Dream Things True (6 page)

“EVAAAN! AOWWLMA! Are you still down there?”

Calling out from the house, Evan's mom broke the lush silence.

Alma turned toward the sound, opening her lips to form a reply, but Evan lifted a hand from her back and pressed his finger against her lips.

“Shhh,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “Let me kiss you.”

Quiere besarme,
she told herself again. She hadn't imagined it.

His hand slid from her lips to the base of her neck, and he wound his fingers into her hair. She felt her heart thrumming and Evan's breath warm against her face.

Alma closed her eyes.

“ALMA!
¿D
ó
nde est
á
s?
”

“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Evan, pulling his hand back so quickly that he tugged her hair from the roots. “Is that your
dad
?”

Alma's eyes shot open, and her hands fell to her side. Evan's body spun toward the house.

“What time is it?” asked Alma urgently.

Evan grabbed his T-shirt from the ground and thrust it once more into her hands. She scrambled to pull his shirt back over her head.

“Ten,” Evan said, looking down at his phone. “Oh, good Lord, Alma, I'm so sorry.”

Alma leapt up and scrambled down the boathouse stairs. Forcing back hot tears of anger and frustration, she ran toward her father.

FOUR

Trouble

Evan shaded his eyes and tried to focus on the white ball hurtling silently through the air. It curved sharply off to the right and landed in a stand of pine trees.

“Dude, you are
such
a hacker today.”

Logan shoved a tee into the ground.

“Yeah, looks like I'm in jail again.”

“No worries, man,” Logan said, poised for a swing. “We'll press them on nine.”

Logan loved to play golf; Evan tolerated it.

When Evan was a kid, he used to come to the driving range with his dad on Saturday afternoons. They stood side by side and sent ball after ball sailing across the wide lawn. Evan's dad gave him the occasional tip, but mostly they just listened to the
thwack
of metal hitting polyurethane.

Logan and his dad sometimes came out to play nine holes with them. It was a good way to break the silence. Their families were close enough that Evan called Sheriff Cronin his uncle even though they weren't related.

All those hours spent on the golf course with Logan, Uncle Buddy, and his dad had made Evan a reasonably good golfer, but he never enjoyed it. Today was particularly painful. Evan felt trapped inside this perfect green landscape. He imagined scaling the high metal fence surrounding the club and landing solidly on his feet, like a cat that narrowly avoids losing one of its nine lives. These nagging thoughts threw Evan's game off, so he kept ending up “in jail”—hooking and slicing his ball into the pines that lined either side of the fairway.

Logan crushed the ball off the tee, and it sailed three hundred yards down the center of the fairway, landing with a soft
thud
just short of the green.

“It's a good thing I'm so on fire today,” Logan said. “Maybe I'll save us from losing a boatload of money to those guys.”

“Not a chance,” Peavey replied, gesturing toward Evan, “not with that duffer.”

Peavey and Conway—friends from the neighborhood whom almost everyone called by some version of their last names—were giddy with the thought of all the money they'd win.

Logan hopped in the golf cart, and they sped off to search for Evan's ball, nestled somewhere in the thick carpet of pine needles.

“So, did you and that Mexican girl hook up last night, or what?” Logan asked, stepping out of the cart to search for Evan's ball.

“Her name is Alma, and it's none of your damn business.”

Logan looked up and examined Evan's face carefully.

“So this explains your brutally bad golf game,” Logan replied, nodding slowly as his face broke into a knowing grin.

“Shut up, man,” Evan said as he turned his back to Logan and crouched down, pretending to look for his ball.

“That girl is easy on the eyes,” Logan said.

Evan glared at Logan, a sense of protectiveness welling up again.

He spotted the ball nestled against the trunk of a tree and half buried in a clump of twigs.

“Perfect,” said Evan sarcastically. “Just perfect.”

Evan noticed the familiar sound of a lawn mower coming toward them. Conway jumped out of the cart and watched the mower approach.

“Is this guy gonna stop?” Peavey called out.

“Hey, cut the mower!” Conway yelled.

The mower turned but didn't stop. Instead, it lowered its blades and began to cut the already close-trimmed grass of the fairway.

“What's wrong? No speak-a
ingl
é
s
?” Conway yelled again, angry.

They all watched as the mower continued in their direction.

“Y'all just cool. The guy's probably new,” Logan said, trying to break the mounting tension. “I'll tell him.”

Evan watched in silent disgust as Conway loudly cleared his throat and spat onto the ground. He wanted to say something to Conway, but his throat felt tight, and the words wouldn't come.

Logan jogged toward the mower, and the other three watched silently. The mower's engine immediately cut, and the driver jumped out of his seat to talk with Logan.

After a minute, Logan headed back toward the green.

“He's new,” Logan announced. “We got it worked out.”

“What?” Peavey asked. “No one told him you're not supposed to mow while people are hitting?”

Logan shrugged and dug into his golf bag.

“Doesn't even speak English,” Conway said.

“Jesus, Conway. He spoke English fine,” Logan said.

Conway cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled in the direction of the mower. “Go back to Mexico,” he called out, “and mow your own goddamned grass.”

“Quit being such an asshole,” Logan said, shoving Conway back into his cart.

Peavey leaned back in the cart and laughed like an idiot.

Why could Logan say it when all Evan could do was stand there and fume in silence?

“Well, boys,” Logan announced, clearly trying to lighten the mood, “no more putting it off. You're about to get your little white asses kicked clear down to Tifton.”

 

 

Alma filled a glass with cold water from the tap and chugged it. Glimpsing her reflection in the kitchen window, she sighed and placed the glass on the counter. Her face was smeared with mud and sweat. She grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped off the grime. She'd been working since dawn, and was only halfway through the grueling list of chores that her dad had given as punishment. She glanced out at the lawn she'd just finished weeding. At least she had that behind her.

“Ooooh, you are in TROUBLE!”

Alma turned to see her cousin Selena behind her, still wearing her yellow SpongeBob pajamas.

“Mind your own business, Selena.”

“I know what you did. I heard Uncle Lalo talking to
Mami
about it before he went to work.”

Alma was tempted to ask whether Ra
ú
l had been there to hear it. If her brother knew, there would be more hell to pay when he got back from work, and too many questions that she wouldn't know how to answer.

“Please, Selena. Just go back to your TV show.”

Selena's sister, Isa, called in from the other room, “Did you kiss him?”

Alma felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks as her lips recalled the tug toward Evan's. But then she remembered the harsh voice of her father, tearing them apart.

“Enough questions,” she said to her cousins. “It's none of your business.”

Selena huffed, shoved her hands onto her hips, and spun away.

Alma walked to the living room, where Isa was sprawled on the couch, eating Doritos from a large bag.

“Why don't you make yourself useful and feed the dog, Isa?”

“You're not my mother,” Isa said angrily. “Plus, I fed Pel
é
yesterday. It's somebody else's turn.”

In Isa's thirteen-year-old mind, it was always somebody else's turn.

Alma opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink and pulled out a bucket and some soap. She dug around, looking for the big yellow sponge that her dad used to wash his Bronco.

How was it possible that the best night of her life could be followed by this day? She probably should be grateful that her dad hadn't woken her up with her bags already packed and thrown her in a bus headed for her
abuela
's house in Mexico.

The house phone rang. Knowing her cousins wouldn't get up to answer, Alma dropped the bucket and ran to get it.

“
¿Bueno?
”

“Alma?”

“Mrs. King? How did you know I was back?”

She felt her heart expand, and a smile made its way across her face.

“I saw your brother at the Dollar General.”

“I'm sorry,” Alma said. “I mean, you worked so hard to get me to North Atlanta, and now I'm back where I started.”

“Good Lord, child. You had two years of excellent schooling. You're coming back to GHS with a perfect grade point average. Don't you
dare
go telling me that it was all for nothin'!”

Oh, how Alma loved Mrs. King.

“So, how are you?” Alma asked.

“Bored to tears, that's how I am. The county finally forced me to retire.”

“What?” How could they force Mrs. King to retire? She was the best middle school counselor ever. “I bet they'll be begging you to come back after the first day, Mrs. King.”

“Oh, I reckon they'll muddle along without me.”

Alma wasn't so sure.

“On the bright side,” Mrs. King continued, “I have more time for
you
.”

“For
me
?” Alma asked.

“I have a plan—”

Another plan. Maybe this one actually would work.

“—to get you into college, and we're gonna find you a big ol' scholarship.”

Alma loved this plan. “I'm all ears.”

“Can you meet me tomorrow?” Mrs. King asked.

“Yes, ma'am. I mean, I have to ask my dad, but I think it will be OK. Can we meet after church?”

“That sounds just fine. I'll pick you up at Holy Cross.”

“OK, sure,” Alma said. “And Mrs. King?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, good heavens, child,” Mrs. King replied. “It's me should be thanking you. The good Lord knew I needed a project somethin' awful. So he brought you on back home to me.”

“Then I guess I should thank the good Lord,” Alma said, laughing. And then, just for old times' sake, she threw in some Spanish.

“
Hasta ma
ñ
ana,
” she said.

“Haabsta mayntanya,” Mrs. King replied.

She always begged Alma to teach her Spanish phrases, but that woman was a lost cause.

FIVE

Dream in the Desert

Cold flesh pressed against her cheek. The distant, droning noise came closer. Metal sliced through air. Dogs barked as a blinding light cut through the sky. Sand pelted against her exposed skin—searing, burning.

The men leapt from a helicopter and lunged toward her, arms outstretched, heavy guns dangling from their shoulders. The dark-eyed man pulled her close, pressing her body against his chest. His uniform chafed against her hot skin. Into the heat that enveloped her, Alma screamed a silent scream.

“
Alma, Alma, despi
é
rtate, hija.
”

Alma flailed, pushing away the heat of the man's hands—clinging to the cold.

“
Es un sue
ñ
o, hijita. Es un sue
ñ
o. Solamente un sue
ñ
o…”

Alma shot up in bed, disoriented. She flung herself away from the arms that encircled her. But these were not the arms of the dark-eyed man. It was her aunt, begging her to wake up, assuring her it was just a dream.

“
Ay, pobrecita,
” her
t
í
a
Pera said, grasping Alma's shoulders. “
¿El mismo sue
ñ
o?
”

“
S
í
, T
í
a.
No big deal.”

“I wish you would tell me,
hija
…”

“What? About the dream? Why would I tell you?”

“
No s
é
, tal vez…”

“
T
í
a
Pera,” Alma said, sitting up on the edge of the bed, “dreams are just the random firing of neurons. Nothing more, nothing less.”

T
í
a
Pera raised her eyebrows. “If they're so random, then why do you keep having the same one,
hija
? Tell me that,
sabelotodo
.”

Her aunt was calling her a know-it-all, which she probably deserved.

“We're going to be late for church,” Alma said dryly.

T
í
a
Pera glanced at the phone on Alma's bedside table and let out a squeak.

“
Tienes raz
ó
n, hija,
” she said. “We have to pick up your
t
í
a
Dolores from the plant on the way.
Ya nos espera.
”

Alma jumped out of bed and began to dress quickly. If
T
í
a
Dolores waited at the plant for even a moment longer than she had to, they would all suffer.