Dream Things True (27 page)

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.

“I have nothing to say to you,” 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.”

He felt himself being pulled away and 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 in 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 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.

TWENTY

Voluntary Removal

Evan sat up in bed. It was spring break, and he didn't need to be up, but he couldn't sleep. He heard the door to his parents' room open and the familiar rumbling of suitcase wheels against the wooden floor. His mother spoke, and the rumbling ceased just outside his bedroom door.

“Will you be back?” his mother asked calmly.

“I'm not sure,” his father replied in a low voice. “I'll stay in the condo in Atlanta. It will be easier that way.”

“Then you'll need to move forward with the plans to open the clinic there,” she replied.

“I've called Jim Watson about the financing already. I'm sure he'll spread the word around the club.”

“And you've got an agent to help you find a lease?”

“Yes, we're targeting the area around Northside Hospital.”

“I think you should consider Midtown Hospital. It's…”

“… farther away from Gilberton.” Evan's father completed his mother's thought. “You're right. I need a good reason to be staying down there instead of commuting. I'll look into it.”

“Evan doesn't need to know yet,” his mother said. “No one should know. And you'll need to come back on Sundays for church and brunch at the club.”

“Right,” his father said.

A silent pause, and then the wheels began to roll toward the stairs. Evan heard the door to his parents' room close gently, and then the tap of their bathroom door.

His mother was brushing her teeth.

His father was finally leaving them.

Evan waited in his room until he heard the roar of his father's SUV. Then he scurried out quickly, not wanting to see his mother. Today would be difficult enough. He didn't have the energy to construct more lies with his mother, to pretend that his family actually existed intact.

Evan got into his car and drove toward Alma in silence.

When he arrived, Alma sat perched on the front stoop, holding a blue gift bag with gold tissue peeking from the top.

“What's this?” he asked as she stretched onto her toes and enfolded him in a hug.

“An early Easter gift, I guess,” she said, shrugging.

She thrust the bag into his hands, and he pulled out the tissue paper to look inside.

“It's great,” he said as he examined the small blue-and-gold window decal with “Cal” written in cursive script. “But you probably should have given it to me in a plastic egg, and a bunny costume would have been a nice touch.”

Alma flung her arm out to hit him, but he caught it and pulled her into a kiss.

How could he leave her? In four months, he would be on his way to California to play soccer for one of the best teams in the country.

“Your car will definitely fit in over there,” Alma said, leaning back to look at him. “You may need to add a few leftist bumper stickers, though.”

“Why don't you bring me one every time you visit?” Evan asked, nudging her.