Flight Season Page 16

  I pull out my phone to do the research. After a few misses, I finally land on it: the Wilson’s plover. It’s call? A sharp whistled weep, weep!

  And just like that, I’m collapsing onto the dock, my heart flooding with pain.

  Every night, I’m out here on the ghost tour with dozens of strangers who seem desperate to connect with the dead. But me? I’m killing myself to maintain the distance. Why can’t I weep? Why am I incapable of crying?

  My heart feels like it’s being squeezed by a giant fist, and my chest is contracting, but still, I can’t connect.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ÁNGEL

  IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?

  My good-for-nothing uncle showed up a few minutes ago. He walked right into my room, Mrs. Rosales by his side. And you know what he said to me?

  “Ti’ baj teya?”

  “Mixti’.”

  Just like that, he wanders in and asks me, “What’s up?” So I tell him, “Not much.” Then he shoves a McDonald’s bag at me.

  “French fries,” he says.

  “Chjonte,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I haven’t seen the man in a year, not since I went to work on the turkey farm, and he’s talking to me like he just wandered in from work, and I’m sitting on that old beat-up couch in his apartment, watching music videos. He looks the same: bloated stomach, bloodshot eyes. He smells the same too. Like stale beer mixed with body odor.

  I gotta tell you, though. I’m super excited about the French fries. I love McDonald’s French fries. They’re awesome.

  I shove a handful of fries into my mouth, taking in the smell of grease and salt, loving the way the fry oil feels, slick against my fingers.

  “Your uncle is here to talk about your case,” Mrs. Rosales says.

  “My case?” I ask. I don’t know what that means.

  “Tu caso,” she says in Spanish.

  I’m gonna go ahead and admit to you that I don’t really get it in Spanish, either.

  “Some errors were made, and the consequences for you will be, uh, significant.”

  My uncle looks away—toward the wall where my goal for the day is written. Today’s goal is to teach Vivi how to dance meringue. I like that one, I gotta say.

  Vivi looks over at me from the corner where she’s sitting. She doesn’t need to be here. Mrs. Rosales speaks Spanish, and nobody speaks Mam except me and my uncle.

  Anyway, Vivi smiles, just a little, watching my uncle read my goal for the day. Or maybe he’s not reading it. I don’t even know if my uncle can read. But I can, thanks to Mr. Willingham. He was my teacher when I got to Florida, before I had to quit school.

  “Your uncle explained to me that he failed to take you to your attorney appointments.…” Mrs. Rosales says.

  My uncle is still looking at the wall. I shove another handful of fries into my mouth.

  Dang. I’m loving this salt.

  They don’t feed us any salt on the heart ward. I guess salt’s supposed to make things worse for some of the patients’ health. They don’t seem all that worried about me and salt, though. I guess my heart’s so messed up, a little salt won’t really matter.

  “And to your court dates.” Mrs. Rosales is still talking about my uncle, but I’m up in my head, thinking about McDonald’s fries.

  My uncle shuffles from one foot to the other, but he doesn’t say anything.

  The first time I met him was when he came to pick me up at that shelter in Texas. The social worker found him, somehow. He was my dad’s brother, but he came to work in Florida before I was born. I knew he existed, but that’s about all I knew about him. When I was little, he used to send my grandmother money sometimes, but then he stopped.

  Mrs. Rosales told me that I would go to live with my uncle, and that he would be my legal guardian. All we had to do was show up for a few appointments with lawyers, go to court a couple of times, and the government would likely give me permission to stay in the United States. She said it wasn’t for sure, but since I had seen most of my family get killed, and since the people who killed them wanted me dead too, I probably had a good chance of staying.

  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking how terrible that is—that I watched my family get killed. And it was terrible, but I don’t really think about it, so don’t get all worried about me. I’m fine. I mean, my heart doesn’t really work, so that’s not fine. But you already knew that.

  Back to my good-for-nothing uncle: he took me away from that shelter, away from the silver machines that had an endless supply of milk, away from the nice teachers and the grassy lawns. He drove me to Florida, bought me a McDonald’s Happy Meal (I’ve been hooked on their fries ever since), took me to his piece-of-crap apartment, and said, “Ilti’k tu’n taq’una.”

  Yeah, he told me to get a job. Which, let me tell you, is not easy for a fifteen-year-old who speaks a language no one around here has ever even heard of.

  I got a toy car in that first Happy Meal. I set it next to my bed—which was an air mattress on the floor. Every night, when I was trying to fall asleep in that apartment after wandering around the streets of Jupiter, looking for work, listening to all the noise and music and laughing and yelling from the apartments around us, I ran that toy car across the stained carpet and I imagined what it would be like to drive.

  But here’s the great part: when Mrs. Rosales found out my uncle wasn’t sending me to school, she went completely crazy on him. I could hear her yelling through the phone, all the way from Texas.

  The next day, he took me to a place called the international school. My teacher was named Mr. Willingham. He was nice, and somehow he managed to teach some English to a group of kids who didn’t even know how to speak to one another. It was pretty cool, because there were people in my class from all around the world. Not just people who spoke Spanish—they spoke a whole bunch of weird languages, so it wasn’t that big a deal there that I spoke Mam. That was cool.

  I just did my thing. I got up every morning and got on the bus. They fed me breakfast and lunch at school, so I didn’t have to worry all that much about when my uncle would go on a bender. He did that a lot. Sometimes he’d go a week without showing up. I liked it better when he wasn’t around, to tell you the truth. Except the weekends. I got hungry on the weekends. I tried to ignore it by watching TV. Mostly videos. I like music.

  We went to see a lawyer a couple of times—a nice lady named Mrs. Jessica. But then my uncle stopped taking me. I guess he forgot or something.

  Anyway, since I’m being honest with you, I’m gonna tell you that my uncle is not a good person. He’s what we call a xjal taq’wix. And I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me either. He’s nothing like my dad was.…

  Enough about that. I’m not gonna think about my dad. Because I don’t have a dad.

  My fries are gone already.

  I lick my fingers, one by one. I’m not sure if Mrs. Rosales wants me to say anything, but I don’t really know what to say.

  “Ángel?” she asks. “Do you remember when the ICE officer came to visit? The man from Immigration and Customs Enforcement?”

  Yeah, I remember.

  “And he asked you if you were aware that you had an order of deportation?”

  I nod. Vivi leans forward in her seat, straining to hear.

  “Your uncle received the letter.”

  “I didn’t know what it was,” my uncle tells me, looking toward the door. He’s dying to get out of this place—to get away from me. “And I wasn’t sure where to find you, so, uh…”

  You wanna know why he wasn’t sure where to find me? Because when I turned seventeen, he made me get a job.

  He woke me up on my birthday and he said it. “Ilti’k tu’n taq’una,” he told me again. And so I did.

  The only job I could get was on that fancy turkey farm, which was great with me, because they told me I could live there. I’m telling you, I got away from my uncle as fast as I could.

  I liked that place. It was p
eaceful, you know? I mean, until we had to slaughter all the turkeys.

  “I spoke with the attorney who was trying to help you get special juvenile status. She said that you missed several appointments and key court dates. Were you aware of that?”

  I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. I’ll tell you what I’m aware of: I had to be at all those things with my legal guardian, aka my good-for-nothing uncle. And he never took me, because he was too busy working or getting drunk. Probably getting drunk, mostly.

  “When you turned eighteen, you lost eligibility for legal status through the juvenile program, and you were given an order of deportation.”

  I nod and look into the McDonald’s bag. One more little piece of fry is stuck in the crease at the bottom. Score! I dig it out and pop it into my mouth.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Rosales.” It’s Vivi. She stands up and walks to my bedside. “Can you maybe explain to Ángel exactly what that means? In simple terms.”

  “We will keep you here at the hospital until you are in stable condition—until you are well enough to be transported safely back to Guatemala.”

  Wait, what? They’re sending me back to Guatemala? What am I gonna do there?

  I can’t go home. They’ll kill me. It’s a fact. I’m telling you, people: I can’t go back there. Plus, I don’t have any family there anymore. Nobody.

  “I can’t go there,” I say very quietly.

  “Speak up, Ángel,” Vivi says, coming to stand right by my bed. “Explain to Mrs. Rosales why you can’t go there.”

  She puts her hand over mine and squeezes. I wonder if she feels the grease from the fries, the grit of the salt still on my fingers.

  I’m looking at her hand on mine, and I’m trying to make some words come out—but I mean it; I can’t make any come—not in any language. Not even Mam.

  “His family is all gone,” my uncle grumbles. “There’s no one there to care for him.”

  “We are aware of that,” Mrs. Rosales says. “We are working as fast as we can—doing everything we can to establish a relationship with a hospital, maybe in Guatemala City or Quetzaltenango—someplace that can take him and offer the care he needs.”

  “Will they have a transplant list?” Vivi asks, leaning forward, eyes bright. “Will he be eligible for a heart there?”

  Oh, poor sweet Vivi. I’m telling you, when I look at that girl, I see hope. She doesn’t know any better yet. I kinda love that about her, to tell you the truth. I love a lot of things about Vivi. I mean, I’m not in love with her. (That’s TJ.) I just think she’s amazing, for caring about me and my stupid, messed-up heart.

  Mrs. Rosales shoots her a sort of mean look—like, Shut up if you know what’s good for you.

  “We don’t know yet,” she whispers. “But it’s unlikely.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  VIVI

  BIRD JOURNAL

  July 26, 7:53 P.M.

  American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos)

  Social Behavior: highly social birds, generally live in small, close-knit groups, but also congregate in large groups, sometimes referred to as a “murder of crows.” A large grouping of crows can also be termed a “horde, hover, muster, or parcel.”

  Crows and their cousins, rooks and ravens, have been observed to regularly demonstrate consoling actions, which suggest that they may experience empathy.

  Habitat: so common throughout north America that birders consider them “junk birds”—BUT they’re AMAZING!

  “ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! Six! Seven! Stop. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Stop.”

  Ángel is barking orders at me, and I’m stumbling around his hospital room.

  Richard and I each have a hand around the other’s waist. Our other hands are clasped in front of us, like we’re going do the tango, and we’re shuffling our feet as fast as we can, but apparently not fast enough, because Ángel keeps yelling, “Faster! Faster! Rápido!”

  After Mrs. Rosales and Ángel’s uncle left, Prashanti let TJ set up a little portable speaker in Ángel’s room. He got the music going, and then he left to do his end-of-shift chores. Richard, Ángel, and I were alone in the room when Prashanti marched right in, put her hands on her hips, and announced, “Well, what are you all standing around for? It’s time to get to work on Ángel’s goal for the day.”

  Which is how I ended up standing in the middle of a hospital room with my arms around a gay fifty-year-old man who smells faintly of cigarette smoke, taking orders from Ángel.

  “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Stop. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Stop.”

  Sharon comes around the corner and into the room, pushing Mrs. Blankenship in a wheelchair. Sharon’s shaking her hips and shimmying her shoulders to the beat.

  “What’s going on in here?” she asks. “You throwin’ a party and didn’t invite us?”

  “We didn’t want to miss the fun!” Mrs. Blankenship calls out.

  “I’m teaching Vivi how to dance merengue,” Ángel says. And then:

  “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Stop. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Stop.”

  “I love it!” Mrs. Blankenship says. She starts to snap her fingers to the rhythm as Sharon releases the wheelchair and begins dancing enthusiastically around the room.

  “No move here!” Ángel calls out to Sharon, his voice filled with mirth. He’s pointing at his upper body. “You move too much on top, Sharon. Top is no move. Move hips. Hips only!”

  Sharon tries to adjust her moves, but she just can’t seem to help herself. Her shoulders keep shimmying and shaking, and soon we are all shaking with laughter.

  TJ shows up in the doorway, holding a huge stack of sheets in his arms. He peers in and shakes his head.

  “How are the lessons going?” he asks. He’s looking right at me, smiling.

  I seem unable to produce an answer, maybe because I’m winded from all of the marching around. (Merengue is fast.) Or maybe it’s because of that smile. I still can’t get enough of that smile. Now that he’s not withholding it from me, it’s like a drug.

  “Terrible!” Ángel says, throwing up his hands. “You show them, vato.”

  “What makes you think I can dance merengue?” TJ asks him, his eyebrows arching.

  “Are you saying you can’t?” Sharon asks.

  TJ shrugs, still balancing the pile of sheets in his arm.

  “I don’t believe it for a minute,” Mrs. Blankenship says. “A fit young man like yourself!”

  A new song comes on. It starts with a single voice, repeating one line.

  “Algo en tu cara me fascina; algo en tu cara me da vida.”

  When the horns start up, TJ shakes his head once and comes into the room. He drops the stack of sheets on the edge of Ángel’s bed and grabs Sharon by the hand.

  And just like that, the two of them are moving in perfect unison across the room.

  “Keep still here,” TJ demands, gently squeezing her shoulder. “Just move your feet and hips.”

  “Eso!” Ángel calls out, sitting up a bit in his bed. “See! That’s how you dance merengue!”

  Soon Prashanti is standing in the doorway with Bertrand, who must have just shown up for the night shift, and they’re clapping and smiling while TJ spins Sharon around the room, their hips moving in perfect unison.

  “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Stop. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Stop.”

  Ángel’s still calling out the rhythm, but TJ doesn’t need it. His rhythm is perfect.

  Dear God. I feel a sinking in my gut, just watching him move.

  I’m standing there, unable to take my eyes off him, my jaw probably hanging open, my cheeks turning pink, while everyone around me claps and calls out. And the singer repeats:

  “¿Será tu sonrisa? ¿Será tu sonrisa?”

  I drag my gaze away from TJ before he can catch me gawking. Mrs. Blankenship is shimmying her shoulders to the rhythm (sort of), and Bertrand takes Prashanti by the hand an
d leads her into the middle of the room. Prashanti is laughing and shaking her head, but Bertrand has his arm around her waist before she can say no. Bertrand is pretty good, but Prashanti is staring down at her feet as if she has no idea how to make them move to a rhythm. She’s trying, though, which is super cute.

  “Aye, yay, yay, yay!” Ángel calls out in a high voice. I love looking at him right now, because he’s got an enormous, goofy grin plastered across his face. It’s almost as good as watching TJ guide Sharon across the room.

  Almost.

  Richard abandoned me. He’s sprawled out in the chair, panting. So I’m standing around, looking stupid, my arms crossed over my chest, tapping my feet.

  When the song ends, Bertrand bows with a flourish and announces, “I have to get to work, friends.” Prashanti follows Bertrand out of the room, and just like that it’s over. TJ is scooping up the sheets. Sharon is pushing Mrs. Blankenship out of the room. (Richard is still panting in the armchair.)

  “Not bad for your first time,” Ángel says to me. “But you’re gonna need a few lessons with TJ if you really wanna get it right.”

  TJ stops at that and turns to look back at me, shaking his head and grinning. “You’re relentless,” he says to Ángel.

  “Sorry, my vato. I don’t know what that word means,” Ángel says. Then he grins really wide and says, “No speaka inglés, dude.”

  TJ shakes his head again. “See you at the car in ten?” he asks me.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  And then TJ produces another one of his real smiles. For me.

  * * *

  “Hurricane Ronald is gaining strength in the western Atlantic. The storm, now nearing Category Four intensity, is expected to make landfall in Haiti in the early morning hours—”

  I’m helping Ángel eat his Jell-O, and we’re half watching the news on TV. Normally, I’d be annoyed that Ángel is asking me to feed him, but today’s been a bad day, and I think he legitimately needs the help. TJ’s in the room too. He’s been changing bedpans, tidying, the usual stuff.

  For two days we’ve all three been avoiding discussion of Ángel’s visit from his asshole uncle, the unthinkable reality that he’s going to be sent back to Guatemala in his condition, and—of course—the merengue lessons that TJ still owes me. I turned on the TV news, hoping for any distraction, only to hear more predictions of death and destruction.