Until I Find Julian (8 page)

Angel darts one way, and
I go another.

I duck under a girder, just as the security man did, and then I'm climbing high.

My mouth is dry; my throat burns from the dust that rises from the building. My breath is loud and ragged; my hands reach for something that will help pull me up.

I try not to look down, because if I do, I'll paste myself to one of the girders and stay up here for the rest of my life.

But I can't help it. I have to look now that I'm on the seventh or eighth floor, or maybe even higher.

Below me, the world tilts; I close my eyes to stop the dizziness, and when I open them again, I see stores, rows of houses, maybe even the one that had been Julian's, and in the distance, a train station.

In the other direction, the policemen chase Angel as she darts down the street away from them.

On the street, a woman shades her eyes, looking up at me.

How will I ever get down? The wind is strong, pulling at me. How will I let go of this girder, with the world spinning below?

“One step at a time,” a voice says.

My eyes are closed, but I'm sure it's the watchman who has followed me up here.

I may not be able to move, but I can talk. “My brother Julian was here.” I shout a little against the wind.

“Illegal, like some of the others?” the man says.

I nod.

“I have a green card, so I can work here,” he says.

I can't believe we're talking as if our feet were on the ground. The wind wants to sweep me away from the girder I'm straddling, my sweaty hands grasping it in front of me.

I duck my head, reminded of the top of the train I rode north, the wind pulling at my shirt, my jeans, my hair, burning my face.

The watchman isn't bothered. He steps along the girder and comes toward me, both hands free. “A while ago,” he yells, “someone notified the police that there were many illegals here. A few were sent to prison.” He shrugs. “And maybe deported later.”

I manage to raise my head to take a quick look at him. “My brother?”

He shakes his head. “I'm sorry, I don't know.”

There's no help here, and I don't even know how I'll ever get back down.

But he sees how afraid I am. “Just slide over. That's it, come toward me.”

I can barely move.

“You're doing fine.” I hear the smile in his voice. “You may even get a job working on high floors somewhere.”

“Never.” I try to smile too.

I edge along behind him until we come to some kind of elevator. It's nothing but a floor with a metal railing around the edges. You could fall right through.

“Just ease yourself on,” he says.

I think I'll never be able to take the step that will put me on that elevator. But somehow I do.

And instead of standing at the edge of the platform, as the worker is doing, one hand relaxed on the railing, I crawl onto the floor and lie there, my hands close to his feet, ready to grab them if I feel as if I'm going to fall.

We begin to move. I don't open my eyes until we get to the ground floor. And when we do, I see that woman below, a large clip in her hair. The woman who's tall and thin, who glances up at me, and then away. I think she's crying, but probably not for me.

“A million thanks,” I tell the watchman, standing at last. “My brother's name…”

“I know,” he says. “Julian.”

“My name is Mateo. If you ever see him, tell him I'm at his house.”

“I will,” he says. “I wish you luck. The absolute best of luck.”

I raise my hand in a half wave as I walk away, but then he calls after me. “Hey, kid.”

I turn. Has he remembered something?

I wait to hear what he has to say, heart pounding.
Don't let it be prison.

“Some of the others…like us,” he says, “work at a factory.”

He points with his thumb. “It's this road, straight out of town. It's a terrible place; they make fertilizer. Only the most desperate try it, and most of them don't last. But it's possible that your brother is working there, or that someone knows him.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “It's great that you remembered.”

“Not so great if he's there.”

Julian, who hates to be indoors, who wants to breathe the fresh air or the clean smell of the creek!

I thank the man again, and then I run back along the avenue. I have to find Angel. In front of me is the food store with its delicious smells, and now the man with the apron is standing outside. I hesitate for the barest second because the apron reminds me so much of the one Abuelita wears with the loops tied around her neck.

The man sees me and smiles. “Hi.” He raises a bottle of water to his mouth.

I try out my English. “Hello.” Did I say it right?

The man grins. He drops the bottle and the water spills all over the sidewalk.

I dive for the bottle and hand it to him. “Good kid,” he says.

“Yes,” I say, and he grins again.

Then I lope toward the house. I wonder for the first time who owns it and whether he'll ever come to check on things.

I can't imagine what will happen to us if he does. I hurry now, hoping I'll find Angel there before me, safe. I think of her laugh, her bossiness, and get cold all through when I wonder if the police have caught her.

I move much more cautiously, making sure there are no police cars in front of me, no one following me.

How long have I been
sitting here at the kitchen table, glancing out the window, waiting for Angel?

Suppose she's been caught! What will I do if she's in prison?

I won't let myself think that. Instead, I think about my stomach rumbling. I'm so hungry.

I stand up and peer into the cabinets, rubbing my hands over the shelves, but there's nothing there. Not even a crumb.

I hear the door creak open and turn.

It's Angel!

She must know from my face how glad I am. But she looks terrible. Her face is dusty, the back of her shirt is torn, and her hair is more knotted than ever.

She goes to the sink and turns on the faucet. She puts her head underneath and gulps down water. “I didn't want to come back here right away. I ran and ran, and after a while they stopped following me. There were trees, a small forest of evergreens, looking so cool, so I hid there. But I knew you'd be waiting.”

She wipes her mouth with her fist. “I circled around the streets, watching, making sure no one was paying attention to me.” She grins then. “I knew you'd be here, and I didn't want you to get in trouble either.”

I grin back at her, and then we're quiet for a moment.

“Where's Diego?” I blurt out before I even realize what I'm saying.

“I don't know.” Her eyes fill. Angel crying? She turns away.

I try something else. “Why are you here? Why are you helping me?”

“You were lying in the desert sand. I could see the back of your head, your hair poked out, just like his. No matter how he combed it. For just that second, I thought—”

“That I was your brother. Is he missing too?”

“Not missing.” She stands by the window, looking out. “Enough.”
All right,
I tell myself.
For now.

“We have to have money for food,” she says. “We'll go through this whole house. Even at home, there's always money when you least expect it, under the bed, on the floor of the closet.”

I think of the money from Abuelita. I promised myself I wouldn't use it, not unless I was desperate. I reach inside my pocket, feeling the two bills. Maybe now is the time. But will I be able to use Mexican money here?

Angel runs her fingers through her hair. “You'll see. We'll find something. Then we'll clean ourselves up and wait until school has to be over for the day. We'll just be two kids shopping.”

It sounds all right, but I can't imagine that there's money here.

“Which room do you want to search?”

“The bedroom, I guess.”

I wander inside and touch Mami's quilt. Then I crawl under the bed, the dust balls rolling around me, making me sneeze, and only find an old newspaper and a sock.

I try the closet, crawling on the floor in there, too. Nothing.

Back in the kitchen, I raise my shoulders. “No good.”

She marches into the bedroom. “It takes longer than that to search. Did you look under the pillows, the sheets, the mattress?”

I shake my head.

“The closet shelves? The jeans pockets? Especially the pockets.” She taps the door molding hard, and goes back into the kitchen. “Get with it, Matty.”

The pockets. Of course. I turn them inside out, but they're empty. Standing on tiptoes, I run my hands over the dusty shelves. Next I pull the bed apart. Nothing.

I sink down under the window, leaning back against the wall and the dusty curtains.

I hear a crackle. I reach back. Something's in the hem of the curtain. I work it out and sit back.

It's a very small, tight roll of American money!

I rub the bills. How much is it? Not much, I can tell. It must be Julian's money; Mami used to hide money in her bedroom curtains too. He won't mind; I'll tell him as soon as I find him anyway.

I stand up and go into the kitchen. Angel has the oven door open. Her head's inside as she searches.

She reminds me of the girl in that fairy tale about two children and a witch.

“I'm with it, Angel,” I tell her.

She backs out and kneels on the floor, her hands out to show me how filthy they are.

I hold out the money.

“Yes!” Then she glances at the window. “It's late, dark. We can't go to the store until tomorrow.”

I frown. “That man will remember you.”

“What man?”

“The owner of the food store. You had to walk inside and stand there. Maybe he thought you were going to steal something,” I say. “I'll go alone.” Maybe the man will remember me too. But he was friendly.

She sinks down at the table. “I guess you're right.” But it's almost as if the words are forced out of her.

And then she teaches me a few words.
“Beans,”
she says, and I repeat it.

She slaps the table. “Not beens.
Beeeeenzzzz.
”

“That's what I said.”

“Apples.”

I say that too but she's not satisfied. “Just wait until tomorrow. He must be closed now. But then we'll pick things up.”

“Maybe you should write it all down in English.”

“Waste of time,” she says. “You're driving me crazy.”

Good.