Sometime before four a.m., the helicopter roared through Alma’s unconscious mind, shining its blinding light onto that awful scene. She awoke, panting and sweating, with the sickly sweet taste lingering in her mouth. This time, she had seen the source of the saccharine sweetness: a red Jell-O shot forced into her mouth by Evan’s aunt Maggie.
Yuck.
Alma’s dream was back for the first time in months, and it was worse than ever. Call it superstition, but Alma worried, wide awake in her bed in the predawn hours, that if they didn’t get to the next part of Mrs. King’s plan soon, everything would go to hell in a handbasket.
She texted Evan.
Are you awake
No. Why?
I need to ask a favor
At 4:15 in the morning?
No. at 7
You know I’ll do anything
Take me to mass
You mean church? Tomorrow’s monday. Go back to bed
Meet me on the bench at 6:45. Catholics have church every day
Good lord. Which one?
Which church?
No, which bench
Fortitude?
Sounds about right
* * *
Evan must have passed out because Alma’s text awoke him in the guest house, his bleeding hand wrapped haphazardly in his own T-shirt and Mary Catherine wrapped in a duvet, dozing on his bare chest.
Evan held it together when he was with Alma. They waited until late and then walked the three miles around the lake to his car. She fell asleep on the drive home. He shook her awake and walked her to her front door. The moment he left her the rage overtook him. All of the insanely frustrating events of the past few days converged into an image: Conway tugging on Alma’s dress. He drove recklessly through the darkness, blinded by the image, using every last ounce of his will to keep his car from steering toward Conway’s driveway, to keep himself from beating Conway to a pulp. He could almost feel his hands aching with the sensation of it. Instead, he stormed into his empty house, slammed the doors loudly. He tried to take a long, hot shower, to watch pointless television, to listen to music so loud that the neighbors would hear. But even the angry screams coursing through the speakers couldn’t dampen his fury.
Evan took a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the liquor cabinet in his dad’s office and sucked down several long, painful swigs. When the buzz came on strong instead of mellow, Evan knew that being alone was a very bad idea. He lurched out of the house, his tense body carrying him toward Conway while his battered mind urged him to stay away.
When he saw a dim light coming through Mary Catherine’s window, Evan realized that she might offer him a way out. He texted M.C. to see if she was awake. Moments later, they met in the guest house, as they had many times. Until now, it was always to deal with Mary Catherine’s crises—some lame boyfriend or another who had broken her heart again.
It was Evan’s turn to call in the favor.
They finished the bottle, passing it back and forth as Evan fumed. Mary Catherine listened, stunned and horrified. Evan explained the jail, his talks with “Uncle Buddy” and Uncle Sexton, and then the hardest part. He hoped desperately that she would have a way to refute his story about Conway, to come up with an alternative explanation. Instead she confirmed everything, slowly reconstructing the events of Friday night.
Evan probably frightened her when he grasped the near-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker by the neck and smashed it against the kitchen counter. Small shards of glass and the last drops of dark liquid splintered across the gleaming tile floor. But she didn’t show that she was scared. Instead, she knelt with him to pick up the fragments of the bottle, seeing that his hand had been gashed with a deep wound and watching the blood flow red. He remembered burying his face in his bloody hands. Then anger finally gave way to sorrow.
Mary Catherine told him to take off his shirt. She wrapped his hand in it, and somehow, they both fell asleep on the couch.
“It’s four fifteen,” he said, nudging her. “You should go home.”
She heaved her body across his and pulled the duvet over her head.
Evan lifted her from the couch and carried her from the guest house. The cold air jolted her awake.
“Thanks,” he said. She kissed his cheek and stumbled away.
Evan knew he wouldn’t sleep again, so he went inside, threw his bloodied shirt in the trash, and took another long, hot shower. He pulled the glass from his wound, bandaged it, and waited for morning to come.
He arrived at school long before Alma’s bus, so he sat waiting on Fortitude, holding a cooling double cappuccino. When the bus came, Alma walked toward him and took the cup.
“What happened?” she asked, noticing his bandaged hand.
“Stupid accident,” he said. “The knife slipped when I was making a peanut butter sandwich last night.”
She shrugged and led him to the car.
His head was pounding so he didn’t mind the quiet as they drove to Santa Cruz. They went into the church, and Evan sat with Alma in the second pew of the almost empty sanctuary. He couldn’t believe he was skipping calculus for this. He had no idea what was going on since the entire service was in Spanish. All he knew was that there was a lot more standing, sitting, and kneeling here than in his church. He was pretty impressed that the three old ladies sitting in front of them kept up. His head still ached and his bandaged hand throbbed. How had he ended up feeling so ruined?
The faint smell of incense combined with the warmth and the dim light created a perfect atmosphere for sleep. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would last.
Hoping to enhance his appearance of piety, Evan made the mistake of closing his eyes. Why couldn’t he shake the image of Conway standing over Alma, tugging her dress up around her narrow hips?
Alma nudged him. She was standing, watching the priest walk out of the church. At last, it was over. Alma dug in her purse and pulled out a candle—the kind you see in the “ethnic foods” section of the Bi-Lo. She motioned for Evan to follow as she walked from the sanctuary and into a room crammed full of statues and paintings and flickering candles.
She placed her candle in front of a plastic statue of a bearded man in a white robe. He had a green drape over one shoulder. With his left hand, he held what looked like a big gold coin in front of his chest. His right hand had a long staff, like the one Jesus held on his preschool coloring pages of the “Good Shepherd.” There was a weird little flame over his head.
“Is that Jesus?”
“It’s St. Jude. Wanna light the candle?”
“Um, OK,” he said, looking around for a pack of matches. She took a long stick that had been burned on one end and balanced it over the flame of the adjacent candle. That one had a weird image of a toddler all dressed up like a Spanish conquistador or something.
Alma handed him the stick, and he touched the flame to the wick of Alma’s candle. They watched it flicker in silence for a while. He felt lighter, surrounded by dim flames and unfamiliar images.
“So, did I just participate in some sort of voodoo ritual?” he asked.
“No, it’s not quite that exotic,” Alma replied. “You made a prayer to St. Jude. Or I guess it would be more accurate to say that you asked St. Jude to plead to God for us.”
“Plead? Wow.”
Evan struggled to keep the heaviness from descending again. They both glanced around the room, taking in the dozens of images and statues that surrounded them. “Why’d you choose him?”
“He’s the patron saint of hopeless causes.”
“That sucks,” Evan said.
“Yeah,” replied Alma, “it does.”
He took her hand in his good one and they stood together a little longer, watching the candle flicker alongside many others, each making a silent, impossible plea.
* * *
They probably would have arrived on time for second period. But Evan offered to stop at the Dripolator on the way back. Evan could always be counted on to feed her addiction. They both stopped by a trash can in an empty hall of the school. Alma sucked down the dregs of her second double cappuccino, and Evan noisily pulled the last droplets of water through a straw. Just as they were about to part ways, Alma heard a deep male voice call her name. She turned to see Mr. Massey, the principal, walking toward them.
Busted.
Alma and Evan tossed their drinks into the garbage.
“Mr. Roland,” the principal announced with a firm voice, “shouldn’t you be in a classroom somewhere instead of loitering in the hallway?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Evan replied shakily. He caught Alma’s gaze and shrugged. “I’m on my way now, in fact.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Alma stranded in the hallway with Mr. Massey.
“I’d like for you to come to my office, please, Alma.”
Alma followed Mr. Massey. Did he already know about what had happened to her father and brother this weekend? Was he planning to offer condolences? Or was he just eager to start the process of transferring her files to the nonexistent high school in her family’s hometown in Mexico?
He motioned for her to sit down in the fake leather chair across from his desk.
“Alma, I’ve just received some very exciting news.”
She wondered where this was going.
“You have been named a finalist for Youth of the Year by the Boys and Girls Clubs of Georgia.”
This had to be some sort of cruel joke.
“We’re very proud of you, Alma. This is a wonderful honor for you and for the school. I know that you and Mrs. King worked very hard toward this.”
He was wrong. Alma had given up on it months ago. She had submitted most of the application in the fall, but she never turned in the teacher recommendations. She was too in love to face Mrs. King and her judgment, so she quit and tried to forget about it. Alma told herself that she could come back to scholarship applications senior year, when they mattered more. But Mrs. King was not a quitter. She must have submitted the recommendations for Alma.
Mr. Massey lifted a letter from his desk and read, “‘High school juniors who show exceptional qualities of scholarship, leadership, and citizenship—’”
This was a cruel joke.
“‘—are guaranteed a one-thousand-dollar college scholarship, and are eligible to compete for the regional and national awards next spring. Those awards carry scholarships of up to fifty thousand dollars.’”
Fifty thousand dollars. She was speechless.
Mr. Massey thrust the letter into her hands, and Alma skimmed it.
“Youth of the Year, a year-round development program, honors Boys and Girls Club members as outstanding scholars, citizens, and leaders. Criteria include poise, public speaking, and demonstrated ability to overcome obstacles.”
“This year’s theme is ‘The Face of Promise,’” Mr. Massey said. “They’re even planning to put your photograph on billboards throughout north Georgia. It’s all very exciting, Alma. We’re so pleased for you.”
She stared at the letter, unable to draw her attention away from one phrase: “Demonstrated ability to overcome obstacles.”
He thrust another sheet into her hands. It looked like some sort of acceptance letter or release form. Her eyes scanned the orderly rows of blank boxes, each waiting to be filled with the relevant information.
“You’ll just need to fill out this form, and we’ll be sure to return it today.”
She found the space on the form that always eluded her—the nine small boxes that would remain empty. Once again, the absence of a string of numbers on a flimsy blue piece of paper stood between her and her dreams. Alma would not overcome the obstacle of the Social Security number. This was one ability she simply could not demonstrate.
She slowly lifted her gaze to look toward Mr. Massey, who gave her an encouraging smile.
“I guess the cat got your tongue, huh? It is a lot to take in.”
She searched for a way out. “Yes. It’s a lot. I need to get to class, Mr. Massey. There’s, uh, a quiz I can’t miss. Can I bring the forms back later, maybe?”
Mr. Massey seemed genuinely surprised. “Yes, uh, sure. I mean, that will be fine.”
Alma stood to leave, but he thrust his hand out to stop her.
“Alma,” he said, “I’m very pleased that you decided to come back to Gilberton High School this year. We all believe this is a good place for you. But please be careful. Don’t let yourself get distracted. You can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
Alma nodded slowly.
“I know that you and Evan Roland missed first period today, and I’ll let it slide this time, but whatever it is that you two are doing, you need to think long and hard. Consider the consequences.”
If she told him what they’d been doing, he’d never believe her.
* * *
Conway was coming toward Evan, with Logan and Peavey. He knew it would happen eventually, and he knew that it would not be pretty. But the force of his rage still surprised him. It almost launched him from the ground. He stumbled back into the wall, his mind urging his body to move in the opposite direction from its instinctive thrust.
“Dude, what’s up?”
Evan felt the cool wall pressing against his back. He leaned in farther.
“Have you heard?” Conway asked. “Logan’s dad’s like a national hero.”
“Huh?” Logan asked, clueless.
“Your dad totally filled the jail with illegals, Logan. I went down there with my cousin Bo last night. It was awesome—everybody’s out there holding signs about how great Sheriff Cronin is.”
The cool wall no longer pressed against his back. Evan’s body seared with heat. He imagined hurtling forward. Conway would hit the ground below him, and his head would produce a satisfying thud against the concrete floor. Evan’s useless right hand would make painful contact with Conway’s chin.
“Get out of my way,” Evan growled.
Logan’s hand was on his shoulder. “What’s going on, Evan?” he asked, pushing Evan away from Conway.
“For starters, he drugged Alma.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Logan asked, confused. “You two are making no sense this morning.”
“I didn’t drug Alma,” Conway said dismissively.
“You cornered her and gave her a Jell-O shot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Conway said. “Your little Mexican chiquita is making up stories.”
Evan barely registered his voice. He was struggling out of Logan’s grip, lurching toward Conway.
“Back-assed redneck son of a bitch! You drugged my girlfriend!”
A teacher leaned through her classroom door.
“My girlfriend was catatonic on my bed. You drugged her.”
“Evan, man. Keep it down,” Peavey said in a loud whisper.
Evan stood up straight, glared directly into Conway’s eyes, and said, “Don’t. Go. Near. Her.”
Logan pulled him away and he didn’t resist. He found himself in Dr. Gustafson’s classroom, face-to-face with the old man. Logan closed the door.
“Mr. Roland,” Dr. Gustafson announced firmly, “I don’t know what Davey Conway did to you, but whatever it was, that boy is not worth it. You have got to pull it together.”
Evan nodded.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Dr. Gustafson asked, with an authority that had an oddly calming effect on Evan.
The bell rang.
“Logan,” he heard Dr. Gustafson say, “take Evan to his sixth-period class, and stay with him until he sits down. If you need a late pass, come back to me for it.”
“Yes, sir,” Logan replied. “And, uh, thanks.”
He took Evan’s arm and led him out of the room. They walked in silence to Evan’s classroom, Logan’s grip remaining firm on Evan’s forearm.
“Christ, Evan,” Logan finally said, “You almost got yourself suspended—thrown off the team! What the hell were you thinking?”
Evan didn’t speak.
“Jesus, Evan.” Logan took a long pause. “What is up with you?”
Evan turned away and walked into his classroom. What could he say? He barely recognized himself.
* * *
Arriving late to Evan’s game, Alma scanned the bleachers, looking for a friendly face. She saw Evan’s uncle sitting beside his mother in the front row, and immediately devised a plan to avoid them.
She looked up at the scoreboard. Halftime, and Buford was winning 2-0.
Maritza called her over.
“Hey, y’all,” she said to Maritza and Magda, scanning the field for Evan. Evan was standing in what looked like stunned silence as Coach Nelson screamed and gesticulated wildly in his direction.
“What’s the news on your dad,” Maritza asked, “and your brother?”
“No news,” Alma said. “We’re just waiting to see what happens. It looks like they’ll get picked up by ICE. We have to get a lawyer.”
“That sucks,” Maritza said. “I can’t believe…”
Two girls they didn’t know squeezed into the seat next to Alma.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Maritza said.
“Yeah, OK,” Alma replied.
“It’s not good out there, Alma,” Magda announced. “Your boy already earned himself a yellow card.”
“Evan?”
“Yeah. He was offside a couple of times, he’s been missing tackles, and he can’t seem to get off a pass or a shot,” Magda said. She was into soccer—always good to have around for explaining technical rules.
Alma hunched over on the bench.
“Good thing you missed the first half. It was pretty painful,” Maritza added.
“Do you think Coach Nelson is going to pull him out?” Alma asked.
“I don’t think he can,” Maritza said. “Buford is good.”
The whistle blew and the players took to the field. Alma was relieved to see Evan jog toward the half line, but her relief lasted only moments. As soon as the play started, she knew that something was wrong. He always played aggressively, but his aggression was usually controlled and focused. He knew the limits. Not today.
After eighteen painful minutes in which Evan continued to melt down, a Buford player tackled him just outside the penalty box, and Evan faced a wall of opposing players, poised for a penalty kick. He stepped up and drilled the ball directly into the wall.
“Oh, my God!” Maritza cried out. “What is he doing?”
Alma stood up, shocked.
Two stunned Buford players hit the ground. Another defender cleared the ball out of bounds. Evan turned in tired resignation to face his coach, who called him to the sidelines. Substitution. Evan was taken out of the game.
Evan didn’t fight it. He didn’t resist at all. He lowered his head and jogged off the field, ignoring his teammates.
“Evan Roland riding pine,” Alma heard Magda say. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Alma sat in pained silence and watched as Gilberton High School finished its first game of the season without a single goal. She tried not to look at Evan slumped on the bench, but her eyes kept wandering to his back, her heart lurching toward him. Maritza made several valiant efforts to explain away Evan’s strange performance, but Alma knew the truth.
When the match ended, Magda and Maritza stood up. “Hey,” Magda said, “tell Evan not to worry. Everybody has sucky days.”
“Wanna walk home with us?” Maritza asked.
“No. I think I better wait for Evan.”
They pulled her in for a hug. “Yeah, well, call if you need anything, OK?
“Yeah, OK.”
Alma stayed in the bleachers as they emptied, watching Evan and his teammates walk slowly toward the lockers. She saw Senator Prentiss approach him and watched as Evan turned away, leaving his uncle shaking his head in what looked like disbelief.
She waited on the hood of his car. It took a long time for Evan to come out, and when he did, she almost wished she hadn’t waited. She realized—watching him approach her with wet hair and sunken eyes—that she had no idea what to say to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologize,” he replied without emotion. “It’s not your fault.”
Alma felt confused.
“I wasn’t apologizing. I was saying that I’m sorry you lost your first game of the season.”
She wished that she could explain in Spanish. The difference between apology and sympathy was so much clearer in her native language.
Evan squeezed his eyes together and brought his bandaged hand to his head. He reached out and stroked her face with his other hand. His eyes looked so tired.
“Hey,” she said, “did you know that you’re touching ‘The Face of Promise’?”
“What?” he asked.
“I got offered a scholarship from the Boys and Girls Club. It’s called ‘The Face of Promise.’ Mrs. King put in the application.”
“That’s amazing!” he said. “Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Doesn’t matter. I probably can’t take it,” Alma said.
Evan squeezed the back of his neck and winced, like he was in pain.
“Can we talk about this later, maybe? I need some sleep. I think I’m getting sick or something.”
“Probably all those icy swims,” Alma said.