Free The Same Sky by Amanda Eyre Ward Page B

people did not need to rely on cement walls lined with broken glass bottles for protection.
    “I will do what I can,” said my mother again.
    “Maybe we …,” I said, hope a cook fire in my chest, “maybe we … should come to Austin, Texas!”
    “No no, Carla,” she replied sharply. “No, little one. Stay still, and I will save enough for a coyote . It will take time, but I … I will do it. Children die on The Beast, Carla. Children die and worse.”
    Worse? I stood at the Western Union for four hours before a white envelope of lempiras arrived. I went to our empty house and waited for my brother, who was sniffing yellow glue and likely passed out somewhere. I waited for morning so I could go to the dump to pick though trash. Worse? I might as well begin with the Resistol myself. But I knew, even then, that I was meant for great things. Anyway, for better things.
    How did I know this? Nobody told me so, for sure. But Humberto loved me, and I knew my mother was working hard … all for me and Junior. This gave me a sense that I was valuable. I was not garbage, yet somehow my brother was too weak to understand. I had to get him away from this place. But how?
    I had a boom box, but its batteries had gone dead long ago. Still, I could play songs in my head, as loud as if they were real. For some reason, the only tape we had was the music of a blind black man named Stevie Wonder. Who knew where this tape had come from? I lay on the palletwith my hands behind my head, and I played “Isn’t She Lovely?” to myself. Stevie Wonder had written this song about his baby daughter. I imagined I had a father who sang to me. I imagined I was an American girl, in a pink bedroom with a bed that had a canopy over it. My father came home from work like the fathers in the movies, carrying a square bag (a briefcase) and singing to me. All I had to do was be lovely, and I would be loved.
    Enough of that sentimentality.
    I sat up to find I was being watched by a boy I had never seen before. He had a shaved head and a thick black number tattooed on his face, one eye framed. If you know anything about the gangs, you will know what the number was, and you will know why I’m not going to write it down. When that journalist was shot through his eye, it sent a message to us all, and don’t think you are safe just because you are in America! This gang had just begun to come to Tegucigalpa at this time. A boy my age with the tattoo was something I had never seen before. I had heard of the gang, though—whispers around the dump.
    I knew enough to be afraid. I sat up quickly, reaching under the pallet for the crowbar, ready to fight. “What do you want?” I said.
    “What do you want?” he said, leaning back against the door frame of my house, looking insouciant. He pulled his shirt away from his stomach, as if hiding something.
    My skin went hot with fear. I had no idea what this boy was doing so far from the city. I wrapped my fingers around my metal weapon.
    “I want you to go away,” I said, sounding braver than Ifelt. He pursed his lips, nodded. He stepped inside the house and shut the door behind him. “I said to go away,” I repeated, my voice weakening. Was he hiding a gun underneath his shirt?
    “Do you have any food?” he said, his eyes scanning the room.
    “No,” I said.
    “I don’t feel very well,” said the boy, and then he slumped to the floor. I jumped up, holding the crowbar high. The boy’s shirt fell against his stomach, where it was quickly soaked with blood. “Don’t hit me,” said the boy.
    My mind reeled. “I could kill you right now with this weapon,” I said, “or you could take me to Austin, Texas.”
    “Austin, Texas?” he said, barely able to manage the words.
    “Me and my brother. He is sniffing Resistol. I need …” My voice broke.
    He met my eyes, nodded slowly. “I can take you,” he said.
    Something let go inside me, a bound coil springing loose. This was it—God’s plan for