Dream Things True (13 page)

“All the time.”

“Is your room carpeted?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you're addicted to cheap labor.” Alma paused and leaned away from Evan. “Well, maybe you're right. Your family could afford that stuff even if it cost four times as much.”

Evan stood up and threw his hand to his head. “Why do you say stuff like that?”

He started to pace and rub his forehead.

“It's habit,” Alma said.

“Yeah,” he said, stopping to look at her. “It's getting old, Alma.”

“I'm sorry, Evan,” Alma said. She reached out to take his hand and pull him back to the bench. “It's just that sometimes I think you don't see it, you know?”

“See what, Alma?” Evan asked, not letting go of her hand.

“How easy you have it,” she said. “How charmed your life is.”

“Maybe you're right, Alma,” Evan said, turning to face her. “But my life doesn't really feel all that charmed.”

 

 

When Evan came home from school, Whit was sitting at the breakfast bar.

“What's up, Evan?” his cousin asked casually, as if he belonged in Evan's kitchen—as if he wasn't supposed to be in school several states away.

“Aren't you supposed to be in New Hampshire, Whit?” Evan asked, opening the refrigerator door.

“Virginia,” Whit replied. “New Hampshire was two schools ago. Really, you must try harder to keep up.”

Whit was like a modern-day Holden Caulfield—sick smart and completely incapable of staying in the same boarding school for more than a few months.

“Whatever,” Evan said. He chugged some Gatorade and then picked up the remote to switch on the news.

“Really, Evan?” Whit said, in his most annoyingly whiny voice. “The local news?”

Evan glared at him and tried to focus on the perky voice of the anchorwoman.

“Seeking vital information about the most recent house fire, are we?” Whit asked. “Or perhaps we need a preview of the most riveting reality TV programs?”

The young female anchor broke into Whit's monologue.

“In Gilberton's town square today, more than two hundred anti-illegal-immigration activists gathered for what they called a ‘No More Amnesty' rally.”

“I stand corrected,” Whit said, turning intently toward the TV.

The television showed a rough-looking white man in his fifties, with a gray beard and wide-brimmed hat. He held a handmade sign that said “
WE
ARE AMERICA!”

“Ah, behold the dregs of humanity,” Whit announced.

“Shut up, Whit,” Evan said. “I'm trying to listen for chrissake.”

“Activists are pressuring city and county government to enforce the state's tough new immigration bill, SB 529.” The cameras cut to the television studio, where the anchor sat across from a brawny, balding, middle-aged white man in a polo shirt and blue blazer.

She introduced the man as John D. Barnes, the head of a local organization called Save This State. “Illegal immigration is organized crime,” the man said. “When we fail to enforce the law, we're basically offering sanctuary to illegal aliens.”

“I stand corrected,” Whit said. “Local news
does
cover real issues, with the assistance of racist idiots posing as experts.”

“Why don't you go annoy people in your own kitchen?” Evan asked.

“Because my parents and I can't bear to be in the same room for more than ten minutes,” Whit said.

“Oh, yeah,” Evan replied. “That.”

“Activists will continue to press for local enforcement,” the anchorwoman concluded, “while also putting pressure on US senators and congressional representatives to enact tough new border-enforcement laws.”

“And the fearless Sexton Prentiss will lead the charge,” Whit called out. He grabbed a pewter flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. Then he walked toward the kitchen door.

To his shock, Evan didn't want him to leave yet. He wanted more information.

“Wait,” he said. “So, uh, your dad's not a big fan of undocumented immigrants?”

Whit turned to face Evan. “You mean
illegal aliens
? Uh, no, Evan. Here's a little civic education: your dear uncle Sexton has introduced three border-enforcement bills in the past four months.”

“Why does he care so much about the border?” Evan asked. “I mean, we live in
Georgia
.”

He knew he sounded clueless to Whit, and he hated it.

“Uh, votes? It's
always
votes, Evan.”

He threw open the kitchen door.

“It's been lovely. Give my regards to BeBe, will you?”

Then he sauntered out, taking another swig from his flask.

How was it possible that he and Whit had the same blood coursing through their veins?

 

 

“So, how long was your dad here alone?”

It was Friday, and Evan and Alma were back on the “Restraint” bench before school. He had been drilling her with questions for twenty minutes. It wasn't easy to answer his questions, but it also was an enormous relief. Evan knew about her “status,” and he hadn't turned away. In fact, he seemed pretty desperate to understand her situation. Of course, it helped that he was still bringing her double cappuccinos. Alma could face any challenge as long as she had a good, strong cup of coffee.

“Five years. I was born down there. When I was about two and Ra
ú
l had just turned five, my mom and dad decided we should all move to Gilberton.”

“Man! I can't believe it took him five years to bring y'all up. He must have been so lonely.”

“He was, I think. It was my mom's decision. Her sister was sick with cancer, and treatment was too expensive. She knew it would be easy to get a job here, and she wanted to make money to help her sister.”

“Wow.” Evan sat back down beside her. “Did it work? I mean, did the treatments work? Is her sister OK?”

Alma stared at the plastic lid on her coffee cup, wanting to prolong the moment a bit longer, wanting to avoid this part of the story. She imagined how Evan would respond. He probably would give her what everyone gave: sad expressions, hollowly sympathetic words, and then a subtle pulling back, an instinct to separate from the pain of tragedy. Alma had seen this instinct in the body language of those few people she had told, and she always sensed it in her cousins, aunts, and uncles. For them, Alma was a constant reminder of the danger and precariousness of life, a well of deep sorrow that they desperately wanted to avoid sinking into.

Evan's quiet voice broke into her thoughts: “Alma? Are you with me?”

“Sorry,” she replied. And she
was
sorry—sorry that she had to tell him all of this, but knowing that it needed to happen.

“No, I mean, my mom couldn't help her.”

“It was too late?” Evan asked.

“My mom died trying to get here, in the Sonoran Desert.”

“Damn,” Evan replied, drawing out the word in a tone that was not exactly sweet and sympathetic. “Damn,” he repeated, his shoulders slumping.

Alma wasn't sure what to do with his reaction, so she kept talking.

“The coyotes—you know, the guys people pay to guide them through the desert?—they abandoned her and another woman. They had fallen into a ravine. They couldn't get out. It was summer, which was a stupid time to cross a desert, but my mom wanted Ra
ú
l to start kindergarten in August. The other woman survived until the border patrol found her. My mom died of dehydration.”

Evan stood up without speaking. Alma watched, confused, as he stepped toward her and then past her. She stared again at the lid of her cup, noticing the drops of coffee pooled near the opening. She should have known better than to tell him. It was too much.

But then she felt his touch, his chest against her back, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her toward him. He sat behind her with his legs swung across the bench, nestling her body between them. And it felt so good inside his arms. The way he held her was so right that she wanted to cry—not from sorrow but from relief, a profound relief that someone finally understood her. Evan knew exactly what she needed when she hadn't even known it herself.

After a long silence, he rested his chin on her shoulder and asked, “Where were you? And Ra
ú
l?”

“In Phoenix, waiting in a hotel with my uncle.”

She took a swig of coffee and allowed her body to rest completely against him.

“For kids back then, it was easy to cross. We rode through a border checkpoint with a distant cousin. He's legal, and his kids were born here. We just used their birth certificates.”

“How old were you?” he asked, almost whispering.

“Almost three. I don't remember any of it.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Not really. No.”

She closed her eyes and took a sip of coffee, tasting its soothing bitterness and feeling the subtle movement of Evan's chest against her back. After a few moments, Alma reached forward to put her cup on the bench. She wanted to say something to make him know that she was OK.

“Hey, guess what tomorrow is?” she said, brightly. “It's one month from the day of your party.”

A broad smile spread across Evan's face.

“You mean, no more house arrest?” he asked, leaning in toward her.

“I'm a free woman,” Alma replied. The words stuck in her throat.

What did it mean to be free, she wondered, when she lived under the rule of her father, and in constant fear that the people she loved would go to jail?

“Or, at least, I'm not grounded anymore,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Let's celebrate,” Evan said, standing. “Tomorrow night. Where should we go?”

Alma grabbed his hand and pulled him back to the bench. “Evan, hell will freeze over before my dad lets me go on a date with you.”

“Seriously?” Evan said.

“Yeah, seriously.”

Evan looked at her intently and pulled his lower lip between his teeth. She could tell he was thinking—trying to come up with a way around these insane restrictions.

Watching him think, seeing him like that, Alma realized how tired she was of resisting him. She knew it was time to give in completely. Something inside her told her that she didn't have any other choice.

“I have an idea,” she said. She jumped up from the bench as giddy weightlessness spread through her body.

“Should I be afraid?” Evan asked.

“Yes, definitely. Have you ever been to a
quincea
ñ
era
?”

Was she actually doing this? She had imagined it, but she'd never thought she would have the nerve.

“A
what
?”

“A
quincea
ñ
era
—you know, the elaborate coming-of-age parties that people in Latin cultures have for their daughters' fifteenth birthdays.”

“Oh, you mean a keeen-say,” Evan said. “Like on MTV.”

“Something like that,” Alma replied. Apparently, everything Evan knew about
quincea
ñ
eras
came from
My Super Sweet 16
. She hoped that was about to change.

“If you want to see me tomorrow night, you need to find your teammate Jonathan and get him to invite you to his sister's
quincea
ñ
era
.”

“Come again?”

Alma stood up and pointed toward the school entrance. “Just go in there and score yourself an invite to Yazm
í
n's
quince
.”

“And you promise you'll be there?” Evan asked, standing to face her.

“Yeah, I have to be there. I'm a
dama
.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. I'll be there. And don't worry. I'll be hard to miss.”

Evan wrapped his hands around Alma's waist and leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“Done.”

TEN

Snow White

When Alma saw Evan crossing the street, her stomach lurched and her heart started to beat fast. His shaggy bangs, which usually hung over his eyes, were sort of haphazardly gelled back, framing his high forehead and bewildered face. He looked adorably preppy, in khaki pants, a navy-blue blazer, a light-blue shirt, and a striped bow tie. He also looked utterly out of place.

Alma was so busy gawking that it took her a minute to notice Mary Catherine by his side. In a short, strapless red satin dress and high-heeled sandals, she was hard to miss. Her sandy-blond hair was swept into a neat twist, and a short strand of white pearls stood out against the smooth skin of her throat.

With M.C. looking like that, Alma knew their plan would work.

She and Mary Catherine had hatched the plan at lunch on Friday: Mary Catherine would come as Evan's date. When Evan protested, Alma patiently explained that M.C. wasn't just
any
date; she was a drop-dead beautiful date. This would keep her dad and all of the nosy
t
í
as
from thinking, even for a moment, that the country-club boy might be there to see Alma.

Mary Catherine enfolded Alma in a tight hug. When she stepped back, Alma noticed Evan's eyes scan her own outfit, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Snow White,” Alma said, trying not to sound as idiotic as she felt.

Mary Catherine burst into joyous peals of laughter. “You have
got
to be kidding me! You're dressed up as Snow White?”

Alma glanced down at the bright yellow bustier and puffy electric-blue tulle skirt that dropped almost to the floor.

“Would I kid about this?” She swept her hand along the edge of the skirt. “It's a princess theme. Disney Princess.”