Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) (4 page)

“All right, boss.” I took the folder John gave me, adding my list and documents to it. “If I’m not home by dark, call the embassy and tell Meg I love her.”

“Will do.” He headed back to the waiting kids, blew his shiny coach’s whistle, and got a nice little three-on-three action going on the basketball court.

Three things happened right then. I smelled pot. I saw wisps of smoke in the dang tree house I’d built. And I glimpsed the crown of Raf’s stupid head, which meant he wasn’t in San Isidro. He was here and up to his usual trouble.

I planted my boot on the running board of the truck and leaned an elbow onto the hood while I took in the scene and plotted my next move. The way it looked to me at the time, I had two choices. I could kick him out of the tree house and deal with him later or I could teach him right then how things were going to go.

I headed toward the tree house before I even knew I’d moved. John, involved in the loud game, never noticed.

I’d learned how to be deadly quiet as a kid, a skill that came in handy on a ranch, especially when a nervous calf needed fetching. I climbed the tree house ladder and poked most of my body through the hole before Raf realized he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t try to hide his now tiny joint. He just raised an eyebrow and turned a page of the Octavio Paz book in his lap. That was unusual enough to stop me in my tracks. All was not as it seemed with my friend Raf. I sat on the floor of the tree house in the corner opposite Raf. He watched me without saying a word, so I stared back for a moment, taking his measure.

“You’re going with me to the lumber store in Managua today, bro,” I said, adding self-sabotage to the list of things keeping me from my work.

“
No hablo ingles
,” he said with a wry twist to his lips.

“Uh, yes, you do, and you’re going to translate every word I say when we get to the store. I know enough
español
to know if you’re jerking me around, too, so don’t try it.”

He went still and the tilt of his head told me he was considering his options. “I’m not going anywhere near Managua. Why do you think I’m here?
Señor
John didn’t tell you?” Raf said John like only a native Spanish-speaker would—not quite Juan, acknowledging John was American, but not at all John.

“I don’t really know why you’re here, Raf. Why don’t you tell me, then we’ll have that out of the way.”

Raf leaned over, spitting through the wooden railings, marked his place in
The Labyrinth of Solitude
, and gave me a look I’d seen on his face many times. Was it anger? If I took a picture of this particular boy reading this particular book and gave it a caption, anger might not be the first word I’d choose. Now, loneliness on the other hand….

“You wouldn’t understand, anyway, so let’s go buy your boards,
chulo
, and I’ll try to make sure you find your way home. Give me a minute.” He carefully put out the burning end of his blunt and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

I shook my head and held out my hand, motioning with my fingers for the joint. He scowled, dug it out of his pocket, and dropped it into my hand. I climbed down the ladder, then used both hands to crush the joint, letting the wind carry the remnants away.

Raf walked, tough guy style, into the boys’ dorm. He emerged a few minutes later wearing a Boston Red Sox jersey with Padilla’s number. He had a backwards Red Sox cap over his high and tight buzz cut, suitable camouflage in a place that had a huge pitcher’s crush on local boy Vicente Padilla. He put on a pair of sunglasses and headed toward John’s truck where he slid into the passenger side and sat low in the seat with his arms crossed over his chest.

All keyed up like I was, I forgot about John. By the time I thought to tell him I had Raf, we were halfway to Managua on the washed-out two-lane highway. We’d be done and home before they realized he wasn’t in San Isidro.

I had a fleeting thought that this sudden partnership might not be the best idea, but Raf needed to know who was boss. I glanced over at him. He slouched in the seat and pretended to sleep.

We needed a truce to last through the conversation with the sales guys so my order would get placed correctly. In Nicaragua, lumber stores had little stock. I had to present my list and pray they’d order everything. And pray again they wouldn’t rob me blind.

Clearing my throat to wake him, I tried to ease into a ceasefire. “You like Octavio Paz?”

He opened one eye and looked at me. “You were surprised I could read,” he said. “¡
Se puede leer
!” His imitation of a clueless American made me laugh.

“No, I just don’t know many fifteen-year-olds interested in Paz. He’s Mexican, right? Won a Nobel?”

“You’ve probably never read anything by a non-
Americano
.” He hitched up his lip in a look every surly teenage boy has perfected.

I threw the look right back at him. “You don’t know as much about me as you think, Raf. Tell me about your tattoos.”

“Tell me about yours,” he said. “Do you have W.W.J.D. tattooed on
su trasero
?”

I chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “That’s good. How’d you know about that?”

He just shook his head. “
Derecha
…turn right here.”

In Managua, where more streets were unnamed than named, you had to have a sense of direction. I’d been to Quintero’s with John a few times so Raf’s directions made sense and I found the place easily.

Raf turned his cap around and pulled the bill low over his face, throwing off
don’t mess with me
signals. What if he failed me at the lumber store and my order fell flat? So many things were riding on this trip—my ability to get back to Wyoming and Meg, chief among them for me.

I lucked into a parking spot directly in front of the lumber store and we walked in together. Just as I remembered, there was no stock sitting around.

Three guys, big by Nicaraguan standards, stood behind a desk, arms crossed, watching us. Behind them, a window looked into a smaller room with another desk and some filing cabinets.

A younger, heavily tattooed guy stood with his back to us in that room, looking through a file. I hardly noticed him, but Raf kept his eye on that guy. I was more concerned with the muscle standing in front of us, waiting for us to state our business.

“¿
Qué es lo que necesita, los niños
?”

I knew what the big guy had asked and even caught the insult of calling us boys, but I deferred to Raf, making it clear he’d be doing the talking.

In Spanish, Raf told them our order would be worth their time. Then he began translating to one of the guys, who took out an order form and motioned for our permits to look through.

I took a couple of steps back so I could watch everyone in the room. The young guy in the office had turned around and was eying Raf. He made a quick call, then turned out the light in his office.

I barely made out his shape now. He was still watching Raf, who tensed visibly, the hairs on his neck standing up. Raf scanned the room behind us, the door we’d entered, and the street outside.

“¿
Cuál es tu problema, chico
?” The burly guy who’d been looking over my order stopped to stare at Raf.

“
Regresaremos luego
,” Raf said, as he nudged my arm and headed for the door. “We have to go right now,” he whispered.

I shook him off and held my ground. “Look, man, this is my one trip to make this order. Give me five minutes to hand over my list. Go sit in the truck and I’ll be right out.”

Raf looked at me like I was crazy, swallowing what he wanted to say. He hesitated for a second, shot out the door, bypassed the truck, and walked away fast, head down.

I heard a door open and close in the back of the shop. The men waited for me to make a move. One of them laughed and stepped over to the window to watch Raf run.

“
Fue una pandilla rata
,” he said. “
Los Comemuertos
.”

Raf’s former gang was called
Los Comemuertos
, literally “eaters of the dead.” My heart tried to kick itself out of my chest; I couldn’t get out of this scene fast enough. These guys now held my life in their hands. They knew who Raf was and why he’d broken ties with his gang. I didn’t.

“
No necesito esto, hombre
.” The guy who’d been taking my order spoke earnestly to me. His words, although I barely understood them, carried a heavy warning, something like—“You should forget about your friend and get the heck out of here while you can still walk.”

I would do that if I could. But I was the only good guy who knew Raf was in Managua.

henry

I
grabbed my paperwork and put my hands up, while I backed out of the place. The street seemed quiet enough, but Raf was gone. I needed to climb into the truck, lock the doors, and call John. Confessing my stupidity in bringing Raf was the least of my worries now.

John picked his phone up on the first ring. “Come on, Henry, boy, tell me you placed the order and it’ll be delivered tomorrow morning.”

“Raf’s gone, John,” I managed to get out before panic crashed my brain.

“Whoa. Breathe. What do you mean? Did you see him somewhere?” John shushed the kids who were squealing around him.

“I brought him with me to Quintero’s,” I said, craning my neck to look for Raf. “The guys there recognized him. They called him a rat, but I didn’t catch all that until it was too late. Raf took off and I think a guy from the store followed him.”

“Wait…you brought him with you to Managua?” I heard a door slam and things got quiet where John was. “What were you thinking, Henry? I have a legal obligation to keep him out of that city. It was part of his juvie sentencing for gang activity, and it was the only way the judge could save his life from a gang hit. Can you see him now?”

“He disappeared. I’m going to drive the streets around here.” I was already pulling out of my spot and heading in the direction Raf had walked.

“Hold up. You don’t know where you are. You’ll get lost and I’ll be looking for both of you. I’m going to hang up and call the
policía
. Sit tight.” John disconnected.

I couldn’t sit tight, so I drove fast, keeping my eyes glued to the sidewalk. The cars around me laid on their horns, furious about my erratic driving.

Finally, five blocks east of Quintero’s, I caught sight of Raf when I stopped at a red light. I rolled my window down to yell at him, but fate intervened. Within seconds, four or five obvious gangsters surrounded him.

The light turned green, but I stayed, chewing myself out for getting him into this. One of the
pandilleros
moved in close behind Raf to hold his arms.

Bystanders pretended not to notice and even crossed to the other side of the street, heads down, eyes averted. A couple of the older women made the sign of the cross.

I put the truck in park and got out, leaving it in the middle of the road. The guy in the car behind me yelled in English. I told my legs to move; they felt like they’d fallen asleep.

Just as I reached them, the group shifted. I caught the metallic flash of a knife. The blade was small, no more than three inches long. Still long enough to kill.

The guy pushed his chest into Raf’s to hide his blade. As he drew back his arm, I didn’t even think. I lunged at the guy blindly, like a clumsy idiot. I surprised him. When he turned to fight, he lost his balance and fell, his knife hand beneath him.

“
Hijo de
…,” Raf hissed the final word, but I knew what he meant. And I knew he was talking to me. I was the son of a very bad woman in this situation?
Really
?

Distantly, I heard sirens. People around us had stopped to stare.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Henry,” Raf yelled. “They love locking up
Americanos
. Now get out of here!”

Nothing made sense. The bad guy with the knife, who looked only fourteen or fifteen, lay motionless on the pavement.

“It’s too late now,” Raf said. “Just do not tell them where we live. I promise you they will go after your family for money.”

After that, things happened in flashes, in heartbeats.
Ba–boom, ba–boom
. Officers in, guns drawn.
Ba-boom, ba–boom
. Raf cuffed, me cuffed.

My knees were kicked, swiftly, from the back, forcing me to kneel on the hot sidewalk. They knocked Raf into the same position. He pleaded with the officer holding him, motioning toward me with his chin on every other syllable. The officer just shook his head, giving him the universal
stifle it
look.

I heard English and turned. The guy from the car behind me, the one who’d yelled when I parked in his lane, told an officer he’d seen the whole thing.

“The white kid was just a good Samaritan,” he said. He pointed at my truck and tried to say everything again in Spanish. It must have been good enough because the officer began taking the American’s statement.

An ambulance finally arrived. A paramedic rushed to the fallen
pandillero
, rolled him over carefully, and took vitals. The knife had entered his body just under his collarbone on the right side. A small circle of blood slowly crept outward toward his shoulder. I could tell his arm was broken by the wild angle it made. He had a nasty contusion on his right temple, which took the brunt of his awkward fall.

The paramedic found a pulse, counted it, strapped on a blood pressure cuff, and started an IV drip. The kid had survived; I nearly fell on my face from relief.

The paramedics spoke quickly to one another as they ran their hands along the kid’s body, looking for other injuries.

I caught Raf’s eye as he strained to hear the news. “What are they saying?”

“He passed out when his head met pavement. Probably has a
conmócion cerebral
. Knife wound is okay. Arm’s broken.”

“Concussion? But he’ll be okay, right?”
Was I asking Raf for reassurance?

“
No sé
. I do know this—they’ll be ready to blow somebody down for that. You should’ve run while you had the chance.”