At the end of dinner that night, Consuelo came out with a rag to clean the
stand that held the empty trays. Santiago quickly stu ed the mini mu n they’d
gotten for dessert into his mouth and walked over with his empty tray.
“I asked a ten-year-old girl to point out your sister,” Consuelo mumbled.
“Though I should have guessed. She’s got your o j o s .”
What? Really? He brought his hand to his eyes. Long lashes tickled his
ngertips. Was their shape similar too? He turned to the long serving table, but
the stainless steel only distorted his features.
“Did she—” Wait, swallow mu n rst. Two gulps later, he tried again. “Is
she okay?”
“She asked about you.” She reached out for his empty tray and
simultaneously slipped him a piece of paper.
He quickly placed the paper between the pages of the animal book he still had
from Señor Dante. He wanted to know the whole story, how Consuelo had
managed the inquiry, even the name of the ten-year-old girl who knew Alegría.
But the guards called two minutes, and a mob of teenagers brought their trays
over to Consuelo.
“You’re the best. G r a c i a s ,” Santiago said. Two other guys echoed their thanks
when she took their trays. A nal nod, and he joined the line to leave, clutching
the book tightly to his chest.
The note couldn’t really be from Alegría. Not so quickly, when he’d only
made the drawing this morning. Maybe Consuelo was sparing his feelings, and
the note really came from her.
While the other boys crowded into the TV room o the main room—w here,
d epending on the guard in charge, they watched telenovelas and sports, nature
shows and documentaries, or cartoons, all in English—S antiago returned to the
corner he had claimed as his own. Under the pretense of reading his book, he
opened the folded piece of paper. Three gures with lines coming out of them
were drawn in the center, with a large scribble to one side. As Santiago stared at
it, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
Any doubt that the drawing had come from someone else disappeared. As he
looked at it closely, the blobs took shape to form three people. Not just any
people, two side by side and the third almost on top of one of the others. Alegría
had drawn her family, complete with him carrying her. And the large scribble
next to them must be Princesa.
He tucked the drawing back into the book and folded his arms over his knees
to give in to the tears. How could someone be so close, but still so far away?
Consuelo had the next two days o . At least Santiago hoped that was the case
when he didn’t see her. By the third day, he worried he’d gotten her red. How
could he have done that to her? She’d been good and hardworking; she didn’t
deserve to lose her job. He had no idea smuggling drawings from one group to
the other would be a reable o ense. He hated himself for that.
But connecting with Alegría only to lose touch again bothered him more—
and then he felt guiltier.
Consuelo nally appeared again at the end of dinner, three days after he’d last
seen her. She met Santiago’s eyes for the briefest second before shaking her head
slightly. Was that an I c a n ’ t t a l k t o y o u ; I ’ l l g e t fi r e d or Y o u r s i s t e r h a s n ’ t g i v e n m e
a n y t h i n g n e w headshake?
He clutched the note he’d written during today’s class, copying the words
Señor Dante had written out for him. His hand had grown sti from practicing
the same words over and over again until the letters nally resembled the
teacher’s instead of ugly scribbles.
Consuelo suddenly dropped a tray. Runny beans raced under the table.
Santiago grabbed a handful of napkins and ducked underneath, hoping the
guards couldn’t see him.
“She’s gone,” Consuelo whispered, grabbing the rag and cleaning solution
from her apron.
Santiago’s head banged against the underside of the table. “What do you
mean gone? ¿ E s t á ... s e — ” But he couldn’t nish the words.
Consuelo placed a hand on his head, soothing the bump. “I don’t know. But
she’s not here anymore.”
He crawled out from under the table. His right hand opened and closed to
ease the sti ness. Gone. Alegría. Gone. María Dolores. Gone. Mami. Everyone
he’d ever loved, gone.
The note he’d meticulously written oated on the remaining bean mess. The
pencil marks seemed to glow for a few seconds before sinking into the brown
d epths.
A l e g r í a , t e q u i e r o . T u h e r m a n o , S a n t i a g o .