When I wake, Carlos is gone. But then he doesn’t come back after the morning shift, not even to bring us leftovers. I don’t know what to think. Who are we to each other? Is he my almost-boyfriend or did I drive him away? I feel like an idiot. Just what Fatima says: always thinking I can just will something to happen. It’s like I’ve taken my lace-up boots and tromped on something delicate and sweet.
I look around the room. He’s taken his backpack with his sketch pad and charcoal and pencils. But his pictures are everywhere: taped to the walls, propped on the bureau, fluttering near a vent. They’re of the oblong stretches of dune grass, the kids jumping off the dock at the pond, of us and even Dimitri, the cook in the restaurant. Carlos’s stroke is sure, and he hones in on a telling detail, like the worry-crease in Kamal’s forehead, or how Dimitri keeps one hand tucked behind his back as he flips a pancake.
I crack open the window blinds, searching for him. It nags at me: Carlos does need help. We can’t just wait.
I try to busy myself with my emails. Nothing from Fatima, which makes the ache bore deeper. A lot about fall semester at Hunter—what courses I want to sign up for, clubs I can join.
Kamal is getting bored, staying in the motel room. Snapping the laptop shut, I head over to the kitchen, where they give me some day-old muffins. I’m crossing the driveway when I spot Doris talking to a strange man. I freeze. He’s got on a suit, which is odd here on the Cape, and carries a folder. He scribbles something down, then gets into a car and backs out of the lot.
I walk over to Doris. “Who’s that?”
“Some guy from immigration. Bill.”
Maybe Lidia did get the word out. Or the shelter did.
“Came over from Boston to check on the kids,” Doris continues. “Make sure all their papers are in order. They do that sometimes.” She swipes at her hair. “He asked about you guys.”
Ice slides into my stomach.
“I told him you’re here for a little while, your ma is coming soon.” She peers at me. “When is that again?”
“Soon,” I reply and duck into the room, trying to act calm as I hand Kamal his muffin. He makes a face. “It’s too dry!”
“Too bad.”
“I don’t like raisins.”
“Deal with it, Kamal!”
I rush into the bathroom, slam the door. My whole body feels like it’s breaking. Calm down, I tell myself. Calm. Then I call Lidia.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“With my uncle,” I lie.
“Listen, it’s pretty unorthodox how the form was handled. I need to speak to him. It will be better if we formalize this in court—”
“He’s really busy with work,” I say. “He…he went on a business trip.”
“When does he get back?”
“I don’t know.” I rub my tongue over my teeth. It’s amazing how easy lying has become. One into another. Just like the grown-ups.
“Your mother was asking.”
“It’s okay. We’re with family.”
I’m staring at myself in the mirror, waiting for the panic to pass. I can see faint strap marks from my bathing suit. I ask, “Can I ask you a favor?”
“I suppose.” Her voice is cautious.
“If you had a client, a kid, who was living with his aunt and she got deported and he’s all alone—”
“Rania—” Lidia warns.
“I’m just asking!”
“Are you with that boy? The one from the shelter?”
I pause, my pulse skittering. “We’re in touch,” I say.
“He’s in big trouble, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” I say faintly.
And then I can’t help myself: I tell her how great Carlos is, how talented, how unfair it is that he doesn’t have a lawyer. That he crawled across the desert in the middle of the night and he can’t go back, not ever. When I’m done, there’s quiet on the other end.
“You sound like you’re in love with him.”
My skin prickles, all over. “I am not.”
She laughs. “Okay, you’re in like.”
“He’s a friend. And he’s all alone.” I add, “I have Kamal. And Ammi.” Then, “And now my uncle.”
She sighs. “So what are you asking?”
“Will you be his lawyer?”
Her silence is longer than I like.
“Why did you tell that lady we’re with Uncle?” Kamal asks when I come out of the bathroom.
I make a face at him. “You shouldn’t be listening in on other people’s conversations.”
“Are we going back to see them?” he asks.
“Do you want to?”
“I want to play with Roshaan and Maira.”
I look at him. He’s sitting on the bed, kicking his feet against the spread. I feel badly—all these changes, the stories I make up on the fly. “Get dressed,” I say. “I changed my mind. You can have fried clams again.”
“And ice cream?”
“You’re pushing it.”
Carlos still hasn’t returned, so I load up my backpack with towels, lotion, water, books. Act like it’s a normal day.
I drive to town, where I find some generic New England postcards, already stamped. Dimitri, the cook, goes into Boston every week for supplies, so I’ll ask him to mail them from there. We eat, Kamal happily dipping his clams in sauce. I squeeze some lemon on them, tell him that’s the way to get some Vitamin C. Then I take out a postcard and write: Dear Ammi, we miss you very much. We’re good. Kamal is eating and growing and having a great time. I can’t wait to see you soon. Love, Rania.
“Who are you writing to?” Kamal asks.
“A friend.”
“Why don’t you text?”
“She collects postcards.”
“Fatima?”
This stabs me. I check my phone. No message. I’ve ruined everything: with her. And with Carlos, all because of a stupid kiss. Not even a real kiss.
“Hey.”
There’s Carlos, his backpack angled over his shoulder. Relief sweeps through me but I tamp down the urge to hug him.
Kamal’s face brightens. “Carlos!”
I scrunch to the side of my chair, as he joins us, pops a fried clam into his mouth. “Man, these are good.”
“Where were you?” I keep the scowl out of my voice.
“Ernie asked me to join him on some supply pickups.” He bends toward Kamal and taps his bicep. “Me, strong,” he teases. “Lift fifty-pound sack.”
Kamal giggles, but I say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He gives me a blank look. “I was working, Rania. It’s money.”
I squash down my hurt.
“You want to go on a trip?” he asks.
“We’re on a trip,” I grumble.
“Trip!” Kamal chimes.
I don’t really have a choice since Carlos has Kamal excited. We pay up and I slide the postcard into my bag. Next time I’ll write one without lies.
What Carlos means is a drive to Provincetown, which is at the very tip of the Cape. It’s a kitschy town with narrow, crowded streets, T-shirt stores, and souvenir places. Rainbow flags flutter from most of the shops, and a man in a pink wig hands us a card to a drag show later that night. By the pier, families are lining up for the whale-watching boats. Still I can’t get rid of the nervous pulse in my body.
Leaving Kamal with Carlos, I go into one of the touristy shops, looking at sailboat mugs and napkin holders, placemats. Then my eyes light on the perfect item: long strings of tiny white seashells. I buy a whole bunch of them: a peace offering for Fatima. She’ll figure out what to do with them. Not that I know if I’ll ever see her again. I lean against a storefront, trying to compose myself. What did we get ourselves into?
Kamal comes running over. “Did you see?”
“What?”
“Carlos!”
I rush down the street to see that Carlos is by a low wall; he has his sketch pad out and is drawing a little girl. “He’s good,” the father comments.
Of course. Carlos has charmed someone into letting him draw them. Though it isn’t easy: The girl is squirmy and keeps chewing on her saltwater taffy. A picture emerges of a sulky little girl with a turned-up nose and a bow-tie-shaped mouth. Pleased, the dad hands Carlos a twenty and tells him to keep it up. As we’re leaving, a woman steps out of a little shop and shouts, “Hey!”
Carlos looks scared, pulling his head into his sweatshirt hood.
“I saw you drawing there!” Then we realize the woman, who introduces herself as Marge, is offering to let him set up in the alleyway right next to her shop.
Carlos’s shoulders drop with relief. He isn’t being accused of something. This is just like what he used to do, in Guanajuato—portraits of tourists. She shows us a little cobbled lane and folding chairs that he can use. “It would be my pleasure,” he says.
Marge beams. “So well-mannered.”
And so it’s settled: Carlos will be back on the weekend after his restaurant shift; they’ll charge thirty for a portrait, and Carlos negotiates for a 70 percent cut. We celebrate with a dinner at an outdoor dockside restaurant, the three of us sharing a lobster roll, mayonnaise dripping down our fingers, and a captain’s special of fried fish and clams. A ruddy sun is dipping down on the horizon, swelling the water in vibrant hues. “Can we go on the whale boats?” Kamal asks.
“Yes,” Carlos says automatically.
“They’re expensive,” I warn.
He motions to his sketch pad. “I’m a working man! Making money from drawing, just like you said!” He lightly punches my arm.
I give him a feeble grin back. So I’m just a buddy.
As we’re finishing, my phone dings; there’s a message from Lidia: OK. You win. I’ll help Carlos. Send me info and I’ll see what I can do. No promises. Have your uncle call me!
I shift over to Carlos, who is standing by the big boats that go out on whale-watching trips, telling Kamal that they can go next week. Sometimes I think Carlos spoils Kamal because it’s as if he’s giving the kid a life that got interrupted for him.
I tell him, “She’ll do it.”
He looks puzzled. “Do what?”
“Lidia will represent you!”
He pulls away. “That’s okay.” He’s hunched over, kicking at the posts. “I don’t need you to help me. To feel sorry for me.”
My temples throb. “Is that what you think this is?”
“Isn’t it?” He turns to me, his face looking gaunt in the shadows. “Poor little Mexican boy. Like all those kids they show every night on the news? You want to rescue me?”
My eyes sting with tears. “You must be kidding.”
“I’m not.” His voice is cold. “Have you seen my drawings? The ones I did in the shelter? Did you notice I never show them crying or clutching their stuffed animals? It makes me sick. The way they show us, night after night. Always with the eyes of pity. I will never be that.” He lifts his chin.
“God, you are so…arrogant! You want to turn down a perfectly good offer? Lidia is awesome.”
“Really? If she’s so great, how come your mother’s in that place?”
“That is so unfair,” I say softly. My ribs hurt, as if someone had punched them, hard.
He’s quiet, staring out at the boats, hands jammed in his sweatshirt pockets. “Look, I’m used to being on my own. Doing it my way.” He gives a sly smile. “Like that lady there. I got her to seventy percent. Not bad.”
“But—”
“Stop.”
I watch him head toward the lot where the car is parked. I hate him sometimes. But sometimes too I feel as if I were looking at a mirror of myself: proud, armored, too self-sufficient. Grown up fast. We’re the same! I want to yell. But we don’t say anything the whole way back to the motel, the gray road humming before us, Kamal draped across the back seat, asleep. And as I slide into bed that night I don’t know what hurts the most: that Carlos won’t take my help. Or that he won’t kiss me back.