CHAPTER 26
The other boys weren’t farting or barking, but Santiago didn’t sleep that night. Every rustle from the metallic blankets, every muffled whisper, every tick from the clock, jerked him back to reality.
No, he wouldn’t accept this. Not until he knew for sure. There had to be some mistake. Maybe in the little-girl section everyone wasn’t required to go to the cafeteria during mealtimes. Maybe they were allowed to stay watching television, or the teacher was teaching Alegría how to write new words. Maybe that’s why Consuelo hadn’t seen her.
Or maybe Alegría had gotten sick. No, he didn’t want to think about that, either.
Sometime in the middle of the night he got up to use the bathroom. Five minutes less he didn’t have to try to sleep. A guard didn’t follow him in, because one was already there, leaning his back against the tile while Chismoso, the resident gossip, washed his hands. Santiago went about his business and returned to his sleepless spot.
Chismoso.
Guanaco had said Chismoso knew things. Guanaco had also implied the gossiper wasn’t trustworthy. Santiago believed Guanaco, but he had to know the truth. The more he thought about it the less he slept.
At breakfast too many people surrounded Chismoso for Santiago to approach him. Instead, Santiago called out across the yard later during their recess. “Hey, Chismoso, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Santi.” The boy grinned, but his brown eyes never stayed still, shifting to take in the happenings within the fenced area. Santiago noticed he never looked him in the eye. Santiago also regretted introducing himself that first day as Santi. Alegría had been the only one to call him that. Coming from Chismoso’s mouth, the nickname sounded condescending and malevolent.
“Please, call me Santiago instead.”
“Okay, Santi.”
Santiago closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “My sister, Alegría García Piedra. She’s five and was on the girls’ side. Can you find out what happened to her?”
“I might be able to dig something up.” Chismoso looked into Santiago’s eyes for the shortest second before returning to his shifting glances around the yard. “For you, Santi. But what are you going to do for me?”
Santiago gulped. He hadn’t forgotten that something in return would be expected. He just hadn’t wanted to think about it.
Chismoso laughed as if he could read Santiago’s thoughts. “Listening’s free, but answers are going to cost you.”
A muscle in Santiago’s jaw clenched.
“What do you want? I don’t have anything.” Santiago pulled his metallic blanket and toothbrush from his pocket to prove his lack of possessions. The twenty dollars he’d gotten from Don José would be good right now, except he couldn’t remember where he’d lost it.
Dread and resolution filled him. Whatever horrible thing Chismoso wanted, Santiago would probably still do it.
“Give me food,” Chismoso demanded. “Each meal, every day. Whatever you can sneak out. If you can do that for a few days, I can get you an answer in a few days.”
Deadpan now became Santiago’s expression of choice. At the end of every meal each boy exited the cafeteria with his pockets inside out to show that he had no food. Rumor was that immortal, plague-ridden mice lived in the facility, and therefore it was strictly forbidden to take any food out of the cafeteria. He’d seen guys frisked while leaving, their secret stash removed, and given a warning that thievery would be added to their records. No one wanted to be moved to an actual criminal detention center.
Chismoso continued. “Three meals a day for four days, that’s—”
“Twelve snacks, yes, I know.” Santiago crossed his arms over his chest.
Again Chismoso made eye contact for the briefest second before looking away. “Ah, a smart man. I like that.”
Santiago kept his glare on the boy. “Does that mean you’ll find out about my sister?”
Chismoso smiled wider. “Exactly, after the twelfth, I’ll tell you what I unearthed.”
Santiago pretended to think about it and then forced a sigh. “Fine.”
La malvada had only given him food no one else wanted, when she gave him anything to eat at all. If he hadn’t pinched food from her kitchen (or scrounged around the streets), he would have died years ago. Out of all the tasks Chismoso could have given Santiago, sneaking food was one of the few things he felt confident about.
Dinner that night was arroz con pollo with fruit cups for dessert. Normally his favorite meal, because it was hard to mess up, Santiago now agreed with María Dolores. The rice resembled oatmeal in consistency, while the pieces of chicken must have come from the oldest, toughest rooster. To top it off, it tasted of nothing.
Santiago sat at a long table with other guys who ignored him. Asking for Consuelo’s help was out of the question—he couldn’t risk getting her fired. He ate every last grain and placed someone else’s empty fruit cup on his tray. Under his sweatshirt, but over the long sleeved shirt, he tucked his fruit cup into his armpit. Anyone watching would think he was just scratching. He picked up a couple of other trays and stacked them before joining the line. On the side that held the fruit cup in place, he held his metallic blanket, toothbrush, and a new book from Señor Dante in hand. His other hand held up the hems of his shirts to prove he wasn’t sneaking any food out.
The guard holding the door was Castillo, one of the nicer ones. Although he wouldn’t hold a conversation with the detainees, he didn’t ignore them like Patterson did. Or call them crybabies, dirtbags, idiots, or lazy bums like the young, pimply Herrera.
Castillo barely looked Santiago’s way as he clicked his counter and Santiago passed him. Once clear, Santiago lowered his shirts and passed the metallic blanket and toothbrush to the other hand to stuff them back into his pockets. The fruit cup remained wedged in his armpit, squeezed just tight enough to keep it secure but not so much it’d explode.
Santiago and Chismoso had decided to make the deliveries in the bathroom stalls. Yes, a guard still kept watch, but Santiago pointed out he wouldn’t be able to see anything being passed under the stall dividers. Plus, after-meal bathroom time being a popular event, with or without the iffy Sunday sausages, there’d be nothing suspicious about their regular visits.
Santiago didn’t have to wait too long in the corner stall when the person next to him let out a glorious fart.
“Ay, qué rico.” Chismoso sighed in relief. A second later the stench reached Santiago. No wonder the other guy had been desperate to let it rip. Santiago waved his hand over his nose before retrieving the fruit cup from its hiding place and holding it under the stall wall. Job done and not needing to be exposed to any more bathroom sensory events, Santiago flushed and exited the stalls.
The next morning Castillo was back on duty during breakfast. This time Santiago hid a fairly straight banana up his sleeve, and Castillo didn’t notice the bulge.
Banana delivered, Santiago lined up for the showers, which were too busy to use before breakfast. Chismoso gave him a sideways look coming out of the stalls and spoke to the bathroom at large. An act he often did.
“Herrera’s on duty next. He’s such a pain in the you know what.”
A few of the others groaned, but Santiago knew the message had been for him—it’d been one thing to sneak food past Castillo, but such trickery wouldn’t be possible with Herrera on watch.
Santiago proved him wrong.
At lunchtime, a newcomer two people in front of Santiago was eating his apple as he tried to pass Herrera. Instead of sending him to the back of the line to finish the apple like Castillo would have done, Herrera yanked it from his hand before chucking it at his head.
“Food must never leave this room, ¡imbécil!” Herrera screamed. “Do you want mice crawling all over your body? Or are you so used to living that way, you don’t care?”
The boy stared at Herrera with wide, frightened eyes. Santiago wanted to reach out, tell him about the food rule, show him the ropes like Guanaco had for him, but he kept his head low, not drawing attention to himself. Not today.
“Oh God, are you crying?” Herrera made a show of being disgusted and shoved the apple boy aside. “Get lost, crybaby, and don’t you dare try to sneak food past me again.”
Herrera took his anger out on the rest of them by roughly frisking the guy in front of Santiago. Stepping forward, Santiago held his metallic blanket, toothbrush, and book high, and let Herrera pat him down. Once clear, he shoved the ham sandwich that had been wrapped in the blanket into his pocket. Considering that the ham looked moldy, settling for just an apple and a glass of milk hadn’t bothered Santiago much.
After dinner, Herrera searched them all again. This time it wasn’t until Santiago got to the bathroom that he extracted a small packet holding two cookies from inside his mouth. He handed over the goods and walked out of the bathroom even though Chismoso wanted to talk. With no place to hide, no place to really be alone, Chismoso found Santiago trying to read, leaning against his corner.
“How are you doing it?” he asked, looking down at Santiago.
“How do you find out everything?” Santiago retorted.
Chismoso smiled and held out his empty hands. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”
Santiago raised his eyebrows and returned to the book.
The other boy sighed. “Okay, point taken.”
“Eight more and you tell me about my sister,” Santiago reminded him. “By the way, you have some cookie crumbs on the corner of your mouth.”