CHAPTER 23
On Santiago’s second day a kid started screaming as soon as the guard delivered him into the crowded room. “Where are the phones? Don’t I get a phone call?”
The red-faced guard on duty was the one who didn’t know, or pretended not to know, Spanish. Patterson, as Santiago heard others call him, had a special talent for ignoring anyone other than a fellow guard.
Just as he’d helped Santiago, Guanaco set the newcomer straight. “Sorry, bróder, phone calls don’t happen here. We have fewer rights than murderers.”
“But no one knows I’m here. How will I get rescued?”
“Grow out your hair,” Pinocchio muttered under his breath. “Get a spoon and start digging.”
Guanaco narrowed his eyes at his friend before turning back to the newcomer. “You’ll get an intake interview in a couple days, brodér. There you give them the contact information, and they’ll let your family know you’re here.”
Sure, that all sounded fine. Except Santiago didn’t know how to contact María Dolores or how to find out if she was even alive. More pressing would be getting a message to Alegría. Their caravans to the cafeteria and the outside area were carefully timed so they never crossed paths with the other youths at the center who shared the same amenities (though some of the boys swore they had caught glimpses of the teenage girls a couple of times). This morning, for the briefest second, Santiago heard someone crying as his group filed toward breakfast. A reminder they weren’t alone. Somewhere within the gray walls of this building, Alegría waited for him. Now to figure out how to get in touch with her.
Santiago kept his head down and scuffed the hard dirt with the toe of his flip-flop. Sometimes once, sometimes twice a day they got to spend time outside in the “play” area—nothing more than a bare patch of earth surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. No balls, and running around was only allowed while certain guards were on duty. But just like the cafeteria, this area was also used by the younger boys and the girls—a broken plastic barrette found in the dirt proved that. If he could only write Alegría’s name in the dirt, would she see it before someone stepped on it? Would she know it came from him and he meant to say he missed her and thought of her all the time? A long shot he’d be willing to risk.
He’d just have to learn to write.
“Oye, Guanaco, I got something for you.” A boy of about fourteen, shorter than Santiago but with broad shoulders, strutted up to them.
“Not interested, Chismoso,” the older boy said as he did a series of jumping jacks while his friends talked with some other guys.
Chismoso leaned against the chain-link fence. “You don’t know what it is.”
“Don’t want to.” Guanaco continued with his jumping jacks.
From his accent, the other boy sounded Mexican, but Santiago couldn’t say from what part. “Your days here are numbered, my friend.”
“I knew that from the start.”
Santiago heard Guanaco’s formal tone, saw the narrowing of his eyes at being called “friend.”
Chismoso shrugged and strutted away. He hadn’t gone too far when he called out to another boy. “Mira, burro, we’re having spaghetti tonight. Pay up.”
Secret messages in the hard dirt temporarily forgotten, Santiago moved closer to Guanaco, who’d stopped his exercise.
“Is Chismoso really his name?” Santiago asked.
Guanaco shrugged. “It’s what we call him.”
The fact that Chismoso’s nickname meant “gossiper” shouldn’t have surprised Santiago.
“What things does he know?” Santiago asked as a thought brewed.
“Many. And they’re usually true.” Guanaco laced his fingers through the fence and leaned into his muscular shoulders to stretch his back. “But finding out comes at a price. I won’t deal with him. Don’t like being indebted to anyone.”
Santiago couldn’t drop it. “If I want to find out how my sister is doing, Chismoso could do that?”
“That’s a reasonable assumption.” Guanaco turned his back to him.
Santiago heard the disapproval. “You don’t want me to talk to him.”
This time Guanaco faced him. Despite the age difference, they were almost the same height. “No, bróder, I’m not saying that. People have to make their own choices.”
Santiago glanced at Chismoso, still talking with the guy he’d called Burro, a nickname that kid surely hadn’t given himself. “Chismoso’s the one who started calling you Guanaco, isn’t he?”
“Ten other guys were here from El Salvador when I arrived, but yes, I’m the one who got the ethnic slur.”
What name would this gossiper give Santiago? It would be something Santiago wouldn’t like. Except Chismoso wouldn’t know there were few things that Santiago hadn’t been called already.
Santiago’s voice softened in sympathy. “Can you do me a favor?”
But Guanaco shook his head. “I don’t run that kind of operation.”
“It’s only”—Santiago shuffled a flip-flop back and forth—“to ask if you can write my sister’s name here in the dirt? Maybe she’ll see it and know I’m thinking about her.”
Guanaco’s face relaxed into a smile. “Yeah, okay, I can do that.”
“Gracias.” And even though he didn’t know what the word meant, he added, “Bróder.”
“Alfaro!” Patterson, the guard who never spoke to the inhabitants, called across the yard.
Guanaco straightened up his shoulders and let out a deep breath. The other ninety or hundred teens outside stopped their chitchat and games. The smug look on Chismoso’s face screamed, I told you so.
A crowd formed a few meters behind Guanaco as he headed toward Patterson.
“¿Voy a salir?” Guanaco asked the guard, and then switched to English. “I’m free?”
But Patterson just jerked his head toward the door in response.
The muscles around Santiago’s face twitched. Guanaco was leaving. Santiago wished Guanaco could stay or, better yet, that he could go with him. He swallowed and offered the older boy a hand; Guanaco shook it.
“No touching!” Patterson yelled in English. Not knowing what that meant, Santiago dropped Guanaco’s hand.
“I hope you find your girlfriend,” Santiago whispered.
“Me too.” Guanaco’s regular confidence faltered. He turned and waved at Pinocchio, Mosca, and all the other boys, giving them a smile that didn’t reach his green eyes.
Santiago swallowed harder this time, watching his only friend follow the guard out. Whatever decision the government made for Guanaco, Santiago hoped it’d be a favorable one.