The Remarkable Journey of Coyote Sunrise

by Dan Gemeinhart

  I walked down the stairs and took the first seat in the first row, way off to the side. Val was sitting in the middle with everyone else, but she got up and scurried over and sat next to me. She grinned and held a fist out toward me and I raised mine to bump it, then we both sat back to listen to the music.

  Salvador stepped up to the mic. I ain’t gonna lie—that boy looked super nervous. He tried to flash a smile at the crowd, but it didn’t stick around long. He ran his bow along the strings a few times and adjusted the screws at the top of the violin neck, tuning it to sound just right. I was pretty impressed he could do all that by ear.

  Then he notched the violin up against his neck and stepped up to the mic and held his bow on the strings and took a deep breath and was just about to play … and then he paused. And he leaned forward so his mouth was by the mic. And he fixed his eyes on one particular person there in the front row.

  And he said, “Es para ti, Mamá.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. Vega dabbing at her eyes.

  Oh, that Salvador.

  Then he started playing.

  And the music poured out of that little wooden violin in his hands, and it swirled out through the air and microphone and the darkness, and it filled up the room and our ears.

  It’d be easy to go all poetical and gush about how beautiful he played and how mesmerizing the music was and how we all sat there in awe of the amazingness of it all. And it’d be true, of course. He did play beautifully. And the song was mesmerizing. And we did all sit there in awe of the amazingness of it all. It’s all true.

  But those kinds of words are usually a waste of time. ’Cause there ain’t no words or no poetry that could wrap up what it was like sitting there listening to that Salvador play that violin of his. It was something.

  Rodeo says that anywhere outside can be a church, ’cause anytime you’re in nature you can feel god.

  Well. I guess me and him learned that day that you can feel god inside, too.

  Salvador was wearing a raggedy tank top undershirt, holey blue jeans, and flip-flops. But I tell you, he wouldn’t have looked one bit better if he was wearing a fancy tuxedo and thousand-dollar shoes. That Salvador looked like a hero up there. And he played like an angel. He was something.

  Man. That kid could play. He didn’t just play his heart out up there on that stage. He played my heart out, too.

  Now, Salvador had said that the song was ten minutes long.

  Something I’ll be mad about until the day I die is that I only got to enjoy about four minutes of it.

  Because about four minutes into it, Val looked over her shoulder. And her body jerked. Then she elbowed me, and I looked where she was looking.

  Back past the last row of seats, out through the auditorium doors. Right through the entryway, right to the glass front doors of the Billings Center for the Performing Arts.

  Right to where a security guard was holding up one hand and peering through the glass door while he fumbled with a ring of keys in his other hand.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I froze, but only for a second. Then I moved.

  I jumped up and started off toward the front door, running quiet and doubled over so I wouldn’t distract Salvador or his audience. I heard shuffling and glanced back and saw Val following right behind me, and I was glad. I’d only known her for, like, twelve hours, but I could already tell she was the kind of person you wanted on your team.

  We made it through the auditorium doors at about the same time that the guard managed to open the front doors and come striding in. I stepped forward to meet him, and Val real smart stopped to close the auditorium doors behind us, blocking us off from that beautiful music.

  “What are you doing in here?” the guard demanded, walking toward us, his voice loud and suspicious.

  “Shhh!” I said. “Quiet!”

  Now, all I was trying to do was make the fella hush a bit so he didn’t interrupt the magic happening back in the auditorium. But I said it harsh and kind of bossy, and I’ll tell you what, even though it wasn’t exactly a “plan,” that bossiness really kind of got us off on the right foot.

  Because that fella, he hushed. His mouth snapped shut and his eyes opened wider.

  He was young. All pale and smooth-cheeked, maybe twenty or twenty-one. We were not dealing with some hard-as-nails, grizzled police detective.

  Val, she figured out the score pretty quick. She came up beside me just as he repeated quieter and more polite, “What are you doing in here?” and she answered back lightning quick, “What are you doing in here?”

  The guard blinked.

  “I’m, uh, I’m—”

  “You’re interrupting, is what you’re doing,” Val interrupted. She jerked a thumb back over her shoulder. “We’ve got an important audition going on right now.”

  The guard licked his lips and his face screwed up in confusion.

  “What kind of audition? There’s nothing on the schedule, and nobody told me there’d be—”

  “An important audition. I thought I said that the first time. My brother is auditioning to go to the Juilliard School in New York City. The judge flew all the way out here to hear him.”

  The guard gulped. He looked desperately at me, then back at Val. I’ll give it to him, though: He was clearly out of his league with Val, but he didn’t give up that easy.

  “Do you, uh … Do you have permission to be here?”

  “Do you think we’d be here if we didn’t have permission?”

  “So, you’re saying this is, like, cleared and everything, by—”

  “Yeah. Obviously. It was cleared by the director.”

  Now, I knew that Val was blowing a lot of smoke and taking a shot in the dark. But it didn’t show one bit. Her voice was calm and confident and downright mean. She didn’t make it seem like she was about to get in trouble. She made it seem like he was about to get in trouble.

  It was awesome.

  Still, it was a risky move. My armpits prickled hot and my mouth went dry. The dude squinted dubiously at Val. Then he spoke.

  “Mrs. Marshall cleared this? She gave the okay?”

  “Uh, yeah. She’s in there right now,” Val said, jerking her head toward the closed doors behind us. “You can hang out and talk to her after the audition if you want, but I wouldn’t interrupt right now, if I were you. You know how she can be.”

  It was another risk. Another shot in the dark.

  But the dude nodded.

  “Oh, yeah. I sure do,” he murmured.

  Val was shooting into the dark left and right, but she was hitting the target every time.

  Then, just like that, Val went nice.

  “Listen,” she said, her voice softening and sweetening, “I’m sorry they didn’t let you know about this. It was kind of last minute. But please don’t mess this up for him. It’s his one chance.”

  The guard’s whole body eased up. He took a couple calming breaths and wiped at his forehead real quick. He was so visibly relieved that he was now somehow mysteriously on Val’s good side. I almost smiled.

  “So that’s your bus parked out back, then?” he asked.

  Val blinked.

  “Of course,” she said after a second. “We’re from the … the Montana Music Conservatory. It’s a private school. Very, uh, prestigious.”

  “Y’all are students from a school?” he asked, somewhat doubtfully. His eyes went from Val’s nose ring to my scuzzy cargo shorts and bare feet.

  Val just laughed, a big, easy head-back laugh. She even reached out and shoved the guard’s shoulder playfully.

  “Uh, yeah. Who else drives around in a school bus?”

  The dude sniffed and his eyebrows flickered up. He smiled, then laughed along with Val and shook his head.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled. “Well, that’s true.”

  I kinda wanted to jump in and suggest that in fact there might be any number of interesting, trustworthy people besides student
s who drive around in school buses, but I figured it wasn’t the time or place for that point to be made.

  “All right, well, I’m sorry I barged in like that,” he said.

  “You were just doing your job,” Val assured him, holding up her hands, smiling wide.

  The guard backed up to the front door and opened it behind him.

  “I hope your brother makes it,” he said, smiling at Val.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said.

  But then the guard stopped halfway out the door. His eyebrows scrunched down.

  “But … if the audition is so important, why is he dressed like that? I saw him. He’s wearing jeans and an old w—”

  “Excuse me?” Val shot in, and her voice was right back to acid and flames and sharp knives.

  The guard’s eyes went wide again.

  “I, uh, I just mean, he’s wearing—”

  “Excuse me?” Val repeated, her voice rising and adding a few more degrees of nasty.

  “Well … well…”

  “Excuse me?” She took a step toward him, her hands in fists and her head tilted to the side like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. I know I couldn’t.

  The guard gulped.

  “N-n-nothing. Just … have a good day. Sorry.”

  And then he was out. And the door closed behind him and he stood there for a second, blinking at Val. And then he turned and got out of there, double-quick.

  We watched him go, hustling back toward his security car.

  “Hey, Val,” I said out of the side of my mouth.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you should seriously reconsider giving up on that acting dream of yours.”

  She snorted.

  “Thanks.”

  “That was amazing. Especially at the end. I think he would’ve given you his keys if you’d asked.”

  Val grinned at me.

  “That ‘excuse me’ trick is like magic. It works, like, seventy-five percent of the time. If you say ‘excuse me’ all mean and rude and then just keep saying it louder, people will just, like, surrender.”

  “I’m gonna remember that one.”

  Out the window, the guard was still sitting in his car. He hadn’t pulled away yet.

  “You know,” I said, “he might still put it all together.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We should beat it.”

  “Yeah.”

  Me and Val walked in just as Salvador played out the last, ringing note. The front-row audience jumped to their feet in a standing ovation.

  Salvador, up there in his blue jeans and old tank top, took a deep bow. Ms. Vega was wiping tears from her cheeks. So was Concepción. I made eye contact with Lester, who was clapping from behind the glass of the booth at the back of the auditorium, a huge smile on his face. I shot him we-got-a-semi-serious-situation-here eyes and motioned for him to come on, and he did.

  Val and I hurried the crowd out the back as fast as we could without freaking anybody out or ruining the good-times vibe. Salvador was practically glowing. He and his mom were the last to leave. She ran up to him onstage and they stood there in the spotlight in a long, tight hug as everyone else filed quietly past them and out the back door.

  There’s so much happiness in the world.

  As we rolled out of the parking lot, we were all quiet. I think we all still had Salvador’s music echoing in our hearts and didn’t wanna let it go just yet.

  I was settling into my seat, Ivan on my lap and a book in my hand, when Salvador turned from where he was sitting with his mom in the seat in front of me. He looked into my face with those serious eyes of his and said, “Thank you,” all quiet and solemn, and I said, “It was no big deal,” and he shook his head and said, “Yeah, it was,” and I said, “Salvador, you are really good,” and he shrugged all modest but then smirked and said, “Well, yeah, of course,” and we both smiled and then he added, “We are definitely getting you home in time, Coyote Sunrise,” and then he turned back around and that was that.

  It was a nice moment. It really was. Everything, at that moment, was going so well.

  Of course, it all fell apart. Everything does, if you give it long enough. Secrets especially.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  We only got about another thirty minutes down the road. Rodeo was driving. He hadn’t said a word since we’d gotten rolling again. I’d kinda noticed a tight stiffness in his body language, but I’d ignored it because I was feeling so good about the whole Salvador-and-his-mom violin thing. There was no ignoring it, though, when out of nowhere Rodeo hit the brakes and pulled over on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, Montana.

  He turned off the engine. Pulled the keys out of the ignition. Turned toward where I was sitting in the second row of seats. Looked me right in my eyes. And then asked me:

  “Where are we going, Coyote?”

  The bus sat in silence. In my periphery, I could see Lester, sitting quiet and watching close. Salvador was still as a statue in front of me.

  I swallowed.

  “Butte, Montana,” I said, “for a pork chop sand—”

  “Coyote,” Rodeo cut in, “where are we going? Don’t you lie to me.”

  I almost gasped, those words of his took me so by surprise. We didn’t talk harsh to each other like that, me and Rodeo. We weren’t the lying types. Well, at least not out loud. At least not me. At least not until recently.

  “I ain’t lying,” I lied. “We’re going to Butte for pork chop sandwiches.”

  Rodeo blinked. He breathed in. He breathed out. He kept his eyes right on me. He shook his head.

  “Yeah?” he asked, and his voice was some horrible combination of tired and sad and hurt and bitter and angry. “Then why have you been acting so weird ever since that call with your grandma? Why are you so anxious to get back on the road every time we stop? Why were you gonna leave Salvador and his mom at the side of the road? And why … why did Salvador just tell you he was gonna get you home in time? Why, Coyote?”

  Salvador’s head dropped when Rodeo said that. Lester blew out an oh-boy-here-we-go breath.

  I opened my mouth. Closed it.

  Time was up. And in a lot of ways, I was ready. More than ready. When Rodeo turned around and demanded that I tell him the truth, part of my heart said, “Oh no,” but another part of my heart said, “Thank god, finally.”

  I raised my chin. I made myself look right into his eyes. And I told him the truth.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  “Rodeo,” I said soft but firm, “we gotta go home.”

  His face closed up, and quick. You ain’t never seen something go so cold and closed so fast in your life, I guarantee it. I saw him go back inside his eyes, pulling hard away from me and toward his distant insides.

  “Coyote,” he said, his voice small and tired, almost angry. “We are home.”

  “You know what I mean. We gotta go back. To Poplin Springs.”

  He shook his head, his eyes narrowing.

  “That’s a no-go, Coyote. You know that.”

  “Sorry, Rodeo. It’s a ‘go’ this time. We have to go back.”

  He didn’t actually shift or move, but I swear that man shrank right there, just folded into himself and got smaller. His eyes, those amazing eyes, looked hurt. Like I’d slapped him. And they looked wary, too, like he wasn’t gonna let me slap him again.

  “Is your grandma sick?” he asked, looking away from me.

  I almost thought about lying for a second, saying, “Yeah, she’s dying!” I think even Rodeo would’ve gotten to yes pretty quick for that. But I was kinda done with lying.

  “No,” I answered. “She’s fine. It’s Sampson Park.”

  He looked up at me again, cocking his head curiously.

  “They’re tearing it out. All of it. Digging it up and paving it over.”

  Rodeo shook his head. His shoulders relaxed a bit, but he still looked tight.

  “Well, that’s a sh
ame, sugar pie. It’s a pretty little park. But what’s that got to do with us?”

  This was the tough part. I was gonna have to go down a whole list of no-goes, say a whole lot of unsayable things, utter out loud some names we’d long ago silently agreed to never say aloud again. I was digging up graves with these words, waking up ghosts. Ripping off scabs.

  “May twenty-first, five years ago,” I said.

  His eyes slid away from me again.

  “Pardon?”

  “May twenty-first. Five years ago, plus some. It was Ava’s tenth birthday.”

  He flinched when I said it. When I said the name of my big sister. Ava with the long hair, Ava with the wide smile, Ava with the loud laugh, Ava with the tombstone with an angel on top.

  Rodeo shook his head.

  “Damn it, Coyo—”

  “We went to the park. Me. Ava. Mom. Rose.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut hard when I said it, like I’d smashed his thumb with a hammer, when I said the name of my little sister. Rose, who loved her silly dances, Rose, who sang along way too loud to songs she didn’t know, Rose, who pinched her neck when she was sleepy, Rose, who was buried beside Ava under a tombstone carved with birds.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quiet, a whisper. Then I kept going.

  “You were still at work. We made a memory box, us four. We each picked out some things to put in it. Pictures we took. Pictures we drew. Notes, letters. Stuff we made. Locks of our hair. We put it in that old metal box we used to play cash register with. We took it to the park and we buried it. Off in the corner, under all those trees. And we rolled a big rock on top. We were gonna come back in ten years and dig it up, look at all the memories. We promised we would. I promised I would. But then—” I broke off, my voice lost in a sea of broken glass. But there wasn’t time to stop, wasn’t time to get lost. “But then five days later they were gone.”

  The last word hung there, saying everything but leaving so much out.

  Rodeo sat with his head down, his eyes closed. He was rocking back and forth, just a little bit.

  “And now, it’s just me left. And they’re tearing out that park. And they’re gonna bulldoze those trees. But they’re not getting that memory box. That’s mine. And we’re going back to get it. It’s all I got.”