Surviving Santiago (25 page)

Pablo hops onto my trembling finger. “Help me, buddy,” I say.

No answer. I repeat the words in Spanish, somehow expecting advice from the bird my father trained to make suicide threats.

“
Te quiero, flaco
,” Pablo squawks. A moment later, he adds, “
No te me mueras.
”

I love you, skinny. Don't die on me.

My throat burns. “I love you, too.”

A ruffling of feathers overhead startles me. Víctor lands on the branch next to Pablo. He's as close to me as he used to get to Frankie. I wipe my face with my sleeve. What did Víctor see in Frankie, that he went to him when he wouldn't go to anyone else?

“Hey, Víctor,” I say, forcing a smile. The stump of his leg twitches. Papá said that Graciela's husband brought him here. Was Rafael the one who abused him?

I've got to get away from this house.

There's a tree next to the back wall, but the lowest branch is too high to reach unless I stand on my tiptoes. If I had a rope, I could get up there, but if they won't let Papá have a gun or knives, what are the chances of a rope lying around the house?

Near my bedroom window is a drainpipe. If it's close enough, I can use it to swing to the top of the wall, and maybe there's a gate on the other side.

I decide to set Víctor free, so he won't be left alone with Rafael. I open the cage door wide. “Go, Víctor.” I wave my hand. But the bird just sits there. I fetch a handful of birdseed from the bag under the eaves and scatter some of the seed outside the cage. He still doesn't leave.

With a shrug, I say, “Good-bye, birds,” toss the rest of the seed inside, and close the cage door. I sneak back into the house and upstairs without the goons noticing me. I switch from my boots to my pink high-top Chucks with rubber soles to grip the metal pipe. After throwing a change of clothes into my backpack along with my hairbrush and toothbrush, I slide the window open.

A blast of cold air greets me. I reach for the drainpipe, test its sturdiness. I jump up to the pipe and hang on.

I have to close the window, or someone will notice I've gone. I thrust out my backpack, hook the handle of the window with the shoulder strap, and pull the window shut. Then I slide down a few feet and plant my left foot on the top of the wall.

In a crouch I sidestep along the wall, looking for a way out through the neighbors' yard. There's a shed in the middle next to the wall and a gate at the far end. I lie flat on the shed's corrugated metal roof and peer below to make sure Graciela isn't there. Then I climb down, dash across the narrow yard, and push the wrought-iron gate open.

I'm stunned to find myself in the street. Then I realize I have no money and no place to go. The only place within walking distance is the apartment where Frankie and I used to get together. Where his grandmother lives. Where his motorcycle may still be.

She won't be back anytime soon, Frankie said last week. He said last night that he planned to go back home. He also said he planned to run away, with or without me. But can I believe anything he said? And Rafael has the keys in his pocket. How would Frankie have gotten in?

My chances of finding a safe place to go are zero, but still I trot up the street and around the block to avoid passing Papá's house. Before long, I'm pushing through crowds at the shopping plaza, trying to remember which street leads to the apartment. It's already getting dark. Landmarks, I tell myself. The traffic circle. The three banks. The hot dog stand with the
italianos
.

I count the blocks. A fine mist drifts down from the purple sky. At eight blocks I see the traffic circle. The building is in the distance, lights on in most of the apartments. The raindrops get heavier. I break into a run. Icy water pelts my face and soaks into my clothes.

Frankie's motorcycle is not on the street in front, where he usually parks it. Stupid idea—I knew he wouldn't be here. I turn around to go home but alongside the building spot the silver and black Suzuki behind the bushes.

Someone has propped the lobby door open, as if expecting me. Inside the elevator I shiver in my wet clothing.
Why am I doing this?
Frankie was supposed to kill Papá. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Because he loved me? Because I loved him—even if I can't anymore?

I knock on the door. The voice that answers is unmistakably Frankie's. “Just a minute.”

The door opens. Frankie has wrapped a towel around his waist, as if he stepped out of the shower. His hair glistens. He sucks in his breath. “Why are you here?”

I don't know the answer.

C
HAPTER
24

F
rankie pulls me into the apartment, shuts the door, and holds me in his arms, his soft cheek resting on the top of my head. He smells fresh—of aftershave and soap. I press my face against the warm skin of his chest.

Can we still be friends after all this, the way I am with Max?

“You're soaked,” Frankie says after a moment.

“It's raining.”

“I haven't been outside since this morning.”

I wriggle out of my soggy sweatshirt. “How'd you get in without the key?”

“My . . . uncle let me in.”

“Are you in trouble?” I ask.

He nods. “You?”

“Big time.”

I follow him into the living room. He unwraps the towel and steps into a pair of white briefs. He picks his wrinkled and dirt-streaked jeans from the floor and puts them on, then bends over again and pulls a
black T-shirt over his head. I sit next to him on the sofa. Hands trembling, he lights a cigarette and takes a few puffs. A blanket covers one of the armrests.

I fold my arms across my body, trying to warm myself. “Papá's still in the hospital. Three goons are guarding the house. One of them called me a whore and said he should teach me a lesson.”

“Wait. Slow down,” Frankie says. “What did they do?”

I don't want to repeat the bad things they called me. “They've got guns.”

Frankie jerks up straight. “Did they follow you here?”

“I don't think so.” But how would I know? It didn't even occur to me to look. “I'm scared to go back.”

Frankie sighs. “You can't stay here.” Before I can ask him why, he says, “I'm leaving the country next week.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not allowed to say. But I'll try to get to Miami.” He grabs my hand. “Can you meet me there?”

He told me that he's never been outside of Santiago. He has no idea how far away cities in the United States are from each other. It's more than three hours by plane from Madison to Miami.

But he has a phone. The one I shouldn't have answered yesterday. “Why don't I call my mother now? To send us both a ticket.” I can't believe I've just said this.

Frankie shakes his head rapidly. “I'm not allowed to make international calls. They'll catch me for sure.” He
takes another puff of his cigarette and blows the smoke straight ahead.

“Who'll catch you?” When he doesn't answer, I ask, “The people who wanted you to kill Papá and me?”

Another puff. “I'm sorry I brought you into this. I wanted to spend the day with you, but I put you in danger.” He grinds out his cigarette. “I had to tell them you were dead. Both of you.”

“So they're going to come after me?” I can barely breathe.

“You? I doubt it.”

“Really?” My hands shake. I want to believe him, but I can't. He could change his mind because I chose Papá over him. Or
they
could burst in at any moment and finish me off.

“They don't care about you. They're going to come after
me
”—he touches his chest—“as soon as they find out I lied to them.”

I search for the truth in his eyes. He doesn't look away.

“I did it for you,” he says.

“Why?” I hold his gaze, waiting for the words. For him to convince me I'm not going to die thousands of miles from home, never to see my mother and Evan and my friends again.

“Because I love you. I really do. But I have to get out of the country.” He lights another cigarette.

“Everything you've told me about yourself is a lie.”

“Only some things.” The tip of his cigarette glows as he sucks in more smoke. “I really did fall in love with you. I wasn't supposed to, but I did. You were . . .”

I finish his sentence. “Everything good in your life.”

Frankie nods. “And that's the other true thing. My life sucks. I'll do anything to escape it.”

“Like beat up some musician who never did anything to you and kill my father because he was on your trail.”

“More than that.” Frankie takes another drag. “My uncle says someone assassinated one of his closest friends because of what your father wrote.”

Daniel said something like that, too. Papá's underground newspaper named people in the military who tortured prisoners, and that's why he got beaten so badly in prison. But that was years ago. “You and I were little kids then. They shouldn't drag us into this.” I raise my voice. “You shouldn't drag me into this, either.”

“No, I shouldn't.” Frankie scoots toward me and touches my arm. I twist away from him. “If you never forgive me, I would totally understand,” he says. “But I need you to help me.”

“And what about Papá?” Maybe I should tell Frankie that Papá has to quit drinking—maybe that will make Frankie care about my father, too.

“If they find out he's still alive before I leave, I don't know what they'll do. It could come down to him or me.”

I pull my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms
around my legs, keeping a barrier between Frankie and me. “Nobody should have to die.”

“Then I can't get caught.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Panic makes my voice shake.

“Go someplace where they can't see you. Don't you have those grandparents in Las Condes?”

“We don't get along that great. And my grandmother will want to know everything.”

“
Metete.
Not good.” He lets go of me and picks up the cigarette in the ashtray. “And the keys. I couldn't find them anywhere here.” He takes a long drag. His eyes bore into me. “Do you know where they are?”

“The goons have them.”

“How the hell did they get them?” Frankie clenches his right fist.

I take a deep breath of the smoke that he blows out. “Papá swiped the key ring from your pocket last night.”

“He what?”

“When we got back to the city. Right before the hospital.”

“¡Puta cucaracha!”
He punches the armrest of the sofa.

I jump to my feet. “He's not a cockroach!”

“I saved his worthless life”—Frankie slams the armrest again—“and the drunken bastard ruined me!”

“Don't call him a drunk. He quit drinking.”

In the next instant, I realize it makes no difference to tell Frankie that Papá won't be able to drink anymore.
Frankie can't take back his words. I understand now that he would kill Papá to save himself.

I grab my sweatshirt and back toward the door. “Tell your uncle or your grandmother or whoever that you lost the keys on the ground.”

Frankie shakes his head. “I'm stuck here until I leave.”

“Can't you ask your uncle to loan you his keys?”

“Are you kidding?” Frankie's face crumbles. “They're paranoid about crime. He'll want the locks changed, and I don't have the money to do it. Besides”—he reaches for the cigarette—“I screwed up in so many ways. One more, and all my lies come crashing down.”

“I think they already have.” My hand closes on the doorknob.

“No, Tina!” He doesn't try to get up. “Don't go! Listen!”

He presses his hands against the top of his head. I don't know which Frankie to believe—the one who tried to kill Papá and me, or the one who tried to save us.