Valeros passed them with a timid nod, stumbling a little as he went into the hallway. He carried a huge pile of library books, and his face was pale with fatigue. Camilla and Jon watched in silence as the dark-haired boy moved down the corridor with an unsteady gait.
“That poor kid always looks like he’s dead on his feet,” Jon observed. “His hands were shaking again today. I wonder if he’s sick, or taking drugs or something.”
Camilla frowned. “No, I don’t think it’s drugs,” she said at last. “His written work is beautiful, very concise and disciplined. It’s particularly impressive for somebody for whom English is a second language. The students who abuse drugs tend to be rambling and disconnected, although,” she added dryly, “they always believe that their work is wonderfully eloquent.”
“Then why do you think Enrique’s so tired all the time?”
“I don’t know.”
She felt a treacherous urge to move closer to Jon Campbell, to nestle against the man and feel his arms around her. It was surprisingly pleasant to stand here with him like this, talking and hearing his voice in reply.
Abruptly the years fell away and she was seventeen again, overcome with a stormy passion she’d never expected to feel….
“Goodbye, Mr. Campbell,” she said hastily, starting down the hallway toward the administrative wing. “Have a pleasant weekend.”
“H I , G RETCHEN .” Camilla stopped at the bursar’s office and dropped her books onto the counter with a sigh. “I wonder if you can tell me something about one of my students.”
“As long as it’s not classified.” Gretchen’s tanned face was bright with humor. “What do need, Dr. Pritchard?”
“Whatever you can tell me about a boy named Enrique Valeros. Where he lives, whether he’s on scholarship, that kind of thing.”
Gretchen got up and took a file from the bank of metal cabinets, then sat down at her desk to leaf through it. “No scholarships,” she reported after a moment. “And it looks as if he’s in the country on some kind of conditional visa.”
“Conditional?”
“Apparently he has to stay in college and continue to get good grades or he’ll be deported, even though he told the Immigration Service he’d be killed if he went home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Nicaragua.”
“Hmm.” Camilla tapped her fingers on the counter. “And he’s got no sponsors? A church group that’s helping him, anything like that?”
Gretchen looked at the file. “Not that I can see. No sponsors, no relatives. Enrique seems to be all on his own.”
“Can you give me his address and phone number?”
“No phone number, but I can tell you where he lives.” Gretchen read the address aloud.
“Not exactly a terrific neighborhood,” Camilla murmured, writing it down.
“You can say that again,” Gretchen said dryly. “But I doubt if the poor kid can afford anything better, when he’s carrying a full load of classes. Unless he’s got a money tree in his apartment, or some kind of fairy godmother.”
Camilla looked at the other woman in concern. “I wonder how he’s managing to look after himself,” she said thoughtfully.
O N F RIDAY NIGHT , Enrique closed the convenience store at midnight. He washed the floors, cleaned the windows and countertops, totaled the cash in the till and took it next door to the night-deposit box, thencame back and prepared all the coffeemakers for the next morning.
Finally, numb with fatigue, he gathered his pile of books and left the building, locked the door carefully behind him and walked a few blocks down the street to the service station where he worked five nights a week from one o’clock until seven in the morning.
With any luck, his shift would be quiet and he’d have time to tackle some of his growing mountain of homework, maybe even snatch a few minutes of sleep between customers. Enrique nodded timidly at the attendant who was going off shift, then settled himself in the
“That poor kid always looks like he’s dead on his feet,” Jon observed. “His hands were shaking again today. I wonder if he’s sick, or taking drugs or something.”
Camilla frowned. “No, I don’t think it’s drugs,” she said at last. “His written work is beautiful, very concise and disciplined. It’s particularly impressive for somebody for whom English is a second language. The students who abuse drugs tend to be rambling and disconnected, although,” she added dryly, “they always believe that their work is wonderfully eloquent.”
“Then why do you think Enrique’s so tired all the time?”
“I don’t know.”
She felt a treacherous urge to move closer to Jon Campbell, to nestle against the man and feel his arms around her. It was surprisingly pleasant to stand here with him like this, talking and hearing his voice in reply.
Abruptly the years fell away and she was seventeen again, overcome with a stormy passion she’d never expected to feel….
“Goodbye, Mr. Campbell,” she said hastily, starting down the hallway toward the administrative wing. “Have a pleasant weekend.”
“H I , G RETCHEN .” Camilla stopped at the bursar’s office and dropped her books onto the counter with a sigh. “I wonder if you can tell me something about one of my students.”
“As long as it’s not classified.” Gretchen’s tanned face was bright with humor. “What do need, Dr. Pritchard?”
“Whatever you can tell me about a boy named Enrique Valeros. Where he lives, whether he’s on scholarship, that kind of thing.”
Gretchen got up and took a file from the bank of metal cabinets, then sat down at her desk to leaf through it. “No scholarships,” she reported after a moment. “And it looks as if he’s in the country on some kind of conditional visa.”
“Conditional?”
“Apparently he has to stay in college and continue to get good grades or he’ll be deported, even though he told the Immigration Service he’d be killed if he went home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Nicaragua.”
“Hmm.” Camilla tapped her fingers on the counter. “And he’s got no sponsors? A church group that’s helping him, anything like that?”
Gretchen looked at the file. “Not that I can see. No sponsors, no relatives. Enrique seems to be all on his own.”
“Can you give me his address and phone number?”
“No phone number, but I can tell you where he lives.” Gretchen read the address aloud.
“Not exactly a terrific neighborhood,” Camilla murmured, writing it down.
“You can say that again,” Gretchen said dryly. “But I doubt if the poor kid can afford anything better, when he’s carrying a full load of classes. Unless he’s got a money tree in his apartment, or some kind of fairy godmother.”
Camilla looked at the other woman in concern. “I wonder how he’s managing to look after himself,” she said thoughtfully.
O N F RIDAY NIGHT , Enrique closed the convenience store at midnight. He washed the floors, cleaned the windows and countertops, totaled the cash in the till and took it next door to the night-deposit box, thencame back and prepared all the coffeemakers for the next morning.
Finally, numb with fatigue, he gathered his pile of books and left the building, locked the door carefully behind him and walked a few blocks down the street to the service station where he worked five nights a week from one o’clock until seven in the morning.
With any luck, his shift would be quiet and he’d have time to tackle some of his growing mountain of homework, maybe even snatch a few minutes of sleep between customers. Enrique nodded timidly at the attendant who was going off shift, then settled himself in the
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