Salvation (20 page)

“Don’t be silly, Salva. You know I owe you.”

That was stupid. Why would Miguel owe him?

“Don’t lie to me,” Salva said. He didn’t need his brother acting like he hadn’t sacrificed anything.

“What?”

Salva pressed his thumb into the crack, just above the plaster. “It should have been you first at a four-year college. I know you quit to help support us. It wasn’t fair. I’ll pay you back somehow. I don’t know when but—”

“
Hermano,
I had enough of school. You’ve gotta know that. You heard the fights.”

Yeah, Salva had heard them. He’d heard Miguel shouting that his work wasn’t appreciated. That his paycheck was what
put food on the table. And
Papá
had yelled back that he could take care of his own
familia
. And that he didn’t need a dropout for a son.
What had that meant, exactly?
Salva had assumed, at the time, that his father had been exaggerating. Trying to ignore reality in order to live up to the promise he had made
Mamá
about all her children getting an education.

“You’re overthinking this, aren’t you?” Miguel’s voice broke through Salva’s thoughts. “Look, I left you in the lurch with
Papá
, let you take on all his big dreams so that I could move to the city and work construction. You know it, and I know it. And, listen, hey, it wasn’t fair. We both know that, too.”

The plaster beneath Salva’s thumb began to crumble.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you around, little brother. Just because I couldn’t handle all the pressure of
Papá
’s expectations doesn’t mean I’m not just as happy for you as he is. Of course you’re staying here. And I’m really proud of you, okay?”

Salva didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how to deal with what he was hearing. That his brother had
chosen
not to return to school. Had left it unfinished.
Like he left everything unfinished—the paint job on the front door, the putty in this stupid crack.

Salva’s mind reeled through that awful year. His mother’s death. His father’s grief. And then, sometime in the spring,
Papá
’s announcement that he had been promoted to manager and that
his older son could start working his way back to school. Miguel had asserted that
la familia
couldn’t really afford it.

And Salva had believed him.

Had blamed
Papá
for the fights.

“Okay?” Miguel repeated.

No, it wasn’t okay. Salva had
needed
his older brother that year. The least, the
least
Miguel could have done was to brave their father’s anger and pick up the phone. “Look, thanks for the offer,” Salva said, then let the signal die.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, the blood in his veins replaced by disillusionment. His brother had dropped out because of the pressure? What kind of an excuse was that?

Salva understood pressure. The obligation to prove that his parents’ decision to sacrifice everything to come here hadn’t been wasted. That he could excel. Could learn as well as all the other American kids. That he could beat them at their own game. A fiery burn pulsed through his stomach—that same intense feeling that had wound its way through his gut every time he’d called a play during the state-championship final. That need to win.

Pepe had been right. It wasn’t just about
Papá.

Salva’s father might be seriously high-stress. Might misread people like Beth and Markham and Miguel. But
Papá
was right about Salva. Education was his way out. And on this point, this one basic elemental point, the two of them were in complete agreement. Slowly, Salva straightened, then stepped outside the
room, returning the phone to his father, and said with more conviction than he ever had in his life, “
Gracias, Papá.”

His friends’ reactions to the scholarship news didn’t quite rival his family’s, but Tosa gave Salva a huge flying chest butt that made the
abuelas
at church gasp. And Pepe delivered a high five and a fist pump that his best friend knew was sincere.

Still, Salva found the wait to tell Beth tougher than he had anticipated. He walked by her trailer Sunday evening, but the lights were out and nothing at all seemed to be moving. So he reconciled himself to wait. All night, through the delay of walking his sisters to the bus, then out on the front steps by the main entrance of the high school. For thirteen minutes.

She finally arrived with about five minutes to spare before the bell. He grabbed her by the hands, tugged her behind the hedge along the building front, and watched her face as he talked.

“Engineering?” she repeated when he finished.

“Yes.” He pulled her farther into the crevice between the gray wall and half-brown shrubs, then reiterated his explanation. “It’s a
full
scholarship.”

She wasn’t jumping. Or hugging him. Or even looking like she was trying to look happy. “Why would you want a scholarship for engineering?” she asked.

His jaw clenched. She wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t seriously going to turn into the type of person who cut you off
just when you were getting your dreams. Was she? “Because it’s
State
University,” he said. “It’s a four-year scholarship. It means they’ll pay my way.”

“Of course they’ll pay your way. All the state colleges that replied to you so far have agreed to pay your way.”

Yeah, but the others were minor regional schools. This was a major university.

The first bell rang, followed by the sounds of multiple pairs of feet sprinting past the hedge and heading for the main door. He should go, but he just couldn’t leave it like this. Of all the people in the school, he’d been counting on her to understand.

Beth dropped her backpack from her shoulder. “Salva, since when have you planned on becoming an engineer?”

“I’m taking AP calc,” he stated the obvious. “Advanced physics. Science and math; they’re what I’m good at.”

“You’re good at everything”—the backpack fell from her elbow into the dirt—“even AP English, if you’re strong enough to say what you really think. I’ve never heard you talk about wanting to design roads or structures or buildings.”

“Well, we can’t all write romance novels.” The slam came out of his mouth without permission.

She jolted. For a second, he thought he saw her wince, but her tone hardened. “You are a coward.”

“For going into the toughest program in the state?” He could feel the anger building within his chest.

She was giving him that look—the same one she’d given
him last fall when she’d ripped apart his paper on Milton. That blunt, baffled, I-thought-you-were-better-than-this look. “You’re going to take this scholarship,” she accused, “because it’s the best one they’ve offered you, and to hell with what you want.”

“I want this!” he shouted, not caring if anyone heard.

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s a four-year university. At the best school in the state. In one of the best programs out there.
That
is what I want.”

“It’s not enough.”

She was impossible!

“Look!” he shouted, “I’m sorry I can’t afford one of your Ivy League colleges!”

She backed away, slightly. He hadn’t told her about the responses from Princeton and Harvard. He guessed he should have. Then maybe she would have understood.

Her voice softened. “It’s not about the school, Salva.” She reached out as if to touch his arm. “Or which program is the best. It’s about what you want to do with your life.”

He swept her hand away. “This
is
what I want—”

“Engineering?” Her arms came across her chest. “You don’t have any passion for engineering.”

Just like that. She said it as if she was reciting some fact he had failed to study for a final.

And the statement drove home. Direct.

Because she was right.

“I…” Salva stammered. “I’m not passionate about anything,” which, really, on a scale of one to ten, was a zero on the list of things he should ever have said to Beth.

She winced.

The bell rang.

They were both late for cit/gov. Salva ran.
There’s nothing wrong with not knowing what I want to do,
he told himself.
Isn’t that kind of the point of my first year of college? Taking the stuff I don’t have a chance to take at Liberty?

He could already hear Beth’s argument.
And how are you going to do that if you tie yourself to an engineering program?

“You’re late, counselor.” Coach Robson held up a penalty flag as Salva entered cit/gov, which had been transformed into a courtroom: Robson’s desk as the judge’s bench, the audience at the back, a chair for the witness stand, a desk and computer for the court reporter’s table, a row of seats for the jury box. And two sets of desks, separated by an aisle, for the lawyers.

Salva hurried to the nearest one and dumped his stuff: four books, three folders, three notebooks, and his pen. He hadn’t had time to put away anything or visit his locker, but his plan for the trial was here. In this pile. Somewhere.

A whistle sailed from the back of the room, followed by Pepe’s voice. “Looks like the counsel for the defense was engaging in a little unprofessional activity with the court reporter.”

Which meant Beth had arrived.

Salva avoided her gaze as she brushed past him en route to the reporter’s table.

Coach Robson had launched into a lecture for the jury members. Phrases glided back: “Jury of peers…burden of proof…beyond reasonable doubt.”

“Salva, are you listening?” Char asked at his side. There were real lines under her eyes. Maybe the headaches Pepe had mentioned had been real. Or maybe she was just freaking out about speaking in public.

“Yeah,” he lied. “I’ve got this. Don’t worry. You aren’t going to have to take the stand.” He found his cit/gov notebook and flipped it open.

Slam!
Luka was standing across the aisle, a fist on his desk, the other hand pointing at Char. “This woman has committed a crime, an affront to all the students of Liberty High.” He rounded the edge of the prosecutor’s area and swept in front of the entire row of jury members. “We were all injured when she
stole
”—he whirled and pointed at the blue-and-gold object on Robson’s desk—“the
torch
of Liberty High.”

Ill-smothered laughter came from the back. Most people thought the torch was a stupid mascot.

But Salva had to hand it to Luka. The guy was dynamic.

The running back snagged an empty chair from the jury box and propped his foot on it, then faced the entire audience. “The prosecution will prove that Char Mendoza plotted the taking of the torch and committed the act by herself and of her own free will. How is it we know this?” The foot came off the chair. Because”—Luka began to pace—“the defendant was
seen
stealing the mascot.” Turn. “The mascot was found in
her
locker.” Turn. “And as if this were not enough, she
confessed
to the crime.” His hands lifted to the air. “Can there be a more cut-and-dried case? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury”—he bowed in their direction—“I think not.”

The audience applauded. It was hard to blame them.

Salva waited for renewed silence to create its own emphasis. Then he stood and spoke calmly. “The defense will disprove
all
of the prosecutor’s claims. We argue that Miss Mendoza is not the criminal here, but the victim.”

“Oh no, man. She’s goin’
down
!” Pepe shouted from the back.

Coach Robson picked up his gavel. “Real, you are out of order.”

Yeah, Pepe, you just wait your turn.
“My client”—Salva opened his palm toward Char—“did not set out to commit a crime against Liberty. She was coerced, by one of the very people whose job it is to defend the law. And then she was denied
the basic rights ensured her as a member of this society. We”—he nodded at the jury—“must correct this flaw and dismiss all charges.”

No applause, but he could hear the murmurs ripple through the room.

Luka was grinning. “Forget it, man,” he whispered across the aisle as Salva sat down. “The defense
never
wins in mock trials.”

Char was biting a fingernail.

“Relax,” Salva told her. “We have a case.”
A damn fine one.

Luka called his first witness, Tosa, who came up wearing a bright blue costume version of a policeman’s hat. “Officer Tosa,” Luka addressed him. “Can you describe for us what happened on the day of the arrest?”

Tosa straightened the hat and spoke: “Well, my partner”—Pepe let out a whoop—“told me he’d seen Char steal the torch. So he distracted her while I raided her locker.” Tosa drummed a rhythm on his knees. “And
found
the torch.”

“Then what happened?” Luka was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Pepe told her she was under arrest.” Tosa smirked. “Which didn’t go over too well. She called him a—”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Coach Robson tapped his gavel.

“Well,” Tosa said, “she called him a pretty foul name, then sorta slumped against her locker and admitted we caught her.”

“Did she confess to the crime?” Luka stopped bouncing.

“I asked if she admitted to stealing the torch, and she said, ‘Yes, now get out my face!’”

Luka whirled, snapped his fingers, and stepped down. “Your witness.”

Salva stood at his seat. “Officer Tosa, did you see the crime being committed?”

“Nope. But I was there when the torch was
found
!” Tosa pumped a fist.

“And did you have a warrant for searching Miss Mendoza’s locker?”

“Um…” Tosa flipped the brim of his hat to one side and glanced toward Pepe. “Maybe my partner got one.”

Sure he did.
“And did you read Miss Mendoza her Miranda rights before hearing her confession?”

“Umm…” The hat popped off and rolled behind the chair.

There was a low growl from Luka.
Poor guy.
Should have prepped his witness.

Salva clarified: “Did either you or your partner tell Miss Mendoza she had the right to remain silent?”