Until I Find Julian Read Free Page A

strange about that high voice.
    I peer up over my shoulder.
    A girl stares at me, her hand to her mouth!
    Her face is filthy. Her jeans are in tatters, the hems in strings. Her ragged shirt is stained, and one sleeve is gone.
    Her hair hasn’t been combed in weeks; maybe it’s never been combed. It hangs in thick ringlets down her back—probably dark, but dirt covers it, so it looks almost gray, even though she must be about twelve years old, my age.
    I stand, wiping my face, then my shirt, trying not to groan as I feel the pain in my side. I look up at her; she’s tall and gawky like a stork. Her sharp elbows stick out as she rests her skinny hands on her hips.
    She grins. “It’s a wonder you’ve lasted out here as long as you have, bumping into things, yelling at a little fall. Probably crying like a baby.”
    “Wrong,” I say, in a voice that matches hers.
    “You’re looking for the river,” she says. “A hard place to cross, impossible if you can’t swim.”
    “I can swim.” My voice is hoarse; I’m so thirsty and my tongue is so thick I can hardly get the words out.
    I have a quick thought of that soupy creek in back of our house: shallow, cool, not wide enough to take more than a few strokes. A place to dip my face. A place to stand with Julian to hook a fish for dinner.
    She tells me about a horrible death by drowning in that river: choking, both feet tangled in reeds, eyes sealed shut in mud.
    This girl is trying to scare me. She’s doing a good job! I can’t let her know that, though.
    I take a step away from her, and then I’m almost running toward the bags the immigrants left: the water, an orange half-hidden in the sand.
    I sink down, the girl almost forgotten, and twist off the top of a bottle. With my head back, I drink until I can’t hold any more.
    She’s next to me now. She picks up a canvas bag, empties it in the sand, and picks through everything, dropping pieces of fruit and bread back into the bag, a bottle of water, then takes time to roll a small blanket tightly so it fits on top.
    She wraps a sweater around her neck and glances at me as she tears the rind off the orange with her teeth. She sucks on the fruit, her nose turned up. “If I’m going to save your life, I should probably know your name.”
    “Mateo.” I stare at her. “Why would you help me? You don’t even know me.”
    She runs her tongue over her lips, which are caked with sand, hesitating, staring again. “No time for that now.” She shoves her hair off her face. “Call yourself Matty. At least try to sound as if you come from the north.” She spreads her arms. “I’m Angel. A guardian angel, like Gabriel or Raphael in the Bible. I’m just missing the wings.”
    She pokes out her hand.
    Angel the stork,
I think. We shake hands. Crazy thing to do in the desert.
    She doesn’t wait for me. She slings the bag over her shoulder and begins to walk. “I know this place better than anyone,” she calls back. “I know the washes; I’ve seen where the rattlers and scorpions nest; I know where the tall yuccas are and the plants with thorns that tear your skin.”
    She stops. “I left my grandfather’s house. I’ve crossed over many times. It gives me something to do.”
    She’s quiet then, moving fast now, feet slapping, the bag swinging.
    I can’t lose her; I scoop up a bag. I don’t even know what’s in it. I follow a few steps behind, holding my side with one hand.
    It’s long after dark when she stops again. “Smell that?”
    My nose is clogged with sand. How can I smell anything? Now that she’s just standing there, I crouch down to rest and pull off my sneakers slowly. My feet are blistered, bleeding; one toenail is hanging.
    “A mistake,” she says. “You probably won’t be able to get them on again.”
    “I know what I’m doing.” I hear the anger in my voice even though I know she’s right.
    She ignores my feet and my temper. “I can smell the river ahead of us. After you cross that,