Dream Things True (17 page)

He turned away from Alma, striking up a conversation in almost flawless Spanish with an elderly grandmother sitting next to them.

Yes, Whit was surprising.

Intrigued by the transformation of Evan's character on the field and by his odd cousin, Alma almost didn't notice that he and Ra
ú
l were dominating the game. The spectators around her began to point and comment. Seeing Evan through their eyes, she realized that Evan was good, really good. He and Ra
ú
l seemed to read each other's presence, to sense the other's next move. Evan carried the ball up the sideline, passing two defenders, and then slid a left-to-right pass across the top of the box to Ra
ú
l, who sent an arcing shot over the head of the Diablos' goalkeeper and into the top right corner of the goal.

Five minutes later, Evan sent another effortless pass to Ra
ú
l, who neatly tucked away their second goal. The crowd along the sidelines grew, and the newly energized fans of the Santos de San Juan began to yell and hoot for the dynamic duo. Even Alma's dad was smiling. His body involuntarily hopped when Evan set Ra
ú
l up in the box, positioning him perfectly to send the ball cruising into the left corner of the net, bringing the game to a tie.

 

 

Evan felt them watching him—the white kid dominating field eight. He didn't care. Playing with Ra
ú
l was such a rush that even if spectators had been screaming, “Get off the field, gringo,” he would have ignored their jeers.

There were only three minutes left in the game, and defenders were all over Evan and Ra
ú
l. Evan tried to deflect them by sending a few passes to the other forward. He was pretty good at finding Evan's passes, but not the goal.

With the clock down to forty seconds, the Diablos' best player fell to the ground, clutching his knee. Whistle blown.

Evan yelled out in frustration, “Oh, come on! The guy barely touched him.”

This would take them into stoppage time.

While the opposing player rolled around on the pitch, feigning an injury to catch his breath, Evan jogged to the sideline. Mr. Garcia yelled out instructions in rapid and completely incomprehensible Spanish. Evan jumped in, hoping his brash behavior wouldn't put him on Mr. Garcia's bad side. Evan described a play that he and Ra
ú
l had used at GHS. It required very little help from their teammates, except the defender Ramiro. He was good. Ra
ú
l translated, and the other players nodded in agreement. Mr. Garcia—amazingly—smiled and nodded, too.

Another whistle blew, and Evan felt his body shift back into focus. Surrounded by energy from his teammates and the crowd, he felt aggressive but calm. He took in the position of the players around him, motioning for the defenders to adjust.

The other team put the ball back into play. A Diablo sent an errant pass in Ramiro's direction. Ramiro executed the play just as they had planned. He dribbled up the middle and crossed the ball to Evan. Evan drove it down the left sideline and then crossed it into the penalty area. Ra
ú
l received the ball, but he couldn't get a shot off. He glanced around as the clock continued counting down. Evan motioned for Ramiro to move forward, into the midfield. Finding him open, Ra
ú
l sent a long pass back to Ramiro, who then tapped it across to Evan. Scanning the field, Evan realized that the defenders were so busy covering Ra
ú
l that they'd left the goal open. From fifteen yards, he sent the ball airborne, and nailed the top left corner of the goal. It wasn't the plan, but it worked.

Spectators charged the field as teammates piled onto Evan, cheering and hugging. Evan felt the familiar rush of exhilaration, the thrill of the win. His eyes scanned the crowd to find Alma, who stood on the sidelines with a bemused grin.

He looked around. The frenzied crowd was acting like the team had just won a state championship, not a midseason match in a rec league.

Evan untangled himself from the players and jogged over toward Alma.

“First win of the season,” she said, smiling serenely. “Thanks.”

“Hell, Alma,” he said, “You don't need to thank me. That was more fun than I've had in a long time—and your brother is crazy good.”

“He's not the one getting all the attention,” Whit said, glancing around at the people pointing and gawking at Evan.

“Yeah, it's a little weird,” Evan mumbled.

People gathered around, offering congratulations—some in English and others in Spanish. Trying to be polite, Evan responded with “Thanks, uh,
gracias
.”

Whit leaned in and mimicked his accent, “Graaciaas, mew-chas graacias.”

Throwing a dismissive glance toward Whit, Evan wrapped his arm around Alma and turned away.

“Your cousin speaks great Spanish, you know. Maybe you should take lessons from him,” she said.

“Never gonna happen. You might as well get used to being embarrassed by your gringo boyfriend.”

Alma laughed and threw her arms around his neck. Neither of them cared that he was sweaty, or that there were dozens of people gathered around them. He just hugged her in tight.

Evan saw Whit watching them. He was smiling in an odd way, almost genuine. Whit seemed happy here, so far away from their world. Evan was happy, too.

Overjoyed, in fact.

Alma led Evan over to where Ra
ú
l and Mr. Garcia stood, beaming from ear to ear, with a group of men who looked to be Mr. Garcia's friends.

“Very good game, Evan. You are a very good player,” Mr. Garcia said. He glanced at Ra
ú
l, an encouraging expression in his eyes.

“My dad wants you to join the team,” Ra
ú
l said. “But I told him you probably didn't want to risk injury for the regular season.”

“Really? Your dad wants me on his team?”

“Uh,
yeah
,” replied Ra
ú
l, as if this were totally self-evident. “It would be awesome, but it's no big deal if you can't.”

Evan glanced at Alma, whose eyes were sparkling. He'd done it. He had earned the trust and maybe even the admiration of Alma's dad. All it took was a few plays on the soccer field.

“I'd like that, Mr. Garcia. Thank you so much,” Evan said.

“Welcome to the team,” replied Alma's dad. “Now, we celebrate!”

“Everybody's going to Tres Hermanos on Pine Street,” Ra
ú
l said. “Wanna come?”

“Yeah!” Evan replied.

“Hey, I hate to ruin the big celebration, but somebody has to drop me off at the Krispy Kreme in a half hour,” Alma said. “Remember?”

Ra
ú
l rolled his eyes, and Alma's dad smiled a patronizing smile.

“Oh, yeah. Your middle school counselor.” Ra
ú
l chuckled. “Alma's getting a head start on her college applications.”

“I can take her,” Evan blurted out, “and then meet you at the restaurant?”

“Thank you, Evan. That is very good.” Mr. Garcia said.

Evan's heart started to beat fast, but then he remembered Whit. He had been so close to having Alma alone.

“Hey, Ra
ú
l,” Whit said, “I need to meet my parents downtown. Can I catch a ride with you?”

Evan was shocked. Whit was trying to help him out.

“Sure, man,” Ra
ú
l said. “If you've got time, you can come hang with us at the restaurant first.”

“
Mil gracias,
” Whit replied. “I love the
posole
at Tres Hermanos.
Muy sabroso.
”

Evan and Alma watched, stunned, as the others turned and walked toward Mr. Garcia's Bronco.

TWELVE

Too Sweet

Realizing that they were alone—or as alone as they might ever be—Evan and Alma grasped hands and ran toward a large grove of poplar trees.

They stumbled and fell, tumbling over each other into the thick bed of leaves—those stubborn poplar leaves that coated the ground every September, not noticing that the heat of summer was far from subsiding.

Evan buried his hands in Alma's long hair and pulled her toward him. They kissed passionately, clinging to each other urgently in the soft bed of dry leaves.

Evan pulled back and held her face in his hands. “I can't believe this is happening.”

“I know,” Alma said. “Believe me…”

Alma ran her hands along the contours of his jaw and interlaced her fingers behind his neck. Evan touched his lips gently to hers, noticing the faint sweet scent of her breath. When he couldn't take it any longer, he pulled her on top of him and kissed her again, hard.

They kissed like that for a while until Evan felt his hands leading places that he knew they weren't ready to go. He pulled her lips away from his, sighing deeply.

“We have to stop,” he said. “I mean, I need to stop.”

Alma nodded and rolled to the ground. They lay on their backs, holding hands, watching the blue sky through the poplar branches; brown leaves floated gently and landed softly on their still bodies.

Alma turned to face him, propping her head in her arm, and reached across his body to take a leaf from his chest. Then she stood and let the dry leaf fall to the ground.

“Time to go,” she said, reaching out to pull him up.

They walked silently to Evan's car, fingers entwined, not caring or even noticing who might be watching. Evan opened Alma's door and watched her slide into the seat of his car. He walked slowly around to his side, in quiet wonder that she was there. He got into the car, leaned toward her, and pulled a crushed leaf fragment from her hair.

They drove, suspended in silent reverie, until they arrived at the doughnut shop. Mrs. King sat waiting in her Buick, windows rolled down, watching. Evan pulled into a nearby space and stepped out of the car. When Alma emerged, he was there to meet her, taking her hand and pulling her gently out. They paused, bodies almost touching, with Alma's face lifted toward Evan's. They kissed again, and Alma turned to go.

 

 

“You
do
know who that boy is?”

Mrs. King sat across from Alma, glaring as she shook a doughnut in her fist.

“Yes, ma'am.” Alma replied.

“You're telling me that you know who his people are? You know his family?” She slammed the doughnut onto the table, releasing a cloud of powdered sugar.

“Well, I don't actually
know
them,” Alma said. “I mean, uh, I haven't met them yet.” She stared at her coffee.

“I don't expect you ever will,” Mrs. King said.

“Mrs. King,” Alma said, staring down at the table where she'd left a trace of powdered sugar, “Evan's great, and I
trust
him.”

“Alma, sweetheart,” Mrs. King said, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “I know you have good judgment, but sometimes judgment can be clouded by feelings.”

“Watch,” she commanded. She took the lid off of Alma's black coffee and opened a small container of vanilla hazelnut creamer.

“You like your coffee black, right?”

“Yes, ma'am, unless it's cappuccino.”

“Well, sweetheart, Krispy Kreme is not known for its espresso bar, now is it?”

“No, ma'am.”

“So this black coffee sittin' here between us, it's clear and strong, just like your intentions. Do you follow?'

“Uh, I think so.”

“This coffee has a future; it has a plan.” Mrs. King lifted the creamer and pointed toward it. “And this here? This is your Evan.” She slowly poured the creamer into Alma's coffee and lifted the cup out toward her. “It's nice and sweet now, but it's
real
cloudy—so cloudy you can't see your way through it.”

Wow.
Not only did synthetic sweetener ruin Alma's coffee, it was also killing her mood.

“Evan knows about my goals,” Alma said. “I mean, he even knows I want to be an anthropologist—and he supports me.”

Mrs. King shoved half a doughnut into her mouth, chewed fiercely, and swallowed.

“I see,” she said, lifting a napkin to wipe the sugar from her lips. “Then it looks like I'm going to need to be more direct.”

Alma bit her lip and waited.

“Three issues,” Mrs. King announced, putting her elbow on the table and gesturing toward Alma with three fingers outstretched. “We'll start with the obvious.”

“Point one,” she said. “Latinas have the highest teen pregnancy rates of any group in the US.”

Yikes.
Alma felt her cheeks turn red, remembering the feeling of her body pressed against Evan's.

“Why is that, Alma?” she continued. “Do Latina girls have more premarital sex?”

This was obviously a rhetorical question.

“No, of course not,” Mrs. King said. “So let me ask you, Alma: If you and Evan decide to—quote—carry your relationship to the next level, will you take birth control pills?”

Alma shrugged. She knew where this was going, but she had no desire to go there with Mrs. King.

“All right then. If you get pregnant, will you consider terminating—?”

“No,” Alma broke in. “I would never…”

“That's right,” Mrs. King said. “You're a good Catholic girl, aren't you? So are most of the forty-four percent of Latina teens who get pregnant before the age of twenty.”

“But, Mrs. King, I don't even know if Evan and I are gonna—”

“Have intercourse? I'd say just about every one of those pregnant girls said the same thing.”

Alma's face fell to her hands. This was utterly humiliating. She desperately needed a black coffee.

“So, let's move on,” Mrs. King said. “Point two.” She threw two fingers into the air and shook them once.