Read Online The Book of Unknown Americans: A novel by Cristina Henríquez - Free Book Online

usted, no tu. There was only one word—you. It applied to all people. Everyone equal. No one higher or lower than anyone else. No one more distant or more familiar. You. They. Me. I. Us. We. There were no words that changed from feminine to masculine and back again depending on the speaker. A person was from New York. Not a woman from New York, not a man from New York. Simply a person.
    I was still thinking about it as I got on the bus after class, mouthing the words while I sat, trying to accustom myselfto the feel of them on my tongue, the shape of them as they escaped into the air. Profesora Shields had given us all pocket-sized Spanish/English dictionaries to carry with us so that we could look things up with ease. “Practice, practice, practice!” she urged. I turned the tissue-thin pages, reading words at random. To trade, cambiar. Blanket, cobija. To grow, crecer. Outside, a light rain had begun to fall, and after a few minutes I closed the dictionary and watched the drops of water skid diagonally across the window as I listened for the driver to announce “Kirkwood,” which was my stop. But after a while—longer than it had taken on the way there—he still hadn’t said it. I sat up in the seat and looked around. Were we on a different route? I rubbed my hand over the foggy window and peered out. But of course I didn’t recognize anything. Relax, I told myself. The only reason you don’t recognize anything is because you don’t know anything here yet. I stayed put for a few more stops, fixing my gaze out the window while the bus rumbled along. I watched people get off, still more people get on. The driver shouted out other words, but never anything that sounded like “Kirkwood.”
    The man sitting next to me was wearing a watch that read 1:57 in small, glowing numbers. Maribel would be home at 2:15. I was supposed to be there to meet her when her bus dropped her off. Panic fluttered in my chest. What was I going to do? I must have gotten on the wrong bus. I had a feeling I was only getting farther and farther from the apartment now. I had to turn around.
    I stood and tugged the cord that ran above the seats. The bell dinged. I squeezed past the man next to me and walked to the front of the bus, trying to stay calm. The driver pulled over and opened the doors.
    Now what? I thought once I got off. I was standing on a deserted road in the rain. There were no houses or buildings as far as I could see, only wheat-colored fields patchy with dirt and cracked wooden telephone poles with drooping black wires strung between them. Dios, I said to myself. Where was I? Why had I decided to get off the bus in the middle of the country? I could be killed out here and no one would know the difference. I shivered. Then I forced myself to laugh. Who was going to kill me? The telephone pole?
    Before long, I heard a sound and looked up to see a car approaching. I watched as it neared and got louder, then sliced by and faded into the distance again. I told myself, It’s a good sign. If there was one car, there will be another. You just have to wait.
    The rain was falling harder now—my hair and clothes were damp—and I crossed to the other side of the street and stood, clutching my purse. Maybe I could call the school and tell them not to let Maribel get off the bus if I wasn’t there in time. The translator, Phyllis, had told me that for students Maribel’s age the school didn’t require that anyone be there to meet them. She was allowed to get off the bus whether I was there or not. But maybe if I explained that this was a special circumstance? Maybe the bus driver would wait?
    I dialed the school and when a voice answered, I said in English, “Hello?”
    “Hello?” the woman on the other end said.
    I didn’t know how to say, “I’m looking for my daughter,” so I just blurted out her name. “Maribel Rivera,” I said.
    “Hello?” the woman said again.
    “Is there someone there who can help me?” I asked in