Beneath Wandering Stars (5 page)

I dig through my purse while the gate guard stands in front of me like a statue. Finally, I locate my ID at the bottom of my bag. “That's a relief. My dad would kill me if I lost this thing for the third time in six months,” I say sheepishly, hoping for a human reaction . . . like a smile.

Nope.

After wiping the smudges of lip gloss off on my jeans, I hand the guard my ID, which he scans with a device that looks like it's straight out of an original Star Wars film. The soldier's flint face fails to reveal a single emotion as he studies my birthday and eye color to make sure the person in the photograph is really me. You know, just in case terrorists are trying to sneak on to military bases disguised as teenage girls.

“My turn!” Matteo holds up the laminated library card Mom gave him; that way he can pretend to have this shackle around his ankle, too. We get actual ID cards on our tenth birthdays, which is sort of a rite of passage for military brats. The day we receive our very own government-issued identity.

The gate guard chuckles at Matteo's eagerness and gives him a miniature salute. “All set, buddy. Go on through.”

What a little charmer. Why can't I have people skills like that?

Inside the Exchange food court, half of the tables are filled with kids from my school, and the opposite side is occupied by kids from the Air Force school. Seriously, it's like
West Side Story
Department of Defense style, only without the singing and pirouettes. Racially speaking, the military has to be the most diverse, integrated institution there is, but we often segregate ourselves by service branches. Don't even get me started on the Army vs. Navy football game.

The food court is the popular hangout place, but I've never taken part in this excessive loitering. That's partly because I've spent enough time working afterschool jobs in the majority of these eating establishments, from Baskin Robbins to Anthony's Pizza. The other part?

Oh yeah. I have no friends.

My goal is to make it through the food court without running into soccer teammates who will ask me questions about Lucas. No one here really knows him, but news travels faster in the military than it does in the smallest town. Too bad Matteo sabotages my attempt at stealth by making a break for a nearby craft stand selling Polish pottery and these cutesy wooden signs with burned engravings of corny German phrases. Naturally, this kiosk is also where Chloe Ross orders a Mother's Day plaque with an idyllic image of Neuschwanstein Castle and the verbose declaration
Ich Liebe Meine Mutter!

I grab my little brother's arm as he reaches for a Hummel figurine that costs more than my annual allowance. “Matteo, no! You can't just run off without telling me.”

“Oh my gosh, Gabi,” Chloe squeals, enveloping me in a vanilla body spray–scented embrace. “We missed you this morning, but the team totally understands. How's your brother?”

“The doctors say he's stable,” I reply, my voice shaking. No way. I can't do this right now. I can't break down in front of all these people. Chloe is only trying to show sympathy, but Lucas is my family's concern. No one here knows him, and no one here knows me.

Chloe grabs my hand, forcing my eyes up to where hers shine with the optimism of a cloudless blue sky. “Your brother is a hero and you can bet we all know it. A lot of people are praying for him and for your family, too. We're all here for you, Gabi.”

The fact that Chloe received the Nicest Person superlative three years in a row must have something to do with the ease with which she speaks on behalf of others, whoever this collective “we” happens to be.

“Thanks for your support. I appreciate it.” And then I move on before the unstable, nameless thing inside me splatters across the floor like a tray of spilled nachos.

Unfortunately, I make the rookie mistake of walking past the toy section first.

“Legos! Legos!” Matteo jumps up and down like a frog on crack.

“Sorry, buddy. Dad didn't give us security clearance to purchase any Lego toys.” I press on towards the shoe department. Then I freeze. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Yep, this outing was a huge mistake. Seth Russo sits in the shoe section, attempting to try on a pair of boots with only one arm. So far he's managed to get the left boot on despite his sling, but tying up those laces is going to be a problem.

Good. Now he knows what it's like to be left hanging. I'll never forget the birthday party we both attended back in Texas almost three years ago. The group we were hanging with wanted to play “seven minutes in heaven,” and of course I got sent into the closet with Seth. For seven full minutes he ignored my existence. He never said a word, just stood there in the dark, playing on his phone. I didn't want to kiss him, either, but I swore I'd never forgive him for the slight.

Only now my childish grudge feels kind of stupid.

I release a groan. The guy is injured and I can't ignore him no matter how I'd like to, so I drag Matteo over to his chair. Seth bends forward, awkwardly shoving his foot into the Gore-Tex shoe. His dog tags dangle out in front of him, smacking against his chest as he sits back up.

“They already let you out?” I ask.

“You talk like I was in prison.” Seth's lips turn up slightly, but his eyes stay sad. “I thought about breaking out in nothing but my hospital gown, but the doc ruined my commando escape plan by telling me I was free to go.”

My lack of laughter solidifies into a thick silence. Seth clears his throat. “I see that you've come to grace me with your fashion sense. What do you think about this pair? I'm going for the ‘I'm a baller too cool to tie my laces'
look
.
”

“Or you
can't
tie them.” I pick up a pair of yellow and black cross-trainers. “Fashion sense, huh? Last I recall, you used to make fun of me for dressing like a tomboy.”

Seth's eyes flicker across my moderately short cargo skirt—which is khaki green and has enough pockets to store a decent supply of weaponry, but still qualifies as a skirt. His smirk widens. “Last
I
recall, you never used to show that much leg, kiddo.”

“Cut the ‘kiddo' crap, all right? You're not even two years older than me. Besides, I'm not the one who needs help tying my shoes. Come on, Matteo, let's show him how it's done. Remember how to make the bunny ears?”

Of course he does—the kid's smart as a whip. Matteo follows my lead as we kneel in front of this big, tough soldier and tie his shoes right there in the middle of the store, my brother reciting, “One bunny ear, two bunny ears” as he goes. I glance up, expecting Seth to either be pissed or embarrassed, but instead he's staring at my brother like he's the most precious thing he's ever seen, not to mention the most painful.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he says in a husky voice, patting Matteo on the head. “You too,
Gabi
.”

“It's the least we can do,” I reply. And I mean it. It doesn't matter that I've always thought of Seth as the flippant jerk who scorned me. It doesn't even matter that Lucas wouldn't be in the hospital right now if Seth hadn't convinced him to enlist. I may not like the guy, but his scars tell me he's been through more than I can imagine. “You're serious, aren't you? You're really going to walk to Santiago?”

Seth's eyes turn hard. Dry. “For your brother, I'd walk anywhere.”

One lightweight sleeping bag.

One pair of waterproof hiking boots.

One thirty-two-liter backpack.

That's all it takes to blow through the remainder of Dad's paycheck, but at least the Exchange has a flexible return policy, which we'll need when my father returns to planet earth. That moment of truth ends up occurring sooner than expected.

“What do you mean the trek is off?” I demand over the Robin Hood sandwiches no one but Matteo is enjoying. My parents seemed tense in the car ride home, and now I know why. “What about Lucas's request? What about your dream?”

“Believe me,
mija
. This pains me more than it does you.”

I don't want to leave my brother's bedside, but I also wanted the decision to be
mine
, not the Army's. The fact that they're intruding on this of all things changes everything.

Besides, I made a promise.

“Screw your commanding officer, Dad. We have to go.”

“Um, are you going to eat those?” Matteo asks over our elevated voices, pointing to the untouched pickles on our plates. Dad and I shake our heads no—a flicker of unity that extends to nothing else. My little brother gathers up the spears and moves into the living room to play with the unauthorized Lego blocks I bought him. Because this situation sucks, and he deserves the small joy that is multicolored, stackable plastic.

Mom sits across from me, hands folded on the table in front of her, lips pursed in an unyielding silence. My parents are good at presenting a united front, like they agree on absolutely everything, even though the hushed fighting I sometimes hear behind their bedroom door suggests otherwise. I don't expect Mom to choose sides, but I wish she'd call my father out once in a while.

“It isn't that simple,” Dad replies once Matteo is out of range.

“So that's it? We give up?” I persist. “The Army says you can't go and we just ignore what could very well be Lucas's final—”

“Don't,” Mom snaps. “Gabi, don't you dare.”

Dad studies my mom like she's a ticking bomb. “Two nights ago there was another suicide attack, not far from Ghazni. Six soldiers from the same unit were killed and all of their families are stationed here in Germany. The chaplaincy in Vilseck is short-staffed as it is, so I've been asked to fill in. I'll be able to come home on weekends to visit Lucas in the hospital, but I certainly won't be approved for several weeks of leave. Paid or unpaid.”

“But why can't the Army get someone else?
Your
family is grieving, too.” It's a selfish thing to say in light of what these poor people are going through, but the thought of Dad counseling another soldier's kid instead of fulfilling his own son's dying wish makes me furious. I let the bittersweet indignation wrap itself around me like a warm hug.

“The Vilseck chaplain was one of the six,” Dad says softly. “So there
is
no one else.”

I know he's right, but I don't care. Budget cuts. Back-to-back deployments. Missed birthdays. There's
never
anyone else. It will always be
him
because to us, he is everything.

“Then let me go on my own.” The words pour out without my consent. Ten minutes ago this pilgrimage felt like a bad joke, but now it feels like our lives depend on it. I don't scheme, I don't think, I just speak. “Let me walk to Santiago for Lucas.”

Dad laughs. I'm one hundred percent serious, and the man suddenly finds me hilarious. “I don't think so, Gabriela. Not after what you pulled back at Fort Sam. You're not walking anywhere you can't be supervised. Not until you walk across that graduation stage first.”

“That's less than two months away! What difference will a few weeks make?”

“In two months, you'll be your own liability. Not mine.” Dad shrugs and Mom, well, Mom doesn't say anything. I can tell something is bothering her, but she refuses to back me up, just like she refused to tell my father that a month-long house arrest right before the Army moved us to a foreign country was an excessive response to my so-called crime. “I've made my decision,
torito
. You may be stubborn as a bull, but you also know that my word is final.”

Yes, I'm familiar with
El Jefe
. An army of one.

Only this time, my father's control-freak tendencies have crossed the line. “Dad, I can do this. I already have the gear.
Please
. Someone has to walk to Santiago for Lucas.”

There's a knock at our front door, almost as if he planned it.

“And someone will,” Dad says. “
Hablando del diablo
.”

“Mom, listen,” I whisper while Dad gets up to answer the door, my final shot at an underdog alliance. “You know he's being ridiculous. It's not like I'm asking to spend my senior spring break partying at Daytona Beach. This is for Lucas.”

Mom stares at me hard, but it's impossible to tell what she's thinking behind the spiderweb of her bloodshot eyes. Before she can respond, Dad returns with the visitor of the hour. I'm starting to think of the guy as an irksome horse fly that won't go away.

“Hey, Gabi.” Seth's T-shirt is drenched and his face glistens with sweat. I can feel the heat radiating off of him from where he stands.

“Did you seriously run all the way here?”

“Gotta start training for the
camino
somehow.”

“It's a walk, not an eight-hundred-meter sprint.” I point to his sling. “What about your injury?”

Seth pulls an orange bottle of large white pills from his pocket and gives them a shake. “Thanks to the good doctor, I am feeling
no
pain.”

“You want to tell us what this meeting is about?” Dad interrupts.

The young soldier hesitates, his eyes flitting from Mom to me, then back to Dad. “Sergeant Major Santiago, do you think we could, er, talk alone in the other room?”

Dad nods and Seth follows him into his office. Mom avoids my guilt-tripping gaze by telling Matteo it's time for his bath. Once they're gone, I tiptoe down the hall and press my ear against the office door. Most of what I hear is muffled and unintelligible, but one of Seth's statements rings out loud and clear:

“Because of what I experienced over there, I've been given extended leave time.”

My Dad's response is too low to make out.

Seth speaks again: “You can trust me, sir. I won't let you down.”

• • •