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Authors: Alexandra Diaz
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it.
Jaime swallowed a gasp. His book. How dare this guy take it, his grubby hands leaving prints on the fresh sheets. It took all the restraint he had to keep from grabbing it back. On the floor, blocked from view by their bags, his cousin dug her heel into his foot. Her message couldnât have been clearer: donât you dare do anything stupid.
The anger turned to fear as he tried to remember what heâd drawn, and whether there was anything that would obviously link them to Guatemala. He mentally flipped through the pages in reverse order. The people on the bus, the statue of Benito Juárez, the church. Then recollections of his last week at homeâRosita playing with Quico; TÃo and TÃa outside in the patio; Abuela struggling with her tortillas; Mamá taking a siesta ; Papá sticking his tongue out at him; Laura, the pretty girl at school he never got the nerve to talk to, and now it was too late; Miguelâs funeral . . .
The sound of ripping paper returned him to thestopped bus. Bits of paper clung to the rings from where la migra officer had torn a page. Ãngelaâs foot pressed against his, a reminder not to freak out. A page. Only one. Jaime allowed himself the smallest breath.
âMy son likes lizards. He always saves them from the cat.â The officer waved the drawing Jaime had done when he had gotten the news about Miguel. The book thumped back onto his lap.
One hand flapping the lizard portrait to fan himself from the stuffy bus air, the other resting on his rifle, the guard moved down the aisle to question the next people.
Too soon to breathe properly, Jaime held the sketchbook tight in his lap. It felt like a different book, worn and more pliable, the cover not as crisp as it had been. He could live with this different, violated feeling, he supposed, just as long as he never lost the book completely. It was his life, or what remained of it.
Five minutes later the guard left the bus. No cars blocked their way anymore, and a different guard waved them off. Heavy sighs of relief escaped everyone, from the bus driver to the youngest in the family of children. As they passed the windowless white van, everyone turned to stare at it, and then at the empty seat that a few minutes before had held a woman searching for a better life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bus jarred to a stalling stop in Arriaga. Jaime blinked a few times as his sleepy brain tried to make sense of what was going on. Right, time to get off. âÃngela looked like he feltâtired, disoriented, and grumpyâexcept her black hair was matted into a huge knot from where the wind had tangled it. They made sure to grab their backpacks and the food bags before following the rest of the passengers off the bus.
âStay close to me,â Ãngela said, not that Jaime had any intention of doing otherwise.
The bus ride had taken close to six hours with all the checkpoints. A clock inside the station said it was 9:53 p.m. The people who got off the bus took off in various directions and disappeared into the night. Jaime and Ãngelastayed within the lights of the bus station, looking around.
The bus station seemed to be in a mostly abandoned part of town. If it was a town.
The wind shifted, bringing scents of salt water and rotten fish from the Pacific Ocean ten kilometers away. An old man staggered by, muttering to himself. He stopped in front of a burned-out light post and began swearing at it for ruining his life. Next to the station two cars sped down the main carretera that the bus had come in on, engines roaring as they zipped by going a million kilometers an hour. A handful of rundown storefronts stood in front of the station, locked up tight for the night. Cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and dog poop littered the area between the station and the gravel street.
Other than that, there wasnât much beyond trees and electrical posts. Unless you counted the graffiti painted on the locked
Jaime swallowed a gasp. His book. How dare this guy take it, his grubby hands leaving prints on the fresh sheets. It took all the restraint he had to keep from grabbing it back. On the floor, blocked from view by their bags, his cousin dug her heel into his foot. Her message couldnât have been clearer: donât you dare do anything stupid.
The anger turned to fear as he tried to remember what heâd drawn, and whether there was anything that would obviously link them to Guatemala. He mentally flipped through the pages in reverse order. The people on the bus, the statue of Benito Juárez, the church. Then recollections of his last week at homeâRosita playing with Quico; TÃo and TÃa outside in the patio; Abuela struggling with her tortillas; Mamá taking a siesta ; Papá sticking his tongue out at him; Laura, the pretty girl at school he never got the nerve to talk to, and now it was too late; Miguelâs funeral . . .
The sound of ripping paper returned him to thestopped bus. Bits of paper clung to the rings from where la migra officer had torn a page. Ãngelaâs foot pressed against his, a reminder not to freak out. A page. Only one. Jaime allowed himself the smallest breath.
âMy son likes lizards. He always saves them from the cat.â The officer waved the drawing Jaime had done when he had gotten the news about Miguel. The book thumped back onto his lap.
One hand flapping the lizard portrait to fan himself from the stuffy bus air, the other resting on his rifle, the guard moved down the aisle to question the next people.
Too soon to breathe properly, Jaime held the sketchbook tight in his lap. It felt like a different book, worn and more pliable, the cover not as crisp as it had been. He could live with this different, violated feeling, he supposed, just as long as he never lost the book completely. It was his life, or what remained of it.
Five minutes later the guard left the bus. No cars blocked their way anymore, and a different guard waved them off. Heavy sighs of relief escaped everyone, from the bus driver to the youngest in the family of children. As they passed the windowless white van, everyone turned to stare at it, and then at the empty seat that a few minutes before had held a woman searching for a better life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bus jarred to a stalling stop in Arriaga. Jaime blinked a few times as his sleepy brain tried to make sense of what was going on. Right, time to get off. âÃngela looked like he feltâtired, disoriented, and grumpyâexcept her black hair was matted into a huge knot from where the wind had tangled it. They made sure to grab their backpacks and the food bags before following the rest of the passengers off the bus.
âStay close to me,â Ãngela said, not that Jaime had any intention of doing otherwise.
The bus ride had taken close to six hours with all the checkpoints. A clock inside the station said it was 9:53 p.m. The people who got off the bus took off in various directions and disappeared into the night. Jaime and Ãngelastayed within the lights of the bus station, looking around.
The bus station seemed to be in a mostly abandoned part of town. If it was a town.
The wind shifted, bringing scents of salt water and rotten fish from the Pacific Ocean ten kilometers away. An old man staggered by, muttering to himself. He stopped in front of a burned-out light post and began swearing at it for ruining his life. Next to the station two cars sped down the main carretera that the bus had come in on, engines roaring as they zipped by going a million kilometers an hour. A handful of rundown storefronts stood in front of the station, locked up tight for the night. Cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and dog poop littered the area between the station and the gravel street.
Other than that, there wasnât much beyond trees and electrical posts. Unless you counted the graffiti painted on the locked
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