CHAPTER 25
At the end of dinner that night, Consuelo came out with a rag to clean the stand that held the empty trays. Santiago quickly stuffed the mini muffin they’d gotten for dessert into his mouth and walked over with his empty tray.
“I asked a ten-year-old girl to point out your sister,” Consuelo mumbled. “Though I should have guessed. She’s got your ojos.”
What? Really? He brought his hand to his eyes. Long lashes tickled his fingertips. Was their shape similar too? He turned to the long serving table, but the stainless steel only distorted his features.
“Did she—” Wait, swallow muffin first. Two gulps later, he tried again. “Is she okay?”
“She asked about you.” She reached out for his empty tray and simultaneously slipped him a piece of paper.
He quickly placed the paper between the pages of the animal book he still had from Señor Dante. He wanted to know the whole story, how Consuelo had managed the inquiry, even the name of the ten-year-old girl who knew Alegría. But the guards called two minutes, and a mob of teenagers brought their trays over to Consuelo.
“You’re the best. Gracias,” Santiago said. Two other guys echoed their thanks when she took their trays. A final nod, and he joined the line to leave, clutching the book tightly to his chest.
The note couldn’t really be from Alegría. Not so quickly, when he’d only made the drawing this morning. Maybe Consuelo was sparing his feelings, and the note really came from her.
While the other boys crowded into the TV room off the main room—where, depending on the guard in charge, they watched telenovelas and sports, nature shows and documentaries, or cartoons, all in English—Santiago returned to the corner he had claimed as his own. Under the pretense of reading his book, he opened the folded piece of paper. Three figures with lines coming out of them were drawn in the center, with a large scribble to one side. As Santiago stared at it, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
Any doubt that the drawing had come from someone else disappeared. As he looked at it closely, the blobs took shape to form three people. Not just any people, two side by side and the third almost on top of one of the others. Alegría had drawn her family, complete with him carrying her. And the large scribble next to them must be Princesa.
He tucked the drawing back into the book and folded his arms over his knees to give in to the tears. How could someone be so close, but still so far away?
Consuelo had the next two days off. At least Santiago hoped that was the case when he didn’t see her. By the third day, he worried he’d gotten her fired. How could he have done that to her? She’d been good and hardworking; she didn’t deserve to lose her job. He had no idea smuggling drawings from one group to the other would be a fireable offense. He hated himself for that.
But connecting with Alegría only to lose touch again bothered him more—and then he felt guiltier.
Consuelo finally appeared again at the end of dinner, three days after he’d last seen her. She met Santiago’s eyes for the briefest second before shaking her head slightly. Was that an I can’t talk to you; I’ll get fired or Your sister hasn’t given me anything new headshake?
He clutched the note he’d written during today’s class, copying the words Señor Dante had written out for him. His hand had grown stiff from practicing the same words over and over again until the letters finally resembled the teacher’s instead of ugly scribbles.
Consuelo suddenly dropped a tray. Runny beans raced under the table. Santiago grabbed a handful of napkins and ducked underneath, hoping the guards couldn’t see him.
“She’s gone,” Consuelo whispered, grabbing the rag and cleaning solution from her apron.
Santiago’s head banged against the underside of the table. “What do you mean gone? ¿Está… se—” But he couldn’t finish the words.
Consuelo placed a hand on his head, soothing the bump. “I don’t know. But she’s not here anymore.”
He crawled out from under the table. His right hand opened and closed to ease the stiffness. Gone. Alegría. Gone. María Dolores. Gone. Mami. Everyone he’d ever loved, gone.
The note he’d meticulously written floated on the remaining bean mess. The pencil marks seemed to glow for a few seconds before sinking into the brown depths.
Alegría, te quiero. Tu hermano, Santiago.