I stood outside the high school for a moment, letting Grupo’s words seep in. I had seen the Chávez kids in Conroe’s, after all, ordering sandwiches and Cokes, shoving each other, laughing. I felt for them—their preening, their acne-covered, animated faces. Christ, it had been hard to be a teenager in rural Colorado. It seemed so unfair that Markson’s students had to worry not just about puberty and loneliness but also about guns and gang initiations.
Unnerved, I yanked open the door and stepped inside Chávez Memorial. The air was tepid, and on either side of me, rows of metal lockers stretched along a dim hallway. The school year was almost over: a banner reading “Have a Safe and Happy Summer!” hung over a suite of rooms marked “Principal.” I entered and asked an administrator for Principal Markson. She came out in a green pantsuit, rubbing lotion on her hands, greeting me with a gay “Hello there, Mrs. Conroe!” As we entered her office, we passed two sullen girls sitting on folding chairs. One looked about six months pregnant, and (as always) I felt a twinge of anger and loss. I wrenched my gaze from the girl’s belly. “I’ll be with you ladies shortly,” said Principal Markson.
The girls watched us, expressionless. Framed by Markson’s doorway, they were a portrait of young misery. And then the principal shut her door. “What have they done?” I asked.
“Who knows?” she answered, sighing, settling in behind a wide desk anchored by a dusty Dell Inspiron computer. “Drugs, bad attitude, backtalk …” She ticked off possible infractions. “Knives, guns, hooliganism …”
“Hooliganism,” I murmured. The word seemed a relic from an easier time.
“Anything is possible,” said Principal Markson flatly.
“Oh,” I said. It was true that I’d usually cross the street when I saw a group of Chávez kids, but I’d never examined why. Some of the kids, who wore hooded sweatshirts and called to each other with deafening shrieks, did seem capable of anything.
“Which brings me to why I’ve asked you in,” said Principal Markson.
“Yes?” I said. The office was small, with a view of the front parking lot. Markson, who was single (as far as I knew), had a wall of photographs behind her: hundreds of kids’ school portraits, Christmas cards, shots of choral concerts and sporting events.
“First of all,” said Principal Markson, “are you okay?”
“What?” I said.
“Losing the baby … that must have been quite a blow. I was surprised you two didn’t take some time off.”
“Time off?” I repeated dumbly.
She folded her hands in her lap and watched me. But I didn’t want to sink into the grief. Jake kept bringing it up, how sad he was, how disappointed, wanting to commiserate and mope, but I was stronger than that. I knew that the only way to handle sadness was to push the fuck on through. “I’m pretty busy,” I said. “Let’s move on.”
Principal Markson looked surprised, but pursed her lips and nodded.
“Okay.” She took a breath. “Okay. We’re getting our budget cut next year. If, of course, they don’t close us down, but that’s another issue for another day.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Did she want Jake and me to donate money to the school? If so, she was in for a letdown. Our failed insemination efforts had emptied our savings, and even though Conroe’s was doing well, we had little to spare.
“One of the positions we’ll be losing is the full-time school psychologist. Juliet Swann—do you know her?”
I shook my head.
“She might be a vegetarian, now that I think of it,” said Principal Markson. “Or a vegan? Not sure. There’s usually a big yogurt labeled with her name in the staff refrigerator.…”
“Well, that would explain it,” I said. There was an awkward pause. “I’m sorry,” I ventured. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”
Principal Markson clasped her hands. She paused, then said, “Look. There are some kids here in real trouble. They don’t have guidance at home, and now they’re not going to have as much guidance here. I’m reaching out to members of the community I think could be good role models. I’m hoping to create a Big Brother/Big Sister type of network, a way for adults to help at-risk kids at Chávez. Maybe eat lunch with them once a week, assist them with homework …”
“Oh, Principal Markson,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
“One girl I had in mind is Evian. Her mother is … let’s just say inconsistent. Her father’s out of the picture, and last year … well, she shot and killed her little brother. By mistake.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, no,” I said.
“It was ruled an accident,” said Principal Markson. “Her mother wasn’t home. Evian called 911 herself and waited with her brother. He bled to death. She was showing him the gun, she said. It belonged to Evian’s mother.”
I said nothing. My stomach churned and I wanted to get up and leave the room.
“Evian transferred from Travis, to get a new start. But she often skips school,” said Principal Markson. “There’s no one to keep an eye on her, check in. She’s depressed, most likely, and who knows what else. She doesn’t have anyone. No one. I know you’re busy, Alice, I do. But I just thought I’d ask. If you could just have lunch with Evian once a month? Just come to the cafeteria and sit with her for twenty minutes. I wouldn’t ask if I had … other resources.”
“Lunch is a busy time,” I said.
Principal Markson stood. “I understand. I hope you don’t mind my giving this a shot. I’ve got a list of kids like Evian, and I’m just trying to do what I can to help them.”
I nodded, standing. Principal Markson smiled as I departed, but I could see exhaustion etched into her features. “Have a good one,” she said, echoing Officer Grupo’s salutation.
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“What can you do?” she replied. I walked away from her office feeling like a jerk. But what did I have to offer a depressed teenager? Nothing, I told myself. Still, as I left the school and walked toward Conroe’s, waving at Grupo in his cruiser, I felt a certain stirring. I tamped it down, pushing the girl from my mind. At Conroe’s, I climbed into my Ford Bronco (with newly upholstered leather seats—an anniversary gift from Jake) and drove toward Mildred Street. Jake would be waking up soon, and I felt like kissing him until my thoughts receded.
7
Carla
AS I HAD hoped, on my eleventh birthday Humberto asked me to be his girlfriend. By this time we had both stopped going to school and spent our days at the dump. Not many girls could handle the smell and the aggression, but I am not like other girls. As I’ve mentioned, my mother was in America, which gave me strength.
In the years my mother had been absent, her voice had grown raspy, hoarse. She sounded old. During one Wednesday call, my brother Carlos (now in kindergarten at Campbell Elementary School in Austin, Texas) mentioned “the baby.” I asked him, “What baby?” but my mother made him get off the phone. I asked her, “What baby?” and she said to please stop asking so many questions. Was she married? I asked her, and she said, “Dios mío, no.”