Until I Find Julian (5 page)

I reach into my pocket,
feeling for the small notebook and the addresses. It's soaked from the river! It's still dark, but in the moonlight, I can see that the book is ruined, water-soaked. I can't read one word, not one number.

I'd pictured showing a book of memories to Julian. He'd listen, head bent, smiling a little as he remembered saving me from the creek.

It's lucky I remember both addresses. Julian's is strange, with lots of numbers; the cousin's is almost as long. At home, we have only one: Six Creek Road, even though there really isn't a road. It's a dirt path with overhanging trees, and sometimes a small green snake or two, friendly guys who doze along the branches.

Angel and I crawl into some of the undergrowth to try to sleep for a while. I lie still, wary of thorns. For the thousandth time I ask myself, What happened to Julian? Was he hurt? Caught by the police? Is he in prison?

Stop!

I close my eyes, but I jump at every sound, even the scuttle of insects as they click by.

What if I hear a truck, or heavy footsteps coming closer with rough hands clamping down on my shoulders?

And then, just as I imagined it, a hand grips my arm. But it's Angel's. “Wake up, Matty. We have to leave soon.”

A pink sky lights the early morning. Angel wanders over to a bubbling stream that comes out of the rocks and scoops handfuls of water over her face. She ducks her head so the ends of her hair float like small fish, then quickly dunks her head four or five times. When she comes back, there's a clean round spot on each cheek and her pointy nose is covered with freckles; her hair is lighter and shiny. She sinks down against the tree. “What will you do next?”

“I have a plan.” Not so helpless after all. “My cousin lives in Samson. I'll stop there first. Maybe she can help me get across Texas into Arkansas.”

Angel holds up her hand, palm toward me. “I might as well hang around for a while and see what happens.” She glances up at the sky, considering. “Yes, I guess so.”

I shrug. “Why not?”

“Where is this house?” She's sucking on a stone again.

I hesitate. “I've never been there. They have a farm. Abuelita told me once that it's on top of a hill, but it looks as if it might slide off any minute.”

Angel slaps her forehead. “Impossible. There must be dozens of places like that.”

“I remember the address.”

“All right. We'll ask someone who looks friendly.”

I drag myself to my feet. The sun glows over the horizon now, turning broad leaves green, and earth the color of rich brown silk.

It's going to be another hot day, but I don't mind. My clothes are damp; they need to dry. And I'm cold, trying not to shiver, my arms crossed over my chest.

We walk forever, and the sun beats down now. My shirt has dried; my hair is plastered to my head; my feet burn. I fall behind Angel, thinking of water and standing in the cool creek.

She glances back. “What's the matter with you? It's that guitar—too heavy, probably waterlogged.”

“Not the guitar.” I take big steps, almost the way Lucas would, showing her I can keep up, that I can walk even faster than she can.

She waves both arms at a van that's coming slowly along the middle of the road, tailpipe clanking. “Wait, please,” she calls.

The van rumbles to a stop. We run toward it so Angel can ask the driver for directions.

The driver is a woman with a sunburned face and frizzy hair. “It's a long way,” she says in my own language. “Miles.” She must see how tired we are. “I'll give you a lift.”

We climb in and bump along, listening to the woman singing. Angel and I stare at each other. We never would have walked this in a day.

At last the woman points with her thumb.

And yes, there's a dirt road almost like the one at home; it circles up a hill.

“Thanks,” I call after her.

We climb the hill, passing falling-down houses and trees that line the road.

We see Consuelo's farm. The mailbox by the road is missing its lid, but it has the right address painted on one side. The house is old; the unpainted boards are silver gray. Chickens wander around in the yard, clucking and pecking at tufts of grass, and at each other.

A guy comes around to the front, carrying wooden boxes on his shoulder. He's older than Julian but looks a little like him. He stops when he sees us and puts the boxes on the ground. “Hey,” he says.

“I'm Mateo,” I tell him. “My cousin Consuelo—”

“You're family, then,” he cuts in. “From across the border.”

I nod. “Consuelo—”

“My mother, but she's not here. Sorry.” He raises one shoulder. “She's gone visiting, back in a week or so.”

He must see the disappointment on my face. He grins. “I can manage something to drink, though. Maybe some breakfast.”

Before I can answer, Angel is saying yes, breakfast would be great. Sometimes she's really annoying.

Inside the house, we sit at the kitchen table while the cousin, Felipe, warms tortillas and fries eggs for us. He listens as I tell him we're on our way to Downsville, Arkansas.

“Where your brother lives,” he says.

I nod. It's too much to tell him about Julian, and I have no time anyway. He slides the eggs onto our plates and says, “You're in luck if you don't mind riding along with boxes of fabric that I'm going to sell.”

He slides onto a chair, grinning with overlapping teeth. “I'm on my way. Not exactly to Downsville, but close enough. There's room in the back, if you want to go along.”

“Yes.” I can hardly speak, I'm so relieved.

Felipe nods toward the screen door. “The dog sits in front.”

A mangy-looking dog with yellow fur and a thumping tail stares in at us. I grin at Felipe.

I'm starving. I shovel in the eggs, take huge bites of the tortilla, which drips melted butter, and wash it all down with bitter black coffee that Felipe pours from a metal pot.

On the counter is a thick pad. “Could I take a piece of paper?” I ask. “And that pen?”

“Sure. Take the whole thing.” He waves his hand, and I slip them into my pocket. The pages are wrinkled, and someone has doodled over a few, but I can't wait to write.

We spend the next hour loading the truck with boxes. “Glad you came along,” Felipe says.

We climb in and settle against the rough side boards.

Angel grins. She's half asleep, her voice thick. “A long way.”

I lean forward. “Why are you coming with me?”

“Nothing else to do right now,” she mumbles.

A strange girl!

Before I can say anything, her head drops; her eyes are closed. “Diego?” I think she whispers, but she's asleep.

What can I tell her about Julian?

What can I write about him?

I pull the pad out of my pocket and begin.

A day, just like today, sunny and hot, too nice for school. I sneaked out of the house with my fishing pole over my shoulder, slid down along the mud next to the creek, and sat against a tree, heart pounding.

What would Mami think about my skipping school? What would Abuelita say?

I didn't worry for long, though.

Fishing in the creek would be better than the math review we were having that day. And maybe with forty kids in the class, my teacher might not notice I was missing.

I could see a fish, but it saw me too in the reflection of the water: my every-which-way hair that I hadn't combed, my ears that stuck out a little from my head, my skinny arm holding the pole. With a flick of its silver tail, the fish was gone, over to the other side of the creek to rest in the shade of an overhanging tree.

I didn't care.

But then I heard Julian singing, his voice loud as he came along the side of the creek. It was something about a frog that waited to snap up a fly, one of Lucas's songs. He was on his way home to sleep after a night working for Miguel at the factory.

I hadn't thought of Julian. What would he say when he saw me fishing in my school pants, which I saw now were muddy?

Before I could dart away like the silver fish, there was Julian's reflection in the still water. He stopped in the middle of the song and I hunched my shoulders.

But he didn't say what I thought he might.

“Saw a frog,” he began to sing again. And I sang too.

We finished the song and he kept going.

I stayed there, the song in my head, fishing, until I was sure school was over and I could go home again.

Ah, Julian. He never told on me.

But a week later, a painting hung over my bed. It was me, fishing, my head back, eyes closed. My pants were rolled up and muddy. But only Julian and I knew they were my school pants. We both grinned when we looked at it together.

It's more than hours.
It's forever. The next day, until late afternoon. We eat the sandwiches Felipe has put together. Sometimes we hear him slow down and stop; then he talks to people, but we huddle between boxes. We sleep. We wake. Then, at last, he lets us off near Julian's house. “Straight along that road,” he says. “I'd take you the rest of the way, but I'm late.”

We stumble out of the truck; the sun is sinking on the far edge of the horizon.

Felipe gets out too. We hug and thank him; we promise to stop and see him on the way home.

“Don't forget,” he calls as he slides back into his seat. We wave goodbye as he pulls away.

“I'll tell my mother—” he calls back, but the rest of his words are lost with the roar of the truck.

We march along the road, faster now, almost there! At the top of the street we stop to stare at a big house with shiny glass windows. It's painted white with a line of cactus plants throwing their crooked arms up to the sky. The house is even larger than the one that belongs to Miguel, the factory foreman who fired me at home.