two things. Can I be American and Afghan? I may not have been born in that country, but I’m hiding in a truck right now because of what happened there. The food I eat is Afghan, the music we listen to is Afghan, the gift-filled holiday I look forward to is Eid, not Christmas or Hanukkah.
But I’m American too. I watch NBA games and Thanksgiving Day parades. My favorite foods are macaroni and cheese and chocolate chip cookies. I cheer for the US team during the Olympics. I can understand a few words in Dari, but I only really speak English. Don’t those things make me American?
Just as I’m debating what I am, the truck slows down. It inches back and forth a few times and finally comes to a full stop.
“It’s supposed to get cold tomorrow,” Liz’s mother reports. “Winter’s finally going to be here, and I think it’s going to be a bad one. I can feel it in my bones.”
I try to curl myself into a tight ball and hold my breath so I don’t make a sound. I hear the truck doors open and, after a moment, close again.
“You need some new sweaters, Liz.”
“Dad said he would take me shopping next weekend.” From the distant sound of Liz’s voice, I can tell they are out of the vehicle but still close by. I take a small breath. I wait a few moments and hear their voices fade. Once I hear nothing but cars rolling past, I slowly come out from under the grill. I move one limb at a time and crawl on all fours to the front of the truck. From there, I poke my head up like a periscope coming out of the water, to see if Liz or her mother are anywhere in sight. I see a few people walking around with jackets buttoned up to their chins. The temperature has dropped since earlier this afternoon, and the sun is hidden behind the buildings.
I check Max’s backpack again, making sure all the pockets are zipped tightly. I check the laces of my sneakers. I do all these things because I’m a little nervous to step out of this truck. This is when I find out if I’ve correctly solved the riddle of where Auntie Seema lives. The next puzzle is how Auntie Seema can get me back to my mom in Afghanistan.
That’s what I’ve decided today—that I won’t be home unless I’m with my mother. If that means living in Afghanistan, then that’s where I’ll go. If it’s dangerous there, then I can’t let my mom face that alone. I don’t think my dad would want that for her, knowing the kind of guy he was. I’ll be an American living in Afghanistan. Here, I’m an Afghan-American. If I lived in Afghanistan would I be an American-Afghan? It doesn’t really matter what people want to call me. At the end of the day, I’m Jason D, the kid named after the second half of the year.
I move to the back of the truck. I can unlock that door and slip out onto the street. What if someone spots me coming out of here? I practice what I’m going to say, my hand on the door handle. I was just cleaning up a few things for my aunt. We sold lots of empanadas today! And then I’ll walk away as calmly as I can. I won’t smile too widely. I won’t whistle. I won’t run. That is my plan.
I take a deep breath and press down on the door handle. I hear a clic
k and swing the door open, daylight flooding the back of the truck. The sun is not completely gone yet. The truck is parked along a sidewalk, with a car a few feet behind it. I step out and see two men walking away from me, their backs turned so they don’t notice that I’ve just climbed out of La Casita.
I close the door behind me, my heart thumping loud and hard and steady like a drum. My hands are cold, even though I’m sweating. I walk around the truck to the sidewalk to figure out what street I’m on and which way I need to go to get to 174th Street. I’m standing next to the truck, straining my eyes to spot one of those green street signs on the corner. I want to jump for joy when I see that I’m on 175th Street. I’m just a block away from Auntie Seema. I could almost celebrate, but then a voice breaks through my happy thoughts.
“Did you just climb out of my truck?”
The drum in my chest beats harder. I spin around and see Liz’s mom, her hands on her hips, and the expression on her face not a happy one at all. The line I rehearsed in the truck is not going to work on her.
“I was . . . I just . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”
She takes a step closer to me, and that’s when I see Liz pop around the corner.
“Wait, Mami, I’ll get your phone—” Liz is shouting. She stops abruptly when she sees that her mother and I are face-to-face, a few squares of concrete sidewalk separating us.
“You didn’t mean to sneak into my truck? Where are your parents? Why are you lying?”
She’s right. I am lying, and that makes me a liar. A liar. A sneak. I think of all the things I’ve done since I left my house. My face turns bright red with all the shame I’ve kept bottled until now. Liz looks stuck, like she can’t figure out what to do so she does nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I shout, my voice about to crack. “I really am. I won’t bother you again.”
I turn to walk away, hoping she’ll just let me leave. I want to run, but I also know that’ll make me look and feel like a real criminal.
The Sky at Our Feet Page 16