Salvation

  Salva’s hand tightened on the door. “Beth has a financial trust. I don’t.”

  “Just be straight with me, man.” His best friend’s gaze turned direct. “Everybody else is talkin’ about next year. You’re not. Why?”

  Salva rubbed the heel of his palm against the leather armrest. The car locks clicked off, then on. “I’m still waiting to hear back from State.”

  “State University? Is that where you want to go?”

  It was the best non–Ivy League school he had applied to. “Yeah, if I can get the money.”

  Pepe’s head fell back against his seat. “You think it’s likely?”

  “I don’t know.” Salva didn’t. He’d been offered full scholarships for all the smaller, regional schools he’d applied to, but State was a definite step up.

  “Didn’t your brother want to go there? Before your mom—” Pepe stopped.

  Salva closed his eyes. Pepe was the only one who knew to stop. He was the one who had been there the day of the funeral—the day Salva couldn’t make himself attend. They’d spent the whole day together, him and the guy everyone thought was trouble. And Pepe had seen Salva cry like a baby and never told anybody.

  “Miguel applied there.” Salva swallowed. “He didn’t get in. He was gonna go to Regional.” Before the doctor’s bills for Mamá made him quit.

  “Well, it ain’t a bad school,” Pepe said.

  “No.” Salva opened his eyes. “It ain’t.”

  His best friend grinned.

  “It’s just”—Salva’s hand formed a fist as he tried to explain—“if I can get into State, it’s gonna mean a lot, you know, to my father—”

  “Shit.” Pepe rolled down the front windows. “This isn’t about your father. It’s about you, always having to win. You’re such an f-ing competitor.”

  The comment made no sense. “You’re the one with the sports scholarship,” Salva argued.

  “No, man.” Pepe pulled the keys from the ignition. “I’m just the only one of us willing to settle for the sports scholarship. You were all-state. You could have played at Regional, but that’s not enough for you. You’re gonna go conquer the friggin’ world.” He held up his hand, car keys dangling in his palm. “And that’s okay, ’cause when you do, you’re gonna remember tonight, and who let you drive, huh?”

  Oh yeahhh.

  18

  SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON

  Bang! Salva looked up, annoyed, from the arc of interview notes he’d spread out on the kitchen table. It sucked to have homework on a Saturday evening; but the party had been last night, and he now had less than forty-eight hours to prepare for the mock trial on Monday. Lucia, who was home yet again, had claimed she was taking the girls for a walk to help her order dinner at the taquería downtown. But the front door had just slammed.

  Señor Resendez arrived in the kitchen, breathing hard, and grinning from one end of his face to the other. He lifted an envelope in his hand. “From the State University!”

  Salva eyed the package. It was thick, but he’d been fooled by that before, with the trashed acceptance from Princeton.

  Papá thrust the envelope into his hands. “Open!”

  Trying not to let the package shake, Salva ripped the seal.

  His father was hovering, leaning over his shoulder, hands pressed together in prayer position.

  Congratulations!

  You are the chosen recipient of the Joseph Bauermann Strauss Scholarship. This award is a full four-year scholarship for State’s nationally recognized engineering program.

  “What does it say?” Papá was now holding his clenched hands over his head.

  “It…” Salva struggled for breath. Don’t tell him until you’re sure. His father’s trembling had turned into an earthquake. Salva scanned the rest of the letter. “It says I’ve been accepted and that…” It was real. He was going to State. A flood of relief washed through him. “They’re going to pay my whole way.”

  The hands exploded. “¿Todo?”

  “All the tuition, not my books or housing, but—”

  “You can stay with Miguel!” his father shouted. “You can work for your books!”

  Then the arms were around Salva in a huge, crushing hug. “Mijo, mijo,” his father repeated over and over again. My son. My son. The words brought tears onto Salva’s face. But there was no shame. His father wouldn’t see them anyway, because the dampness soaking Salva’s shirt wasn’t his. Those tears were his father’s, and Salva knew, for the first time, the unbelievable feeling of making someone else’s dream come true.

  When the girls came home, Lucia consigned the tacos to the fridge and cooked instead. They had enchiladas with mole sauce, roasted peppers, and fried ice cream. Talia and Casandra took turns hugging Salva, possibly because they were happy for him, but more likely in thanks for the food.

  Dinner was followed by the longest string of phone calls Salva had ever participated in in his life. Grandparents, both sets; his aunts and uncles; and three million cousins, spread out everywhere from Guanajuato to San Antonio to North Carolina. Of course his father did most of the talking. Salva just had to get on the phone to listen to the congratulations. He didn’t even know a fraction of the people who gave him felicidades, but he could hear how happy his father was every time he had the chance to tell someone his son was going to a four-year state university.

  After passing the phone back to Papá for the umpteenth time, Salva sneaked into the kitchen, poured himself a mug of cinnamon hot chocolate, and dropped with fake exhaustion into a chair.

  Lucia laughed, shaking the remnants of dishwater from her fingers, then reached for a towel. “Are you going to let Papá do all the calling?” she teased. “You know he could go on all night.”

  Salva shrugged, his excitement about telling his best friend tempered by the knowledge that deep down Pepe would be disappointed. “I’ll see Pepe and Tosa tomorrow at church.”

  “And what about your girlfriend?”

  There was no way Salva was letting his father listen in on that conversation. Plus, Beth had said she and Nalani were spending the rest of the weekend somewhere out of town. “I’ll see Beth on Monday.”

  “Ah!” Lucia swatted him with the towel. “Then you are dating the girl who is okay pretty.”

  “Diga.” Their father stepped through the doorway, making his son jump. But Papá just handed over the phone for the hundredth time.

  Salva pressed it to his ear.

  “Hola, little brother. So I’m told you’re coming to live with me.”

  Miguel. Salva almost dropped the phone. Papá had called Miguel? After all this time? His father had said something before, but Salva hadn’t taken it seriously.

  “Un momento.” Salva eased past his father, shook his head at Lucia’s questioning look, and left the kitchen. Then shut himself in his room—the same room he had shared for the first six years of his life with the person on the other end of the phone.

  “Congratulations,” said Miguel.

  “Um…hola,” Salva managed.

  “You know my place is only a half hour’s city bus ride from your new school. Are you coming to stay with me, or what?”

  “Well…” Salva didn’t want to take anything more from his brother. Ever. Miguel had derailed his entire life to help support his younger siblings. And had ultimately lost la familia in the process. Or maybe not. Maybe Salva could make up for that now. “If I get a job, I might be able to pay you rent.”

  “You won’t have time for a job. Not if you’re going into engineering at State.”

  Salva hadn’t thought much about the program. He’d written his college essay about becoming an engineer because it was the most high-profile degree offered at the school. And because the lady who’d run the scholarship workshop at Liberty had said you should always pick a career, to make the essay more convincing. But the program was supposed to be intense. “Well, maybe some of the local scholarships will help cover the cost of a place to stay,” he s
aid, running his hand over a crack in the wall. Miguel had started to putty it up once, but ants still came through it in the summer.

  “Don’t be silly, Salva. You know I owe you.”

  That was stupid. Why would Miguel owe him?

  “Don’t lie to me,” Salva said. He didn’t need his brother acting like he hadn’t sacrificed anything.

  “What?”

  Salva pressed his thumb into the crack, just above the plaster. “It should have been you first at a four-year college. I know you quit to help support us. It wasn’t fair. I’ll pay you back somehow. I don’t know when but—”

  “Hermano, I had enough of school. You’ve gotta know that. You heard the fights.”

  Yeah, Salva had heard them. He’d heard Miguel shouting that his work wasn’t appreciated. That his paycheck was what put food on the table. And Papá had yelled back that he could take care of his own familia. And that he didn’t need a dropout for a son. What had that meant, exactly? Salva had assumed, at the time, that his father had been exaggerating. Trying to ignore reality in order to live up to the promise he had made Mamá about all her children getting an education.

  “You’re overthinking this, aren’t you?” Miguel’s voice broke through Salva’s thoughts. “Look, I left you in the lurch with Papá, let you take on all his big dreams so that I could move to the city and work construction. You know it, and I know it. And, listen, hey, it wasn’t fair. We both know that, too.”

  The plaster beneath Salva’s thumb began to crumble.

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you around, little brother. Just because I couldn’t handle all the pressure of Papá’s expectations doesn’t mean I’m not just as happy for you as he is. Of course you’re staying here. And I’m really proud of you, okay?”

  Salva didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how to deal with what he was hearing. That his brother had chosen not to return to school. Had left it unfinished. Like he left everything unfinished—the paint job on the front door, the putty in this stupid crack.

  Salva’s mind reeled through that awful year. His mother’s death. His father’s grief. And then, sometime in the spring, Papá’s announcement that he had been promoted to manager and that his older son could start working his way back to school. Miguel had asserted that la familia couldn’t really afford it.

  And Salva had believed him.

  Had blamed Papá for the fights.

  “Okay?” Miguel repeated.

  No, it wasn’t okay. Salva had needed his older brother that year. The least, the least Miguel could have done was to brave their father’s anger and pick up the phone. “Look, thanks for the offer,” Salva said, then let the signal die.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, the blood in his veins replaced by disillusionment. His brother had dropped out because of the pressure? What kind of an excuse was that?

  Salva understood pressure. The obligation to prove that his parents’ decision to sacrifice everything to come here hadn’t been wasted. That he could excel. Could learn as well as all the other American kids. That he could beat them at their own game. A fiery burn pulsed through his stomach—that same intense feeling that had wound its way through his gut every time he’d called a play during the state-championship final. That need to win.

  Pepe had been right. It wasn’t just about Papá.

  Salva’s father might be seriously high-stress. Might misread people like Beth and Markham and Miguel. But Papá was right about Salva. Education was his way out. And on this point, this one basic elemental point, the two of them were in complete agreement. Slowly, Salva straightened, then stepped outside the room, returning the phone to his father, and said with more conviction than he ever had in his life, “Gracias, Papá.”

  His friends’ reactions to the scholarship news didn’t quite rival his family’s, but Tosa gave Salva a huge flying chest butt that made the abuelas at church gasp. And Pepe delivered a high five and a fist pump that his best friend knew was sincere.

  Still, Salva found the wait to tell Beth tougher than he had anticipated. He walked by her trailer Sunday evening, but the lights were out and nothing at all seemed to be moving. So he reconciled himself to wait. All night, through the delay of walking his sisters to the bus, then out on the front steps by the main entrance of the high school. For thirteen minutes.

  She finally arrived with about five minutes to spare before the bell. He grabbed her by the hands, tugged her behind the hedge along the building front, and watched her face as he talked.

  “Engineering?” she repeated when he finished.

  “Yes.” He pulled her farther into the crevice between the gray wall and half-brown shrubs, then reiterated his explanation. “It’s a full scholarship.”

  She wasn’t jumping. Or hugging him. Or even looking like she was trying to look happy. “Why would you want a scholarship for engineering?” she asked.

  His jaw clenched. She wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t seriously going to turn into the type of person who cut you off just when you were getting your dreams. Was she? “Because it’s State University,” he said. “It’s a four-year scholarship. It means they’ll pay my way.”

  “Of course they’ll pay your way. All the state colleges that replied to you so far have agreed to pay your way.”

  Yeah, but the others were minor regional schools. This was a major university.

  The first bell rang, followed by the sounds of multiple pairs of feet sprinting past the hedge and heading for the main door. He should go, but he just couldn’t leave it like this. Of all the people in the school, he’d been counting on her to understand.

  Beth dropped her backpack from her shoulder. “Salva, since when have you planned on becoming an engineer?”

  “I’m taking AP calc,” he stated the obvious. “Advanced physics. Science and math; they’re what I’m good at.”

  “You’re good at everything”—the backpack fell from her elbow into the dirt—“even AP English, if you’re strong enough to say what you really think. I’ve never heard you talk about wanting to design roads or structures or buildings.”

  “Well, we can’t all write romance novels.” The slam came out of his mouth without permission.

  She jolted. For a second, he thought he saw her wince, but her tone hardened. “You are a coward.”

  “For going into the toughest program in the state?” He could feel the anger building within his chest.

  She was giving him that look—the same one she’d given him last fall when she’d ripped apart his paper on Milton. That blunt, baffled, I-thought-you-were-better-than-this look. “You’re going to take this scholarship,” she accused, “because it’s the best one they’ve offered you, and to hell with what you want.”

  “I want this!” he shouted, not caring if anyone heard.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “It’s a four-year university. At the best school in the state. In one of the best programs out there. That is what I want.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  She was impossible!

  “Look!” he shouted, “I’m sorry I can’t afford one of your Ivy League colleges!”

  She backed away, slightly. He hadn’t told her about the responses from Princeton and Harvard. He guessed he should have. Then maybe she would have understood.

  Her voice softened. “It’s not about the school, Salva.” She reached out as if to touch his arm. “Or which program is the best. It’s about what you want to do with your life.”

  He swept her hand away. “This is what I want—”

  “Engineering?” Her arms came across her chest. “You don’t have any passion for engineering.”

  Just like that. She said it as if she was reciting some fact he had failed to study for a final.

  And the statement drove home. Direct.

  Because she was right.

  19

  PASSION

  “I…” Salva stammered. “I’m not passionate about anything,” which, really,
on a scale of one to ten, was a zero on the list of things he should ever have said to Beth.

  She winced.

  The bell rang.

  They were both late for cit/gov. Salva ran. There’s nothing wrong with not knowing what I want to do, he told himself. Isn’t that kind of the point of my first year of college? Taking the stuff I don’t have a chance to take at Liberty?

  He could already hear Beth’s argument. And how are you going to do that if you tie yourself to an engineering program?

  “You’re late, counselor.” Coach Robson held up a penalty flag as Salva entered cit/gov, which had been transformed into a courtroom: Robson’s desk as the judge’s bench, the audience at the back, a chair for the witness stand, a desk and computer for the court reporter’s table, a row of seats for the jury box. And two sets of desks, separated by an aisle, for the lawyers.

  Salva hurried to the nearest one and dumped his stuff: four books, three folders, three notebooks, and his pen. He hadn’t had time to put away anything or visit his locker, but his plan for the trial was here. In this pile. Somewhere.

  A whistle sailed from the back of the room, followed by Pepe’s voice. “Looks like the counsel for the defense was engaging in a little unprofessional activity with the court reporter.”

  Which meant Beth had arrived.

  Salva avoided her gaze as she brushed past him en route to the reporter’s table.

  Coach Robson had launched into a lecture for the jury members. Phrases glided back: “Jury of peers…burden of proof…beyond reasonable doubt.”

  “Salva, are you listening?” Char asked at his side. There were real lines under her eyes. Maybe the headaches Pepe had mentioned had been real. Or maybe she was just freaking out about speaking in public.

  “Yeah,” he lied. “I’ve got this. Don’t worry. You aren’t going to have to take the stand.” He found his cit/gov notebook and flipped it open.

  Slam! Luka was standing across the aisle, a fist on his desk, the other hand pointing at Char. “This woman has committed a crime, an affront to all the students of Liberty High.” He rounded the edge of the prosecutor’s area and swept in front of the entire row of jury members. “We were all injured when she stole”—he whirled and pointed at the blue-and-gold object on Robson’s desk—“the torch of Liberty High.”