“I’m Bárbara. I work part-time for Ley Unido, which, as you know, is a nonprofit organization that offers legal council to youths in immigration centers, without actual legal representation.”
Santiago blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means I can give you advice on your options and rights, and help with paperwork while you’re here, but I can’t be your lawyer if you decide you want one.”
What good is that then? he wanted to shout. I thought you said you wanted to help? Instead he maintained the impassive expression that months at the center had brought on. “So, what are my options?”
“I need to know more about you and your situation back home. You’re mexicano, I’m guessing by your accent? Tell me about your family. Why you came to this country. Who you have here. The more information you can give me, the more advice or options I’ll have for you.”
“I’ve already told the other guys everything.”
“What other guys?”
“The officers or whatever they are. The people who work here.”
“Ah, but you see, I don’t work here.” She smiled and reached out for his hand, which he pulled away before she could grasp it. She straightened up and continued, “Their job is to record everyone who comes in and get them out of here as soon as possible. My job is to offer you options that might let you stay in this country.”
He didn’t want to think too much about this. But hope suddenly sprouted inside before he could stop it. Darn hope, exactly what he dreaded.
He breathed deeply and told the story he’d told when he arrived. The carefully worded truth, and the internal truth that included two sisters. He made sure it matched with the first report in case the two ever crossed paths.
“Tell me about your abuela,” she said.
“I’d rather not.”
“How come?”
“She’s an evil person who hates me.”
“What makes you think she hated you?” Señora Bárbara spoke carefully, so as never to put words in his mouth.
Anger rose in him as he explained. “She always screamed at me or insulted me. And that was only when she couldn’t throw anything in my direction or hit me.” He crossed his arms tightly around his chest.
Señora Bárbara gave him a pitying look before quickly turning away to dab her eyes. “Sorry, baby hormones.”
Still, it took her several more minutes before she continued. “I’m not saying you’re doing that, but unfortunately a lot of kids say they’re being abused when they’re not. They think it evokes sympathy so the judge will grant them refugee status. In fact, I know of several kids who were abused, but there wasn’t any evidence. The court didn’t believe their mistreatment, and they were returned to their abusive relatives. We’re going to need more proof than your word.”
Proof? Was that all she wanted? He stood up and placed his current book on the table before taking off his sweatshirt and shirt. The room wasn’t as warm as he’d thought. Goose bumps rematerialized up and down his arms and along the sides of his visible ribs. The chill also highlighted the redness of his scars. He turned to show his front and back, too many to have been accidental. “I can tell you how I got each one. Some have faded, but I have more under my pants.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she scribbled in her notebook. “And no, I don’t need the details. It makes sense that you’d want to escape that. The good news is that the judge should definitely agree that’s not a safe environment for you. And she was your legal guardian?”
He pulled the shirt and then sweatshirt back on and curled the bottom ribbing under to hide his cold hands inside. “I don’t know if it was legal, but she’s the one who took over when Mami died.”
“Were you ever in foster care?”
“No, but she tried to get rid of me all the time. Sending me to live with different relatives.”
“How many times did this happen?”
He held out his hand to count off as he went through the list chronologically in his head. “Five times? After that there were no relatives left who would take me.”
She nodded as she continued scribbling. “Thank you for sharing all of this. I think you’re a great candidate to seek asylum.”
He remembered Guanaco, his first friend in the facility, and how it wasn’t until he turned eighteen that anything changed. “So I won’t get sent back? I can stay here while I seek asylum?”
“I can’t say anything for sure.” She went through her notes. “Ideally, I’d like to get you into foster care.”
He looked at his hands, still wrapped in the hem of his sweatshirt. Something else to get his hopes up, something else to disappoint him. If he stayed here, at least he knew what to expect. Into the darkest corner of his mind he shoved the other reason: If he stayed here, María Dolores would know where to find him.
“Maybe foster care isn’t a good idea.”
Señora Bárbara reached out and took his hands out of his sweatshirt, not letting them go when he tried to pull away. “No one’s going to hurt you. Our foster care families are thoroughly screened, and they will welcome you into their homes. You’ll live the life of a normal adolescent.”
Instead of that of a detainee—or prisoner, since they were virtually the same in here. He could wear whatever he wanted, assuming he had options. Eat anything that was available. Wake up and go to bed anytime, until ordered otherwise. He could dance in the rain, when it happened in the desert.
“I’ll stay there until I’m eighteen?”
“Probably not. Foster care is temporary. Until your sister can take care of you.”
“She’s not coming.” Or else she would have gotten him when she came for Alegría. But would it have changed anything if she had? According to Chismoso, youths were only released to parents or tíos who could prove they were related. What proof would María Dolores have? He didn’t even know his own birth date.
Señora Bárbara took a few seconds before replying. “Even if it’s for a short amount of time, you’d be out of this place.”
She rubbed her hand over her baby belly.
Mami had done that too. He didn’t know how he knew—he’d been inside her belly—but instinctively he did.
Just as he knew Mami would hate seeing him in here, locked up, and unable to live a free life. For her, he’d do it.
“Por favor,” Santiago pleaded. “Tell me everything I need to do to get asylum and foster care and anything else that gets me out of here and not returned to México.”
He spent the rest of the morning with Señora Bárbara reading him information she brought and filling out forms. He missed school for the first time, and lunch. When Señora Bárbara pulled two protein bars from her pocket and handed him one (either she hadn’t been searched before entering or her pregnancy gave her special food privileges), he shook his head and instead asked how to spell adoptar for the foster care papers. Finally, she asked him to write a short autobiography in Spanish for the foster families to read.
“What should I say?”
“Whatever you think people should know about you.”
His mind went blank. He couldn’t think of anything someone would want to know about him. “Can you write it for me?”
She smiled and shook her head. “It’s important that it comes straight from you. Your words, your handwriting.”
A breath caught in his throat. He could write. Kind of. Señor Dante had taught him the basics and let him borrow a new book to read on Mondays and Thursdays when they had school. Some words like hola, gracias, and, even though it pained him to think about her, Alegría, he could write automatically, while others he had to sound out letter by letter to get them on the page. Between the books and practicing often, he could write. And maybe he could write his autobiography by himself.
But thinking up the words still troubled him.
“Mira.” Señora Bárbara interrupted his thoughts. “I have to pee again, and I’m not allowed to leave you here alone. Why don’t you work o
n the autobiography for a few days and give it to me by the end of the week?”
“You’re coming back?”
“Every day this week.” Señora Bárbara stacked the papers she’d collected from him. “In the meantime, I’ll start getting these filed.”
“How long before anything happens?”
“I’m getting the asylum forms in quickly, but it’s still going to take a long time. For foster care, I hope to have you in place in a couple of weeks.”
His eyes widened. A couple of weeks? That was nothing. “I’ll have the autobiography for you tomorrow.”
“Perfect. I want to clarify one thing, though.” Her smile faltered a bit, and when she replaced it, it seemed forced. “Leaving the facility doesn’t mean you can stay in this country forever. You’ll still have a court date, and it will be up to the judge to decide if you are granted asylum. It’s possible you might still return to México to live with your abuela.”
His shoulders dropped, and he swallowed in understanding as he followed her out of the room. That would be the worst-case scenario. He resolved, for Mami, to remain optimistic. No point in thinking or worrying about a different future.
CHAPTER 31
It took the rest of the day to write the autobiography for Señora Bárbara. Santiago attended Señor Dante’s afternoon class but kept to a corner while working with a dictionary. The lawyer had said to make the autobiography personal, interesting, and honest. How could anyone know what to write about themselves? What did people find interesting? Señor Dante suggested pretending that “Santiago” was a character in a story and to describe him that way. That helped.
Mi nombre es Santiago, he began.
I am twelve years old. I am an orphan (he had to get help from the teacher in spelling huérfano) from México. I am learning to read and write in Spanish. I am learning some English, too. I hope to keep getting better. I like reading and telling stories. I can take care of niños y bebés. I am responsible. I do not get sick. My teacher says I am smart. I do not know if that is true.
He double-checked every word in the dictionary to make sure he’d spelled it right and was just adding the last accent mark when Castillo opened the classroom door to let them return to the main room. At the other end, the volunteer lawyers stood by the exit door as they waited for Patterson to buzz them out after a full day of meeting with the other kids.
“Wait!” Santiago called out, dashing toward them.
“Walk!” Patterson yelled in English.
“Tome.” He waved the biography at Señora Bárbara. “Is this all right? I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to give it to you.”
Señora Bárbara glanced over it before widening the smile that looked so out of place at the center. “Exactly what I wanted. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Santiago backed away from the door and waved.
* * *
For the next few days he put all of his energy into getting out of the center and into foster care. He had asked Señor Dante for a letter that reflected his academic achievements. The teacher gave it to him the next class:
Santiago is one of my star students. He always attends my classes eager to learn. I’ve never seen a student progress so quickly in my five years of teaching. He is always polite and respectful to everyone. Having Santiago in my class is a reminder of why I became a teacher. He is a true joy to teach.
Santiago liked the letter so much, he wanted to keep it for himself.
He now made sure the guards saw him assisting Consuelo with the cleanup after meals. When the guards asked for volunteers, Santiago jumped at the chance to put up the Christmas decorations. The red, green, and silver paper and foil were more depressing than joyful, but Santiago kept those thoughts to himself. Señora Bárbara hadn’t said he should be helpful, but it made sense to present himself to everyone in the best light.
A few days after another feast, this one in celebration of Noche Buena, Patterson wheeled in a dolly stacked with four heavy boxes of donations. Santiago said in his best English, “I you help.”
He lifted the boxes off the dolly, which Patterson wheeled away before the boys got any ideas of playing on it (the prospect had definitely crossed Santiago’s mind). He peeled the tape off one of the boxes and gasped.
“Oh no, they’re just books,” said the whiny Llorón, who had come eagerly at the possibility of belated Christmas presents. When he wasn’t keeping everyone awake at night with his crying, he always found something to complain about during the day, the result being that most boys learned to ignore him.
Other boys crowded around to check out the selection from the four boxes. Most of the books were in Spanish, though a few were bilingual, with the odd one in another language. One of the boxes contained fat paperbacks, which, after one of the boys dubbed them almohadas, were grabbed by several teens. With a crumpled gray sweatshirt over it, the book would become the closest thing to a pillow anyone had.
From the box in front of him, Santiago pulled out activity books with puzzles and games, Harry Potters (or Arry Potta, as the boys called him), and illustrated Bibles. The stack of Donald Duck comics was grabbed out of his hands instantly, a reminder of home, where they were sold at every other newsstand. Even Santiago, who hadn’t known how to read, had enjoyed looking through the comics whenever he came across one. He didn’t reserve one for himself this time. Under the comics, the picture books started. A familiar blue-and-gold cover winked at him.
“Ay,” he gasped, and slowly pulled the book out of the box. He gripped it tightly and brought it close to his chest. He moved away from the boxes to his favorite reading corner.
“Look at Santi,” called out Llorón. “He’s reading a girl’s book.”
Two or three turned their heads to look but then shrugged indifference as they continued to go through the boxes. Santiago could feel Patterson’s eyes on him. Be nice. For foster care, he had to be nice.
“Would you like me to read the story to you?” he asked Llorón, gesturing to the free spot next to him.
“I’m not a baby, and I’m not a girl.” Llorón walked away with a huff. Relief escaped Santiago. The first time he read this book he wanted to enjoy it alone.
The princess on the cover wasn’t one of those who needed rescuing, but wore the suit of a leader and defender. Santiago held the book for several minutes, turning it around in his hands, feeling the smooth, new-looking cover. It smelled of paper, ink, and glue, not of anyone or anything else, as if waiting to make its own new memories with him. His fingers traced over the title illustrated to look like puffs of air: La princesa y el viento.
A story about a princess standing up to the wind spirit to protect her people, the one he’d told Alegría in the holding room of this center. The same story his mami used to read to him. At the time, Santiago had thought the princess had been Mami. After all, Mami had been able to talk to the wind as well.
He pressed the book against his chest. Even with the hard cover and pointed edges, it felt soft and comforting. Like Mami. More than ever, he missed her.
He had to get into foster care. It was the only way out. The only way to dance in the rain. A couple of weeks, Señora Bárbara had promised. Just two or three weeks.
He opened the book carefully to not hurt the spine and turned to the first page. As he read it, he didn’t need to sound out any of the words. This story he knew.
CHAPTER 32
“¡Basta! Get off of me!”
Santiago sat up so quickly his head spun and his eyes struggled to focus in the semi-light. He was back at la malvada’s house. Hands shaking, he reached for the wall behind him to steady himself.
Where would the blow come from? He couldn’t see her.
Because she wasn’t here. Only teenage boys. And guards.
“Mamá! Mamá, come back!” The screaming continued.
All the boys were now awake, muttering and cursing the screamer. Santiago’s heart still pounded, even though it hadn’t been he who screamed. He clung to h
is book like a safety blanket.
Herrera stomped toward a figure thrashing on the floor as if he were having a seizure. All around the boy, the metallic blanket lay in shreds.
“Wake up, you loco.” The guard kicked him. The thrashing boy leaped to his feet.
Herrera jumped back and let out a high-pitched squeal. The screaming boy stood there staring at the guard. Slowly the boy turned in a tight circle to glare at the crowded room.
Santiago gasped. It was Llorón, the boy who’d made fun of his book. His wide black eyes looked possessed. And at the same time empty.
“He’s still asleep,” someone whispered. The room looked on in silence.
“Do something,” Herrera told his colleague, a new guard Santiago didn’t know.
“Like what? You’re not supposed to wake up a sleepwalker. Something about the shock could damage their brain.”
Llorón started walking around the crowded room, shuffling his feet like a zombie, though looking more like a ghost. None of the teenagers dared utter a word.
“Maybe we can ease him back to the floor,” Herrera said with false bravado.
The other guard screeched. “Are you crazy? You can’t touch him. You want to get sued for misconduct?”
“Llama al médico,” Herrera ordered.
“No one’s on duty. Budget cuts.”
Llorón continued weaving around the bodies, causing the boys to squirm out of the way. He came within a meter of Santiago, staring at him with empty eyes.
Santiago set his book down and rose slowly to his feet, not wanting to look Llorón in the eye. He extended his arm and pointed to the floor.
“Acuéstate, right now,” Santiago ordered in the tone he used when his cousins got out of hand.
Llorón seemed to understand. “¿Y Mamá?”
“She’s coming,” Santiago lied, keeping his voice firm.
“They killed Papi. Trying to cross. They shot him.”
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