changes you, right? It makes you a different person.”
I looked at him, hard, then grabbed his sunglasses and looked at him even harder. His eyes looked very fragile underneath, very uncertain. My hands shook and my head felt as if it were swarming with insects, and all the people and noises faded and Ángel and I were the only ones there.
“Forget it, Ángel.” My words shot out like little bullets. “Go to Guatemala and stay there and forget everything.” I threw his glasses on the ground and pushed my way through the crowd, past the ruined sawdust pictures.
At least Pablo won’t stay here, I thought; at least he’ll come back with us. I scanned the crowd in the street and saw him, jumping up and down on a sawdust flower. In the book, when the Little Prince was about to go back to his star, he told his pilot friend to look at the stars and know that he would be on one of them, laughing. So for the pilot, it would be as though all the stars were laughing. I wondered if one day I’d see a guy in sunglasses with skin nearly the color of the
moreno
Jesus, and instead of crying I’d smile at the memory. Or if one day Dika could think of her house and garden before it was kaput and smile, or if Mr. Lorenzo could think of his wife before whatever happened happened and smile. If we could ever wade through all that sorrow to find a little shard of happiness.
I ran alongside Pablo and cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “Let’s go, Pablo!” He waved at me, but he didn’t come. His sweaty hand had slipped out of mine so easily.
And then, suddenly, Ángel’s hand was on my hip and he was turning me around and pressing me to him and whispering, out of breath, “Lime-girl.” I felt my breasts against his chest, and I breathed in his soap, the detergent of his T-shirt, the sunshine on his neck. In the middle of all those people, next to the destroyed Virgin on the sliver of moon, with only a few tiny stars left on her cape, I could see why someone would want a moment of complete happiness, even if it wouldn’t last. I pressed my lips against his neck and hung on.
The rest of the day passed quickly—a whirlwind of dancers spinning in swirling skirts, mayonnaise-coated corn on the cob, bags of cut-up fruit sprinkled with chile, live band music blasting through giant speakers. We went to bed early, and the next morning, on the way out of town, Mr. Lorenzo and Ángel bought their bus tickets to Tapachula, the border crossing point. Juan and Mom didn’t want them driving the van to Guatemala, so the deal was they had to take the bus. They planned to go there next Monday, after a week in Pablo’s village, while we stayed on with Pablo’s family.
From the bus station, we headed into the mountains, winding up steep, narrow roads. Mr. Lorenzo drove and Dika squealed. “Ohhh!” she cried at every curve. When the rain started, she squeezed her eyes shut, clutching his arm.
For a while, we all laughed at Pablo’s purple turtle jiggling on the dashboard. Then that got old, and we looked out the windows. Pablo watched the trees and rock formations, which must have been familiar. He traced raindrops with his fingertip and his head fell against my shoulder.
Ángel pushed open the window, stuck his hand out a moment, and brought it in, dripping wet. He rubbed it on his forehead like a baptismal rite. “Want to know how we got out of the desert?”
Pablo and Dika yelled, “Yes!”
I shrugged. Part of me thought, Why does it matter?
“We ended up wandering in circles, and finally ended up back at the border.” He gave an ironic smile. “We crossed back over to Mexico.”
Dika shook her head. “You boys! Well, you must to tell us how you cross finally.”
Ángel continued. “We decided the Arizona border was too tough. So we took a bus to Chihuahua, near Texas, and we found a coyote. Around ten at night, he takes about fifteen of us on flimsy rafts across the Rio Grande. Man, did that
I looked at him, hard, then grabbed his sunglasses and looked at him even harder. His eyes looked very fragile underneath, very uncertain. My hands shook and my head felt as if it were swarming with insects, and all the people and noises faded and Ángel and I were the only ones there.
“Forget it, Ángel.” My words shot out like little bullets. “Go to Guatemala and stay there and forget everything.” I threw his glasses on the ground and pushed my way through the crowd, past the ruined sawdust pictures.
At least Pablo won’t stay here, I thought; at least he’ll come back with us. I scanned the crowd in the street and saw him, jumping up and down on a sawdust flower. In the book, when the Little Prince was about to go back to his star, he told his pilot friend to look at the stars and know that he would be on one of them, laughing. So for the pilot, it would be as though all the stars were laughing. I wondered if one day I’d see a guy in sunglasses with skin nearly the color of the
moreno
Jesus, and instead of crying I’d smile at the memory. Or if one day Dika could think of her house and garden before it was kaput and smile, or if Mr. Lorenzo could think of his wife before whatever happened happened and smile. If we could ever wade through all that sorrow to find a little shard of happiness.
I ran alongside Pablo and cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “Let’s go, Pablo!” He waved at me, but he didn’t come. His sweaty hand had slipped out of mine so easily.
And then, suddenly, Ángel’s hand was on my hip and he was turning me around and pressing me to him and whispering, out of breath, “Lime-girl.” I felt my breasts against his chest, and I breathed in his soap, the detergent of his T-shirt, the sunshine on his neck. In the middle of all those people, next to the destroyed Virgin on the sliver of moon, with only a few tiny stars left on her cape, I could see why someone would want a moment of complete happiness, even if it wouldn’t last. I pressed my lips against his neck and hung on.
The rest of the day passed quickly—a whirlwind of dancers spinning in swirling skirts, mayonnaise-coated corn on the cob, bags of cut-up fruit sprinkled with chile, live band music blasting through giant speakers. We went to bed early, and the next morning, on the way out of town, Mr. Lorenzo and Ángel bought their bus tickets to Tapachula, the border crossing point. Juan and Mom didn’t want them driving the van to Guatemala, so the deal was they had to take the bus. They planned to go there next Monday, after a week in Pablo’s village, while we stayed on with Pablo’s family.
From the bus station, we headed into the mountains, winding up steep, narrow roads. Mr. Lorenzo drove and Dika squealed. “Ohhh!” she cried at every curve. When the rain started, she squeezed her eyes shut, clutching his arm.
For a while, we all laughed at Pablo’s purple turtle jiggling on the dashboard. Then that got old, and we looked out the windows. Pablo watched the trees and rock formations, which must have been familiar. He traced raindrops with his fingertip and his head fell against my shoulder.
Ángel pushed open the window, stuck his hand out a moment, and brought it in, dripping wet. He rubbed it on his forehead like a baptismal rite. “Want to know how we got out of the desert?”
Pablo and Dika yelled, “Yes!”
I shrugged. Part of me thought, Why does it matter?
“We ended up wandering in circles, and finally ended up back at the border.” He gave an ironic smile. “We crossed back over to Mexico.”
Dika shook her head. “You boys! Well, you must to tell us how you cross finally.”
Ángel continued. “We decided the Arizona border was too tough. So we took a bus to Chihuahua, near Texas, and we found a coyote. Around ten at night, he takes about fifteen of us on flimsy rafts across the Rio Grande. Man, did that
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