The wind flaps the tarp like a drum, booming at a techno music pace just above our heads. We lie in the bed of the truck while Sr. Ortíz drives us to Sonoyta. The ride takes a couple of hours. I think of us—Marcos and Arbo flanked by Gladys and me—like those little hot dogs you get in a can, lined head to toe in perfect order and pressed tightly together. The only other image in my mind is of us in a giant coffin. Hot dogs seem like a more pleasant alternative.
We stop.
“Ya llegamos,” Sr. Ortíz announces as he unties the tarp.
I pop my head up. We’re in an alley, shielded from the border town hustle that hums in the distance.
“Rápido,” he says, as we all jump out of the truck.
My stomach tightens. We are wanted and our pictures have been published across all of Mexico for all we know. But our options are limited. It’s too hot to stay in the truck, too suspicious to sit in an alley, and too obvious to stay together. Well-intentioned Sr. Ortíz bought several cheap wigs during his supply run yesterday, but they only make us look like we’re trying to hide. So the plan is for us to split into our natural pairs and blend in the best we can. Sr. Ortíz will find the coyote and negotiate our deal.
We plan to meet back in the alley in three hours.
We wish each other luck, then Sr. Ortíz drives away. The four of us quickly pair off and walk in opposite directions.
Sonoyta is just a car ride from home, but I’ve never been here. I’ve never been this far away. I’ve heard stories. Some good, some bad. I’ve seen pictures. I’ve dreamed of what it must be like. But I’ve never experienced it.
I want to enjoy it, but I can’t. I feel neon. All eyes seem to land on me—shop merchants staring through their windows, schoolkids giggling in their gray-and-white uniforms, locals going about their business, tourists snapping photos, everyone. I’m $2,500, walking down the street, waiting for someone to snatch me up.
“I feel like someone’s going to recognize us,” I say softly.
“You’re paranoid,” Arbo says.
“¿Y tú no?”
His answer lags a few seconds, as an armored police car that looks more like a tank rolls down the street. We both turn and face the window of a small convenience store, watching the reflection of the vehicle slowly pass.
“No, I’m thirsty,” he says.
“We don’t have any money,” I remind him.
“No, but we could ask for water.”
“I think we should get off this street and go someplace where nobody’s going to see us.”
“You’re overthinking this. We’re just two kids. Look around. There are people everywhere. Half of them aren’t even from Mexico. Nobody is going to recognize us,” he says. “If you’re worried about it, we could get you that enormous sombrero.”
He points across the street to a tourist stand that has colorful sombreros as large as umbrellas.
An SUV stops in front of the stand, and a few people who I assume are tourists on their way to our beaches step out of the car. With their flip-flops, bright shirts, enormous icy drinks, and fists shoved deep into tall bags of chips, they look like they’re from another planet.
“They think we actually wear those sombreros.” He smiles. “You could pull it off, I think.”
“Okay. You’re right,” I say. “Let’s ask. I’m thirsty too.”
We walk inside the convenience store. The clerk glances up at us, then looks back down at the counter, to whatever he was reading.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Can we get a cup of water, please? It’s really hot outside.”
“Sure,” he says, without looking up. “The faucet is in the back.”
Arbo and I find the water, fill cups, and return to the front.
“Thank you,” Arbo says.
“You don’t want to buy anything? Chips? Candy?” he asks. His head stays down while his eyes roll up toward us.
I’m about to answer when Arbo jabs me in the back. I turn to look at him. He’s wide-eyed.
“No thanks,” he says. “We’re in a rush. We have to meet our parents.”
He tugs at my shirt, looks at me, and then slings his gaze to the counter for a fraction of a second. Long enough for me to follow his eyes.
My stomach drops.
Spread out on the counter is a newspaper. Even upside down I can read the giant headline: STILL MISSING. Our four pictures hover just beneath his nose.
“You guys okay?” the clerk asks.
“Yeah, yeah. We’re fine. We, um, we’re late,” I say, scooting toward the exit. I bump into Arbo and nearly spill my water. “Thanks again!” I say as we fly into the street.
Without speaking, we speed walk to the nearest corner.
“One point for Pato,” Arbo says.
“I didn’t want that point.”
We round the corner and walk in no specific direction, other than away from any kind of action. Eventually we find a small park with a bench in the shade and a distant view of the highway border crossing. We take a seat.
We’re close enough to the United States that we can see the other side. Cars stop, documents pass back and forth, and the cars disappear quickly into the distance, requiring no more effort from their drivers than the mere press of an accelerator. And here we are, on the cusp of trying to cross fifty kilometers of desert by foot. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it in three days—according to their letters, that’s how long it took Sr. Ortíz’s children. These people could reach the point where we’ll exit the desert in less than thirty minutes. Assuming that highway even leads in the direction we’re going, which is nothing but a wild guess. I know little about where we’re headed.
I wonder what life might be like had I been born over there. If I were the one sitting in the SUV with a frosty drink in hand, on my way to play at a fancy resort. Would I have noticed me watching from the sidewalk? Would I have merrily taken pictures while armored police cars rolled down the streets? Would my life have been better or just different?
In a way, it’s hope. For a blissful moment, I’m looking at the finish line and not focusing on the road to get there.
“Algún día,” says Arbo.
I guess we were thinking the same thing. Someday. My dad used to say that Arbo and I shared a brain, or at least borrowed each other’s thoughts.
“What do you think it’ll be like?” he asks.
We’ve both seen dubbed TV shows and movies from the U.S., and we live close enough to the border that we’ve heard stories about people who crossed and now live over there, but none of that says much about what our lives will be like once we get there.
“Peaceful. I hope,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. But, I mean, other stuff, like where do you think we’ll live?”
“I guess we’ll have to get an apartment.”
“Where?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’ve heard people say Seattle is a good city.”
“I don’t even know where that is.”
“I think it’s close to Los Angeles. That could be another option.”
“Sure.”
“What about Canada?”
“Maybe. Let’s take it one border at a time.”
“Good point, but wherever we end up, we should live together,” he says.
“Definitely.”
“Are you ready for it? Not the crossing part, but once we’re there. Once we leave. We’re never coming back here again. It’s all gone.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for it, but I’m ready to move on,” I say.
“Everything’s going to be different. I think. I don’t know anything about the U.S.,” he says. “I don’t play soccer, but at least I know how to play. I don’t know anything about basketball, American football, baseball. I don’t know English. I don’t know if the people will like us. I don’t know if I have to go to school. I don’t know if I can go to school. I don’t even know if I want to go back to school. Do you?”
“I suppose I want to go. But I don’t have a good reason other than school is the only thing I know that might be the same. Math is the same here and there. Science is the same. Like you said, everything else changes.”
“But won’t classes be in English?”
“Good point. I guess we should have paid more attention in English class. We’ll have to learn fast.”
“I think I want a sports car when we get there,” Arbo says.
“Where did that thought come from?”
“Right over there,” he says. “I want something like that one.” He points several cars deep in the line on the other side of the border. I have no idea what kind of car it is—it’s shiny, red, and much lower than everything else. “Only I want it in yellow,” he adds.
“You’d barely fit in that thing.”
“Shut up, flaco.”
“Well if you get that car, then I’m going to get a truck.”
“We have a truck here.”
“No. A really nice one. Like the kind that has a back seat.”
“That’s just a bigger truck.”
“I like trucks,” I say.
“Why not get something better?”
“Why?”
“Because you can.”
“Okay. Then you can. Have your fancy yellow car. Just don’t park it behind my truck. I’ll run it over.”
“We’ll need a house with a big driveway then.”
“And a swimming pool.”
“And a huge yard.”
“And statues.”
“And a big gate.”
“And guard dogs.”
“And a butler.”
“And a maid.”
“Who only wears bikinis.”
“Then we’ll need two of them.”
“And a helicopter.”
It’s my turn. I pause. “Seriously, we’re not going to have anything. We’re going to get there with nothing.”
“Like I said, I don’t know anything about the country, but why do you think so many people try to get over there? Maybe not everybody is rich, but”—he turns toward the line of cars at the border—“a lot of them are.”
We spend well over an hour in banter between reality and fantasy, at times pleasantly unsure of which is which.
Arbo checks his watch.
“Time to go?” I ask.
“Sí.”
We’re the first to arrive in the alley. Within a few minutes, Gladys appears. She’s alone, holding a small plastic bag looped around one of her wrists.
“Where’s Marcos?” I ask.
“Who knows,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“He said he had something he wanted to do.” Her eyebrows push together and slant down, forming a V.
“Like what?”
“I have no idea.”
“So you’ve been by yourself the whole time?” I ask.
“For most of it,” she says. “It was okay. I like exploring.”
“What’s in the bag?” Arbo asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says.
“What, are you trying to imitate your brother?”
“Ha, ha,” she says in a dry tone. “It’s something for Pato.”
Arbo turns to me with an annoyed expression.
“And nothing for me?”
“Well, I almost got you a wrestling outfit. You know, to cross the desert in style.”
“Ha, ha,” he says.
“So, you want to see it?” she asks me, as she dips her hand into the bag.
“Sí.”
She pulls out a book and hands it to me.
“Las aventuras de Huckleberry Finn,” she says.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a gringo book. I think it’s about a boy who leaves home to go on an adventure. It’s not exactly the same as us, but what is? I thought you might like something to read.”
It’s beyond thoughtful. If Arbo weren’t here, I might have teared up. We’ve passed the it’s-okay-to-cry phase, but not when it comes to something like getting a book from a girl.
“Thank you,” I say.
Wait. Something occurs to me—and because we share a brain—Arbo asks the question before I can.
“How did you get this? I thought none of us had any money.”
“I just did,” she says.
“What do you mean you ‘just did’?”
“I mean, you don’t need to know about everything that I do.”
“You stole it?” Arbo asks.
“No, I didn’t steal it.”
“Well, then how else did you get it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Dios mío, you’re just like him,” Arbo says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think? Full of secrets, just like your brother. Pato and I sat on a bench and laid low for three hours. And, by the way, our pictures are still all over the newspaper. But that didn’t stop you. You were off robbing bookstores and doing who knows what.”
Throughout our time at Sr. Ortíz’s house, there wasn’t much space to hide emotions, whatever they were. But I’ve never seen Gladys truly angry. Until now.
And in this anger, I see something else for the first time—Marcos. She doesn’t look like him, and it’s not just that she’s being secretive. She projects him. Her jaws press together, pulsing her cheeks outward. Her pupils dilate and she stares at Arbo as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
I hold my breath.
Then, as quickly as he arrived, Marcos vanishes, like some inner demon she has learned to control.
“Okay. You really want to know how I got it?”
Arbo nods. He’s as taken aback as I am.
“Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell Pato. But he can’t tell you anything, except that I didn’t steal it.”
I both love and hate this plan.
“He’ll tell me,” Arbo says.
“No, he won’t.”
Both look at me. This is the part I hate.
“I…” I freeze. There is no right answer. Either choice is wrong. Still, they stare at me, each expecting me to support their side.
Arbo finally does the humane thing and bails me out.
“Fine. Tell him. I’ll let it go.”
He’s lying. We all know it. But it gets me off the hook.
I follow Gladys around the corner. Her eyes, which had been so fierce only a moment before, now look at me playfully and send my stomach into a free fall. In an instant, I forget about Arbo. I forget about the deal. I just want to be here.
“So, you want to know?” she asks eagerly, suggesting that all along, she really wanted to tell.
“Of course.”
She checks in both directions to make sure no one is around, then smiles somewhere between bashful and proud.
“I showed my boob,” she says.
“You what? To who?”
“To the guy at the bookstore.”
My mouth hangs open, but nothing comes out.
“Well, he wasn’t a guy,” she continues. “He was a kid. He was about twelve.”
“Why?”
“Duh. To get the book. I didn’t have any money. He said I couldn’t take it. It was a store, not a library. So…”
“So, what? Did he ask you to do it?”
“No. There wasn’t anybody else around so I made a deal. He was just a kid, and I’m never going to see him again. And you got a book!”
I’m part touched, part flabbergasted, and part…envious.
“I can’t believe you showed your boobs to a twelve-year-old.”
“Just one.”
“One what?”
“One boob.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t need to show both.”
“Don’t they look alike?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
I look right at them. Then I look back up at her eyes, unsure of what’s going to happen next. I can feel each beat of my pulse surge through my body.
She simply shakes her head. “You got a book out of it.”
I’ve never felt worse about literature.
Gazing at her, I’m struck by how differently we reacted to this day. I hid. She exposed herself—literally. We faced danger in opposite ways.
I think back to when we were outside the wall that night, Gladys pressing against my back, listening to Arbo scream in the backyard. There was comfort in having two of us there, both afraid to run into the madness. It was an unspoken empathy. And, apparently, one that I had only imagined.
I had been holding her back, wet leg and all.
This is the second time I see Marcos in her. Only this time, it makes me want her. In a way that I shouldn’t, just days after losing my family. And it makes me want to be someone different, someone more than I am.
“Remember. You can’t tell Arbo. Promise me.”
“I won’t.”
She walks past me and I follow her back into the alley. As we turn the corner, she gives me a smug grin, half for me and half for Arbo. Arbo eyes me like he can’t wait to get me alone. Fortunately, before we get close enough to speak, Sr. Ortíz drives into the alley.
“So?” I ask.
“Good news and bad news,” he says, stepping out of the truck.
“What’s the good?”
“They looked at the truck and said it’s probably enough.”
“Probably?”
“That’s the bad news. I didn’t talk with our coyote. But I did find some people who know him and can get in touch with him,” he says.
“So what do we do?”
“We wait.”
“In Sonoyta?”
“Or we drive back. I don’t know which is better or safer.”
Both the narcos and the police have been known to stop people on the highway, for no good reason. All of us are aware of this.
“How long do we wait?”
“They think they can reach him by mañana.”
Tomorrow. Arbo and Gladys deflate, the same as me.
Mañana doesn’t usually mean mañana. Just like un momentito can stretch into hours. It’s a lie we tell ourselves and others when we don’t know.
Still, it’s tempting to believe. It’s what I want. Today I saw the United States. I was close enough to breathe the foreign air. And in my mind, I’ve already said goodbye to Mexico. I’m ready to start the journey.
“Where would we stay?” I ask.
“They gave me the name of a motel.”
“How much is it?”
“It’s not much,” he says. “Don’t worry about the money. My family has been good to me.”
“We’ll pay you back for all of this,” Arbo says.
“Get across safely. That’s all you have to do to pay me back.”
We wait another thirty minutes for Marcos, until Gladys finally gets concerned. She and Sr. Ortíz leave the alley to see if he might be somewhere nearby, which gives Arbo his opportunity to corner me.
“So?” he asks.
“So, what?”
“Come on.”
“She made me promise not to tell you,” I say.
“So that’s how it’s going to be now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is she your new best friend?”
“Come on,” I say.
“What?”
“You want me to break my promise?”
“I don’t have any secrets from you,” he insists.
“None?”
“None.”
Our eyes lock. He’s telling the truth, which makes me feel that much worse about what I’m about to do. I’ve never lied to him. Never. Until this moment.
“Sr. Ortíz gave her some money.”
“So why didn’t she just say that?” he asks.
“Because he asked her not to tell anyone. I guess she looked hungry. I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
Lies. Mentiras y más mentiras.
Arbo cocks his head slightly and bites his lip. He’s trying to read me. “You remember I told you that I like her, right?”
“You said you liked her.”
“What’s the difference?”
“As in, you used to like her.”
“Well, I still do.”
“Okay… Well, I still didn’t do anything.”
“Well, you’re not acting like that.”
“She got me a book. I didn’t ask for it.”
“Right.”
There isn’t a good, natural end to this conversation, so I’m thrilled when an unnatural one turns the corner.
Marcos walks toward us. Gladys and Sr. Ortíz are at his side.
“Did you get done what you needed to do?” Arbo asks in a bitter tone, still riled up.
“What do you mean?”
“Gladys said you had something you wanted to do.”
He glances quickly at Gladys.
“No. I didn’t think we should be walking around together,” he says.
We all know it’s a lie, but his tone makes it clear that this is the end of the conversation.
We return to the bed of the truck and huddle in a hot, agitated mass beneath the tarp.