Dream Things True (10 page)

“You don't know what it's like here,” she said, looking down. “I mean, for me.”

Of course Evan knew what it was like here. He had been at this school for three years. His mom and his uncle went to school here. He was pretty sure his grandfather did, too.

“I'm not sure I follow,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic.

“Do you know what my so-called adviser suggested I take when I met with her last week?” Alma was fiddling with the combination on her locker. He watched her hands closely. Even with her fingernails cut short, there was dirt under them. They were still beautiful, and he loved that she didn't wear neon polish like most of the girls he knew.

“Intro to Fashion?” Evan asked tentatively. Conway and Peavey had tried to convince him to take that class. They told him the teacher looked like Gisele B
ü
ndchen. But after the whole experience with French, Evan wasn't inclined to take Conway's advice on the Gilberton High School curriculum.

“You've got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed. “There's a class at this school called Intro to Fashion?”

“I guess so,” Evan said. “A couple of my friends are taking it.”

“My so-called adviser probably teaches it,” Alma said. “She looks the type.”

“Is she tall and blond?” Evan asked. “With long legs?”

As soon as he said it he started to blush.

Crap. What are you thinking?

Alma glared at him.

“Forget I said that,” he said, cringing. “It's just that my douchebag friends were talking about her and—”

Alma broke in. “You should stop talking, Evan.”

“Yeah,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

“Anyway,” Alma continued, “first, my so-called adviser asked if I was in ESOL classes—which, obviously, I don't need since I speak better English than she does. Then, she suggested I enroll in food science and early childhood care.”

“Seriously?” Evan asked. That was a little over the top.

“I. Kid. You. Not. Then I shoved my transcript from North Atlanta in her face. I knew this would happen. I was prepared.”

She was so angry that her body started to tremble. Evan reached out and touched his hand to her arm. He couldn't stop himself.

“It worked out in the end, though, right? I mean, you got the classes you wanted?”

“Yeah, but…”

“It was just a mistake, Alma.” He squeezed her arm gently and then let his hand drop, even though he didn't want to. He wanted to trace his hand along her arm and across her exposed collarbone. He wanted to feel her hair in his hands again and pull her in close. He had to stop thinking about what he wanted to do with her. Now.

“Doubtful,” he heard her say.

“She probably thought you were someone else,” he said, grasping for something that might calm her down.

“No, Evan,” Alma said. “She thought I was a Mexican girl.”

She yanked a book from her locker and slammed it shut.

“I'm sorry, Evan,” she said. “I've gotta get to class.” She spun away from him and took off toward her first period class.

This was not going to be easy.

 

 

Alma made it almost to the end of the day before she saw him again. Evan was standing across the hall, laughing with two of his friends. She recognized them from his party but couldn't remember their names. All she remembered was that everyone called them by their last names—Piedmont and Connor? Something like that. Evan's friends were classic “prepnecks”—part khaki-pants-wearing Southern preppy and part Confederate-flag-waving redneck. Alma knew their type, and she preferred to keep her distance. Evan was way more “prep” than “neck.” He definitely wasn't a redneck, but he didn't really work at being preppy, either. He was just sort of effortlessly Southern, wearing those no-pleat khakis with leather flip-flops and a worn-out T-shirt from some South Carolina beach resort. She'd never really thought of beach preppy as her type either. Until now, apparently.

Evan was definitely her type.

She slid into a desk in the front row of the classroom, relieved to have slipped by them unnoticed.

Alma pulled a notebook out of her backpack and, realizing that someone was coming toward her, glanced up. Evan was looking straight at her as if no one else was in the room.

She just couldn't get a break.

He slid into the seat behind her and leaned close to whisper in her ear, “What are you doing here? This class is for seniors.”

She took in his scent—faintly metallic. It reminded her of just-turned soil.

“What? You think I can't handle it?” she asked, feeling the anger and frustration return.

“I wouldn't dare think that, Alma,” Evan replied with a smile. “But shouldn't you be in American?”

His bare forearm brushed her shoulder.

“At my old school, I took AP World History in ninth grade, so it put me a year ahead of this place.”

She sounded fine, not like someone who was crumbling inside.

“Wow,” said Evan. “AP classes in ninth grade. You
are
an overachiever.”

Alma leaned forward in her seat, needing to create more distance between them if she was going to keep the promise she had made to herself.

Dr. Gustafson entered the room, balancing a large stack of books in his arms. The books tumbled onto his desk as he cleared his throat loudly. Alma had heard from her brother that he was notorious at GHS, mostly for having been there forever.

“Students, let's begin, shall we?”

Everyone shifted into seats, and the room fell silent. Alma tried to focus on the teacher standing in front of her, but all that registered were the intense waves of energy pulsing between her and Evan.

This was seriously going to mess with her concentration.

Dr. Gustafson began to call the roll. When he came to Alma's name, she braced herself.

“Garrceea?” She cringed in her seat as he continued in his deep Southern accent, “Aaooowlma Garrceea.”

Ready to explain that her name was Julia, Alma raised her hand and launched in. “Excuse me, Dr. Gustafson, I prefer to be called by my middle name—”

She felt Evan's gentle touch between her shoulders and turned briefly to take in his encouraging nod.

She began again, “Um, Dr. Gustafson, if you don't mind, uh, my name is pronounced Aaahhhlma.”

“Ah, yes. Let me try that again.”

He spoke her name again, and it sounded just about the same as the first time. Alma sank low in her seat. Then she noticed that he was looking over her head, directly at Evan. She turned back to see that Evan was raising his hand eagerly.

“Yes, Mr. Roland?”

“Um, sir? You might want to think about pronouncing her name this way: You get home from a frustrating day of teaching
us
and you sink into your favorite chair. Let's say, maybe, you've got a bourbon on the rocks—Knob Creek, something good—and you take a long, slow sip.”

Giggles erupted from the rest of the class, and Alma felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

Evan continued, undeterred, “So you put the drink down and let out a long ‘aaaahhhhh.' Then just add the end ‘llma.' And there you've got it: Aaahhhlma. It's simple.”

The rest of the class tittered. Alma felt her cheeks turn beet red.

“Why, thank you, Evan, for that vividly illustrative bit of advice,” Dr. Gustafson replied.

Alma sank deeper into her desk when Dr. Gustafson tried it again. Astoundingly, it sounded pretty good.

“Aahhlma, I see that you're a junior?” asked Mr. Gustafson.

“Yes, sir,” she said, sitting up tall.

“And you've already had AP American History?”

“Yes, sir. I just transferred from North Atlanta, and I took AP American as a sophomore there.”

“With Mr. Billups, no doubt. He's an excellent teacher.”

“Yes, sir. With Mr. Billups. It was a great class.”

“Well, we're certainly glad to have you join us, Aahhlma.”

A teacher was welcoming her, calling her by her real name, and pronouncing it reasonably well. Maybe this year wouldn't be quite as bad as she expected.

Dr. Gustafson ran through the rest of the roll and then outlined what they would be learning in the class. When the bell rang, the students gathered their books to head out the door.

“Evan, may I speak with you for a moment?” Dr. Gustafson called out.

“Sure,” Evan replied.

Turning to Alma, he asked, “Will you wait for me?”

Alma figured she should stay since he was probably about to get in trouble for speaking up about her name. So she hovered in the doorway, hugging her history book to her chest.

“Evan, I'd like to speak with you about a way that you might help enrich your classmates' learning experience in this course,” Dr. Gustafson said.

“Come again?” Evan replied.

Alma smiled. She loved that expression.

“I'm wondering if you might speak with your uncle—Senator Prentiss—about visiting our class at some point during the semester,” Dr. Gustafson replied.

Of course Evan wasn't in trouble. What had she been thinking? Guys like Evan—people with money and powerful connections—they didn't get in trouble. Dr. Gustafson continued speaking, but Alma didn't hear the words. A deep sadness rose in her gut and coursed through her constricted chest. Before the crumbling could begin again, she walked away.

EIGHT

Fire Alarm

“
¿Le ayudo, se
ñ
ora?
”

Alma's
t
í
a
Pera stood at the kitchen counter. She was trying to pack lunches but instead quietly crying over a package of processed ham.

“
S
í
, gracias, hija,
”
T
í
a
Pera replied, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

Alma grabbed a bag of Wonder Bread from the pantry.

“I'm sorry it's all so hard,” Alma said.

T
í
a
Pera's sister and nephews would be deported in a few days, and
T
í
a
Pera no longer had a job.

Alma laid out six slices of bread and dragged the ham away from
T
í
a
Pera's clutch.

“
Ay, hija,
” her
t
í
a
sighed as she dropped oranges into paper sacks. “
No s
é
. ¿Y qu
é
vamos a hacer con tu prima?
”

The problems with her cousin Isa had started three weeks ago, just after school began. After dinner on the second day of school,
T
í
a
Pera and
T
í
o
Rigo broke the news of their plans. They would return to Mexico with the girls in time for Christmas. They'd been sending money for years to build a house and a little
tienda
back in their hometown of San Juan, and the construction project was almost complete. If they moved home,
T
í
a
Pera could run the small shop. They didn't have any other options.

Isa's body began to shake, and quiet sobs escaped her lips.
T
í
a
Pera and
T
í
o
Rigo chastised her with their eyes, darting glances toward Selena. Selena silently played on the floor, yanking a brush through a plastic horse's tangled mane. Isa was supposed to be strong for her
hermanita
, but she wasn't thinking about her little sister. She was thinking about her ruined life. Isa stood up and ran into the room she shared with Alma and Selena.

Then
T
í
a
Pera turned to face
T
í
o
Rigo.

“
Ay Dios m
í
o. Y por eso—¡por eso!
” She threw her hands into the air. “This is exactly why we need to go back to Mexico,
amorcito
. You see?”

Her hands flailed wildly as she spoke.

“Our Isa has become the Typical American Teenager.” She grasped the edge of the table to steady herself.

T
í
o
Rigo placed his arm on her shoulder, whispering, “
C
á
lmate, mi vida.
”

But she didn't calm down. She just kept calling out random phrases: “No respect! So selfish! All she cares about is her
tel
é
fono
! And those short-shorts!”

The next day, Isa went on a hunger strike. Well, sort of. She refused to eat any foods prepared by her mother. She sat sullenly at the dinner table every night and then returned to the room to raid her secret stash. For the last three weeks, Isa had subsisted on Doritos, Pringles, Snickers, and Dum Dums. Alma was starting to worry.

So she had woken up early this morning to help her
t
í
a
, hoping they'd have a chance to talk.

“
T
í
a,
” Alma said, “I think Isa is just worried, and she doesn't know how to tell you.”

“We're all worried, Alma.”

“I know, but Isa hasn't been to Mexico since she was three. All her friends are here. Her life is here. She's scared.”

Alma understood all too well how Isa must be feeling.

“Maybe you and Uncle Rigo could stay until the school year is out? She could graduate from middle school, and Selena could finish kindergarten.”

“We need to earn a living,
mamita
,”
T
í
a
Pera said as she dropped a bag of chips into each lunch bag. “We can't afford to live here any longer.”