by Jon Scieszka
“That’s it,” said Flashlight Man, and they all hurried toward the van, where they were again sandwiched together inside.
That wasn’t so bad, thought Marco as the van sped down another dirt road. A tiny bud of relief began to flower in his mind. Hakuna matata. No worries.
Within five minutes, the van slowed to a crawl and then stopped. Marco heard someone outside barking orders at the driver. The van door slid open, and four border patrol officers with guns drawn ordered them out.
Papa whispered to Marco, “Bad luck. La migra. Immigration officers. Say nothing.”
They were herded into two waiting vans with long bench seats.
No one spoke on the ride to the border patrol station. What was there to say? They’d been caught. Inside, it was exactly as Papa had said. They stood in line, gave false names during a short interview, were fingerprinted, and then were released on the Mexico side of the border at the bus station.
“Now what?” asked Marco,
“We walk back to la casa del coyote,” said Papa.
It was seven in the morning before they reached downtown Tijuana again. Most shops weren’t open yet, and bars and fences enclosed the vendors’ stalls that were filled with piñatas, leather goods, ceramics, and sombreros. Papa bought premade burritos and cans of Coke inside the corner market before they turned down the street that led to Coyote Lady’s house.
Many of their group had already found their way back to the basement room off the alley. Papa and Marco found a spot against the wall and fell asleep. They woke late in the afternoon, Papa went again to the corner market for food. Marco watched the video The Little Mermaid, listening to the fish maiden’s song, “Wanderin’ free—wish I could be, part of that world.”
It seemed everyone wanted to go to the other side.
Three days passed with the same routine: Papa going out for food, taking turns to use the bathroom off the alley, sitting and staring and waiting.
On Sunday morning Coyote Lady came down the stairs into the basement room. She wore a dress like the one Mama wore for church, a floral print with a white collar. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and she looked like someone’s aunt or a neighborhood woman from the village.
“Today is a big football game, professional, in San Diego. La migra will be eager to get people into the United States in time for the game. We start moving you in one hour, one at a time.”
Marco looked at Papa. He did not want to be separated from him.
Papa asked, “How?”
“In a car,” said Coyote Lady. “We hide you. If I only take one at a time across, the car does not ride low and look suspicious. I drive in a different lane each time across. As you can see, we are having trouble with the usual ways, so we try this. It has worked before, especially on a busy day.”
Marco still didn’t like the idea of being away from Papa. What happened if Papa got across and he didn’t. Or what if he couldn’t find Papa on the other side? Then what would he do? He didn’t like this part of the journey. Suddenly, he wished he’d stayed home another year in Jocotepec. As if reading his mind, Papa said, “I will go before you, Marco,” said Papa. “And I will wait for you. I will not leave until you arrive. And if you don’t arrive, I will come back to this room. That will be the plan if we get separated.”
Marco nodded.
Coyote Lady gave orders and signaled for one of the women to come with her. Every hour she stuck her head inside the room and called out another person.
Papa and Marco were the last of the group to go. They walked outside.
In the alley the trash cans had been pushed aside to make room for an old car. Flashlight Man waited beside the car, but he wasn’t wearing his usual black uniform. Instead, he had on jeans, a blue-and-white football jersey, and a Chargers cap. He lifted the hood of the car.
Inside, a narrow rectangular coffee table had been placed next to the motor, forming a ledge. Two of the wooden legs disappeared into the bowels of the car, and two of the legs had been cut short and now provided the braces against the radiator and motor.
“Okay,” he said. “You lie down in here. It only takes a half hour. There is a van waiting for you in Chula Vista that will take you to your destinations.”
Papa climbed up. Flashlight Man positioned his feet and legs so they would not touch the motor. Papa put his head and upper body on the tiny tabletop, curling his body to make it smaller. For an instant before the hood was closed, Papa’s eyes caught Marco’s, then looked away.
“Vámanos,” said Coyote Lady, and she wedged into the driver’s seat. Flashlight Man sat on the passenger side. A Chargers football banner and blue pompoms sat on the dashboard as further proof of their deception. The car backed out of the alley and left.
Marco went back into the basement room and waited.
They had said it would take an hour, round trip. The minutes crawled by. Why did Papa agree to do this? Why did he humiliate himself in front of these people? Marco walked in circles.
After one hour he put in the videotape Aladdin and tried to pay attention as the characters sang about a whole new world. It seemed so easy in the video to get on a flying carpet to reach a magical place. Where is my magic carpet? Where is the new world? Where is Papa? Did he get through? Marco had never once heard a story of someone crossing while under the hood of a car. He tried to imagine being inside, next to the mechanics of the machinery. His stomach churned.
The door opened. Flashlight Man was back. “Let’s go.”
Marco took a deep breath and followed him.
The car was already positioned in the alley with the hood up. Coyote Lady took his backpack and threw it into the trunk. Marco climbed up on the bumper and swung his legs over the motor, then sat on the makeshift ledge. Flashlight Man arranged Marco’s legs, as if he were in a running position, one leg up, knee bent. One leg straighter but slightly bent. Marco slowly lowered himself on his side and put his head on the tabletop. Then he crossed his arms around his chest and watched the sunlight disappear to a tiny crack as the hood was closed.
“Don’t move in there,” said Flashlight Man.
“I won’t,” he whispered.
The motor started. The noise hurt Marco’s ears, and within minutes it was hot. The smell of motor oil and gasoline stung his nostrils. He breathed through his mouth, straining his lips toward the crack in the hood for fresh air. The car moved along for ten minutes until they reached the lanes of traffic that led to the border crossing. Then it was stop and go. Stop and go. His legs began to cramp, but Marco knew not to move one inch. He tried not to imagine what would happen if he rolled onto the car’s motor.
The car lurched and stopped, over and over. Marco wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid that he would feel disoriented. He watched the small crack between the car and hood, as if it were his lifeline. A flash of color obliterated his line of sunlight as a flower vendor stopped next to the car, trying to make one last sale to Coyote Lady and Flashlight Man. “Flores, flores! You buy cheap! You buy cheap!”
The car started to move forward, but the flower vendor continued to walk alongside, tapping on the window. Coyote Lady pressed on the horn. Marco’s body trembled as the sound reverberated through his body. He inched his hands up to cover his ears. The vendor moved away, and the car began to move faster.
Marco never knew when they actually crossed the border. He only knew when the car began to speed up. His body pulsed with the vibrations of the car. Oddly, he watched beads of moisture move across the radiator, as if they had the ability to dance. Marco could not feel his right foot. It had fallen asleep. Panic crept into his chest and seized his muscles. He slowly pressed his hand back and forth across his chest to relieve the tightness. “No worries,” he whispered. “Hakuna matata. No worries.”
The car stopped, and a door slammed.
He heard someone fiddling with the hood latch. Light streamed into Marco’s eyes, and he squinted. Flashlight Man pulled him from the car and handed over his b
ackpack. Marco stumbled from his dead foot, and his body still rocked with the feeling of the moving car. He looked around. He was in a parking lot behind an auto shop.
Papa was waiting. “We made it,” he said, smiling and clapping Marco on the back. “We are in Chula Vista, California.”
Marco said nothing. He could barely hear what Papa had said because of the noise in his ears. Were they filled with cotton and bees? He felt as if his body had been insulted. He pulled away from Papa and climbed into a waiting van, this one with seats and windows. The door slid shut. Marco looked out the window and saw Coyote Lady and Flashlight Man driving away.
The others in the van smiled and talked, as if they’d all just come from a party. The relief of a successful crossing seemed to have unleashed their tongues. Marco listened as they talked of their jobs in towns he’d never heard of before: Escondido, Solana Beach, Poway, Cardiff. Papa told them that he and his son were going to Encinitas to work in the greenhouses and that it was his son’s first time crossing over. Faces turned toward Marco.
Marco cringed, embarrassed, and stared at his shoes.
One of the men laughed out loud. “At least you were not rolled inside a mattress like I was on my first time!”
“Or like me,” said a young woman, grinning. “They dressed me as an abuelita, a grandmother, with a wig and old clothes, and had me walk across with another woman’s identification. I was shaking the entire time.”
Marco looked up and forced a smile.
Stories spilled from their lips about their first times, or their friend’s, or family member’s: hiding inside hollowed-out bales of hay, cramped inside a hide-a-bed sofa in which the bed frame had been removed, buried in the middle of a truckload of crates filled with cackling chickens. Marco found himself laughing and nodding. He felt giddy as they reveled in one another’s bizarre and sometimes life-threatening stories. And he began to feel proud and somehow connected to the people in the van. When one man told how he was hidden in a door panel of a truck, smashed in a fetal position for one hour and thought he might suffocate, Marco laughed the hardest.
“It is worth it, no?” said one man. “For our families. For a chance . . .” Tears filled his eyes.
As the people were dropped off in towns along the way north, they shook hands with Marco and Papa and left them with the same words, “Buena suerte,” good luck. When Papa and Marco were the only ones left in the van, and the driver finally headed up Freeway 5 toward Encinitas, Papa grinned at him. “Okay?”
Marco nodded. “Okay.” He looked out the window at the people in the cars on the freeway. And wondered how many of them were headed to a whole new world.
NEED THAT DOG
BY SHARON CREECH
The summer I turned twelve I decided that I needed a dog. It wasn’t just that I wanted a dog; I needed it. It would make everything much better.
If I had a dog, I would always have a buddy at my side. He wouldn’t go away for the summer like two of my friends had. If I had a dog, people like Valentino and his snarly sidekicks wouldn’t bug me. They wouldn’t look at me, walking along by myself, and think they could call me “a skinny squirt” and threaten to make me eat dirt.
I told my father about this urgent need for a dog.
“A dog, Sam?” my father said. “A dog?”
“You don’t like the idea?”
“Oh, I like the idea just fine, Sam,” my father said, but the way he said it, in that sarcastic way, he meant exactly the opposite. “I like that idea about as much as you going outside and jumping into a mud puddle and coming back in and racing through the house and up over the furniture and knocking over a few plants on your way and then ferociously attacking those threatening pillows and then running back outside and rolling over a dead mouse and getting it all deep into your hair and then jumping back into the mud puddle and then digging up your mom’s tulip bulbs and then coming back in and running another loop around the living room and—”
He did not like the idea.
My mother had a different reaction. She is a softie, through and through. She rescues spiders and worms and caterpillars. If a bird flies against a window and falls, stunned, to the ground, she stays with it until it recovers. She’ll stop the car to help a turtle cross the road. She can’t pass a dog or cat without pausing to say “Aw.”
When I told her I needed a dog, she said, “Aw.”
My dad heard that “Aw” and said, “No. No way.”
My mom said, “But, aw—”
“No.”
That didn’t stop me from dreaming. I could see my dog clearly: a big German shepherd; black and tan; strong and sturdy; pointed ears alert to every sound; keen, watchful bright eyes. It was my loyal companion, my friend and my protector, walking proudly by my side. Valentino would not mess with me when I was walking my dog.
I brought home books from the library and left them strategically throughout the house: on the kitchen counter, the dining room table, the living room end table. These books included Dogs for the Family and How to Train Your Puppy and Dogs Are the Best Pets and Every Kid Needs a Dog.
Dad said, “Where are all these dog books coming from? Sam? Did you bring these home?”
Mom flipped one open and scanned the photos. “Aw.”
“No,” Dad said. “Don’t even think about it.”
“But, aw—”
The next day Mom came home from work all excited. “Sam! The perfect opportunity! Listen to this!”
I thought she was going to tell me that she’d heard about a free German shepherd puppy. Maybe someone at work was giving one away.
“Sam! A lady at work—”
I knew it!
“Has a dog—”
I knew it! “What kind of dog?”
“I don’t know exactly, but a cute kind. And she wants—”
I was already picturing myself walking down the street with my new dog.
“Sam? Are you listening? She wants somebody to walk this dog while she’s at work.”
“What?”
“Are you even listening to me? She wants somebody to walk this dog while she’s at work. Then feed it and play with it a little. I thought you’d be perfect! How about that? It’s like having your own dog, only you don’t have to pay for the food or the shots or the—”
“But—”
“Sam, listen. Maybe if your father saw you taking responsibility and being good with the dog, maybe he’d change his mind about having your own dog.”
“But—”
“And she’d pay you, too!”
“What kind of dog is it?”
“I don’t know. She says it’s friendly.”
“But is it a big dog or a little dog or a—”
“Sam, I don’t know. You start tomorrow. Here’s the address. She’ll meet you there the first day—”
“Wait. You already told her I’d do it?”
“Yes, I did. Your dad will be so proud. You have a job!”
Dad did not seem all that impressed when Mom told him about the dog-walking job.
“Doesn’t sound very challenging,” he said. “What if he loses the dog? What if he loses the key?”
So now I was worrying. What if I lose the dog? What if I lose the key?
The next day I met Mrs. Clicka and her dog. Mrs. Clicka was a tiny woman with curly brown hair. Her dog was a tiny, tiny dog with curly brown fur. Tiny, tiny, tiny dog, with a tiny name: Peep. I almost stepped on it. It went, “Yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip!”
This was not what I had in mind. “Are you sure it’s a dog?” I asked. It looked more like a squirrel or a hedgehog.
“Of course I’m sure, you silly boy! Are you making a joke about little Peep?”
Mrs. Clicka gave me a three-page list of instructions and showed me where I would be able to find the house key. “Your mother says you’re trustworthy. Yes?”
“Sure. That’s me, Mr. Trustworthy.” I stood up straight and tried to look trustworthy, but inside, my heart was sagg
y. I didn’t like this tiny, tiny dog, and I was pretty sure it didn’t like me, from the way it was curling its lip and baring its needle-teeth.
“Here’s the leash. Now go on and take Peep around the block for a test run.”
“Outside? You want me to take her outside? In public?”
“Are you making another joke? I don’t understand kids these days. Of course, outside! Here’s a poop bag. You do know how to scoop up poop, don’t you?”
“Sure. Sure I do.”
I did not know how to scoop poop, and I did not want to do it, and I was hoping I could pretend not to see Peep poop so I wouldn’t have to scoop anything disgusting. To tell you the truth, I was more worried about being seen walking this little Peep dog, this little squirrely hedgehog-dog.
We started around the block. I was praying that we would not meet anyone who knew me, and I was in a hurry.
Peep was not in a hurry. She sniffed at every rock, at every tree, at every flower, at every ant, at every leaf.
“Come on,” I urged. “Hurry up before someone sees me.”
Peep did not like to be talked to that way. She raised her lip and showed me her needle-teeth. She squatted on my foot and peed on it before I realized what was happening.
“Oh, maaan, thanks a lot.”
She took ahold of my shoelace and bit off a two-inch piece.
And then I heard it.
From across the street.
The voice of the dreaded Valentino.
“Heyyyy, Sammy boy, whatcha got there? What is it? A rat? A rabbit?”
Valentino was with two other guys. They joined in.
“Hey, is that your guard dog, kid?”
“Hey, you so fierce!”
They thought it was very funny, the sight of me and Peep. They laughed all the way down the street.
I was halfway back to Mrs. Clicka’s house. If I could just make it a little—
“Heyyy, Sammy!”
I turned. It was Jenna and Jadeyn, twins in my class. I was surprised they even knew my name. They were tall and cool and smart, and I wanted to crawl in a hole. Now they were going to mock me, too?