“What’s wrong?” I asked Arturo.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I gave him the money, didn’t I? Is there something else we’re supposed to do?”
People had lined up behind us, and they were craning their necks now to see what was going on.
“Should we give him more?” I asked.
“More? I gave him twenty dollars already. We’re only getting a few things.”
Someone in line shouted impatiently. Arturo turned to look, but didn’t say anything. What must we look like to people here? I wondered. Speaking Spanish, wearing the same rumpled clothes we’d been in for days.
“Mami?” Maribel said.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “We’re just trying to pay.”
“I’m hungry.”
“We’re getting you food.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“But we have food in México.”
The woman behind me in line, her sunglasses on top of her blond hair, tapped me on the shoulder and asked something. I nodded at her and smiled.
“Just give him more money,” I said to Arturo.
Someone in line shouted again.
“Mami?” Maribel said.
“I’m going to take her outside,” I told Arturo. “It’s too much commotion for her.”
A bell tinkled as Maribel and I walked out, and before the door even closed behind us, I saw the boy again, still slouched against the wall, holding his skateboard upright. He shifted just slightly at the sight of us, and I watched as his gaze turned to Maribel, looking her up and down, approvingly, coolly, with hooded eyes.
I was used to people looking at her. It had happened often in Pátzcuaro. Maribel had the kind of beauty that reduced people to simpletons. Once upon a time grown men would break into smiles as she walked past. The boys in her school would come to the house, shoving each other awkwardly when I opened the door, asking if she was home. Of course, that was before the accident. She looked the same now as she always had, but people knew—almost everyone in our town knew—that she had changed. They seemed to believe she was no longer worthy of their attention or maybe that it was wrong to look at her now, that there was something perverse about it, and they averted their gaze.
But this boy looked. He looked because he didn’t know. And the way he looked made me uncomfortable.
I pulled Maribel closer and edged us backwards.
The boy took a step toward us.
I moved back again, holding Maribel’s elbow. Where was Arturo? Wasn’t he done by now?
The boy picked up his skateboard, tucking it under his arm, and started toward us, when suddenly—¡Gracias a Dios!—the gas station door opened. Arturo walked out, holding a plastic bag in one hand and shaking his head.
“Arturo!” I called.
“Twenty-two dollars!” he said when he saw me. “Can you believe that? Do you think they took advantage of us?”
But I didn’t care how much money we had spent. I lifted my chin enough so that Arturo caught my meaning and glanced behind him. The boy was still standing there, staring at the three of us now. Arturo turned back around slowly.
“Are you ready?” he asked Maribel and me a little too loudly, as if speaking at such a volume would scare the boy off.
I nodded, and Arturo walked over, shifting the bag as he clasped Maribel’s arm and put one hand on the small of my back.
“Just walk,” he whispered to me. “It’s fine.”
The three of us started toward the road, doubling back in the direction from which we had come, heading toward home.
Mayor
We heard they were from México.
“Definitely,” my mom said, staring at them through our front window as they moved in. “Look at how short they are.” She let the curtain fall back in place and walked to the kitchen, wiping her hands on the dish towel slung over her shoulder.
I looked, but all I saw was three people moving through the dark, carrying stuff from a pickup truck to unit 2D. They cut across the headlights of the truck a few times, and I made out their faces, but only long enough to see a mom, a dad, and a girl about my age.
“So?” my dad asked when I joined him and my mom at the dinner table.
“I couldn’t really see anything,” I said.
“Do they have a car?”
I shook my head. “The truck’s just dropping them off, I think.”
My dad sawed off a piece of chicken and stuffed it in his mouth. “Do they have a lot of things?” he asked.
“It didn’t seem like it.”
“Good,” my dad said. “Maybe they are like us, then.”
WE HEARD FROM Quisqueya Solís that their last name was Rivera.
“And they’re legal,” she reported to my mom over coffee one afternoon. “All of them have visas.”
“How do you know?” my mom asked.
“That’s what Nelia told me. She heard it from Fito. Apparently the mushroom farm is sponsoring them.”
“Of course,” my mom said.
I was in the living room, eavesdropping, even though I was supposed to be doing my geometry homework.
“Well,” my mom went on, clearing her throat, “it will be nice to have another family in the building. They’ll be a good addition.”
Quisqueya took a quick look at me before turning back to my mom and hunching over her coffee mug. “Except . . . ,” she said.
My mom leaned forward. “What?”
Quisqueya said, “The girl . . .” She looked at me again.
My mom peered over Quisqueya’s shoulder. “Mayor, are you listening to us?”
I tried to act surprised. “Huh? Me?”
My mom knew me too well, though. She shook her head at Quisqueya to signal that whatever Quisqueya was going to say, she’d better save it if she didn’t want me to hear it.
“Bueno, we don’t need to talk about it, then,” Quisqueya said. “You’ll see for yourself eventually, I’m sure.”
My mom narrowed her eyes, but instead of pressing, she sat back in her chair and said loudly, “Well.” And then, “More coffee?”
WE HEARD A LOT of things, but who knew how much of it was true? It didn’t take long before the details about the Riveras began to seem far-fetched. They had tried to come into the United States once before but had been turned back. They were only staying for a few weeks. They were working undercover for the Department of Homeland Security. They were personal friends with the governor. They were running a safe house for illegals. They had connections to a Mexican narco ring. They were loaded. They were poor. They were traveling with the circus.
I tuned it all out after