Sanctuary Somewhere Read online

  Please visit our website, www.west44books.com. For a free color catalog of all our high-quality books, call toll free 1-800-542-2595 or fax 1-877-542-2596. Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Dimmig, Brenna. Title: Sanctuary somewhere / Brenna Dimmig. Description: New York : West 44, 2019. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382837 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382844 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383421 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English. | English poetry. Classification: LCC PS586.3 S263 2019 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23 First Edition Published in 2019 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011 Copyright © 2019 Enslow Publishing LLC Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Seth Hughes All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer. Printed in the United States of America CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

  Osmel IN THE ORCHARD In the orchard picking his last bag of apples for the day, tío Jorge lifts his cap and wipes his face. Lines form around his eyes as he squints. Tío has been working in the orchard for more seasons than anyone can remember. The wrinkles he carries are like little rays of the sun. He tells me how the years move by too quickly. They say working with my uncle in the orchard offers life lessons. Here: Mom hopes I learn what it means to work hard. Here: tío Jorge teaches me that there is pride in a job well done. Here: I prove to myself that I am able to keep my body strong— and my mind stronger.

  One more year, I think to myself as I place another apple in the bag that is tied tight around my shoulders. One more year until I can go to college. One year can’t go by fast enough—

  The last box of apples is weighed. Six men cram into a Toyota pickup truck painted the same deep red as an Empire apple. We twist and sway down the long green rows of cherry, apple, and pear trees.

  The late afternoon air rushes through the truck bed. I stretch out my long legs after a long day and close my eyes. In the breeze, I pretend to fly as the air scoops up the hairs on my sweaty arms.

  There is no breeze in the rows of trees. All day my arms stay covered. Head covered. Mouth covered. The breeze cannot find us in the rows so covered.

  THE MANY SKIES OF WASH INGTON I rest my head on the side of the truck bed. The bandana I wore around my face in the orchard is now the cushion between my head and the metal truck body. I feel the road change with my body. The bumpy gravel of the foothill roads smooths out as the truck turns onto the paved road.

  The road that will lead us into Moses Lake. The tops of two- and three-story buildings peek over the hazy blue atmosphere. Down in our valley town, the sky is a streaky, dirty window. In the late summer, brown soot covers everyone’s eyeballs. The wildfire smoke from Quincy, Wenatchee, and Chelan rolls east. And the brown, smoky soot gets trapped in the hills.

  The skies of Eastern Washington are suffering. I have many questions as to how the sky holds weather. I have many questions about the many skies of Washington.

  I hope in a year I can be studying the science of weather at a college far away from Moses Lake. At the University at Washington west of the Cascade Mountains. The side of Washington that the wildfires never touch. The green rainforest side of the state. Away from the high desert flames of Moses Lake.

  FIESTA My sister Leslie is years old today. In the bathroom before her party, I push back my heavy black curls and wipe steam from my thick glasses. I search for my face in the blurry glass. I scratch my chin and slap my cheeks to help the hairs grow in. I look at myself again. The brown eyes that find me seem to change every time I look into them.

  Mom is on her tiptoes cutting onions when I come downstairs. I bend down to give her a kiss on the cheek. She likes to remind me how this time last year, I was just as tall as her.

  “¡Mijo!” she says, breathing heavily as she works four pans on the stove. “Help me get the patio ready for the party!” It takes me a second to figure out what she is saying when she speaks so fast in Spanish. She gives up and rolls her eyes before I can guess. She doesn’t like that I’m not as fast with Spanish as I used to be.

  Mom whips the kitchen towel from her shoulder to point to the white plastic bag bursting with pink and purple decorations. She says, “Your job.” “My job?” “¡Bueno!”

  I go outside and plop a purple tablecloth on the picnic table. In the yard between our two houses, tío Jorge’s two sons run around squealing and laughing like babies do. The dogs, Guapa and Benny, bark and chase them like little dogs do.

  Tío Jorge grills carne asada for the party. I know he will ask me to help him. Como hombres. It’s what men do. But I don’t care too much about learning to grill.

  His sister, tía Alejandra—Alex— stands next to him. She pokes at the meat and laughs at the babies. She eyes me from across the patio. I can see in her face from far away that she is shocked at how different I look. This shocked look is one I am used to now.

  A tiny smile spreads across tía Alex’s face. She waves. I make my way over to her even though I know that tío will make me watch over the meat. “¡Osmel! ¡Mijo!” she says as we bump shoulders and hug. “¡Ay, que guapo!”

  Tío Jorge gives me a hard slap on the back and pushes me to the front of the grill. I cross my arms and wish I had stayed over on my side of the yard. Tía Alex goes on telling us about the march she was part of at her law school in Seattle. “It was beautiful! There were hundreds of Dreamers all together and all unafraid, hermano. It brought me to tears!” Tío Jorge sighs as he picks up his son, little Angel.

  “Ayyyy, hermana, be careful— don’t cause any problems for yourself or the family.” As tío says this, I can sense he is holding back his true anger.

  Tía Alex walks away from him and grabs a Coke from the ice cooler. “Ha! I’m done keeping secrets! At school we’ve now all come out as undocumented.” Without fear, she looks her brother right in the eye and takes a long sip of soda.

  Too busy taking in their words, I am not checking the flames on the grill. They have grown as the heat between my aunt and uncle grows. My arm hair tingles and the air smells of burnt me. This is why I don’t ask to grill.

  STING Tía rushes me to the round table and dumps a bucket of ice over my arm. Shocking cold mixes with the raw, hot patch of skin. Long drips of water run down the sides of the purple plastic tablecloth. The dogs yip and happily lick up the water and lay in the fresh cool puddles.

  “You’ll be okay,” tía Alex says over and over. She is not a mother, but she could be. “Want to talk a minute, Osmel?” she asks as she pats my arm with a paper towel. The seriousness I sense in her voice is alarming. But I nod my head and she shifts her weight. “Do you know what I meant about being undocumented?”

  “Yeah. It’s when you aren’t an American citizen,” I say. Adding, “But I didn’t know you were undocumented.”

  “Why am I not surprised that they wouldn’t tell you?” Tía Alex wipes her face and throws away her smile. For the second time in one minute, she has me worried. “Oh, Osmel…” she says in a low voice. Her hand smooths over the wet thumb-sized burn on my arm. “You are undocumented, too.” PUNCH Her words hurt like a punch in the chest. I look above her to the chain-link fence and the afternoon sky. A long layer of flat cloud rolls in front the sun. If I look at tía’s face, I have to accept what she is saying as the truth.

  Tía straightens up in the leaning plastic chair. “Osmel...” She says my name low. She looks at my eyes, saying nothing more. Our families. Our homes. Our lives. I know that my family came to the United States by crossing the border through Texas. B
ut I thought our whole family had become citizens years ago.

  We sit at the round purple table. Tía Alex presses leaking ice onto my burn. She gives my fortune as she retells my life like a dream. She speaks of my first five years in Mexico. She looks me in the eyes and nods her head that it is all true. We came here by crossing with Coyotes, smugglers.

  I am not a true citizen of the United States. Deep down I remember Mexico, but I choose not to think about that place. I don’t understand why no one ever told me the truth. Why today? This random day— as people arrive for the party. I can hear them gathering. “What about Leslie?” I ask. Tía looks up to the heavy sky like she might have felt a drop of rain. “Leslie was born in Washington. She is a citizen, Osmel. Your sister is an American.”

  Leslie PIÑATA ¡Dale, dale, dale! Hit it, hit it, hit it! No pierdas tu objetivo, Don’t lose your aim, porque si lo pierdes, because if you lose it, pierdes el camino. you will lose the way. ¿Dónde? ¿Dónde? I think. Where? Where?

  I take off the blindfold. Sight turns from darkness to a swirl of yellow candies scattering like popcorn across the patio. Cousins and candy everywhere! Finally! I dive in scraping my knees on the concrete. Marta steps on my hands. “¡Ay! Watch yourself!” Maria and Valentina scoop up dulces in their arms and fall to the ground laughing. Luis and Angel claw like hawks for candy. I scurry for the rebanaditas, my favorite. Tío Jorge and tía Alex dump the piñata and throw more candy. ¡AYYYYYY! A wave of children squeal as sweets shower from above. I open my mouth to catch a piece. But it bounces off my tooth and makes its way from the air into the hand of little Angel.

  Osmel BETWEEN LANDS How ironic that Leslie is a citizen, and I am not. My favorite holiday has always been the Fourth of July. The time of year when the cherries are sweet and we spend our days floating down the river. On the Fourth, we eat red, white, and blue Popsicles. We lay with the dogs on the concrete to keep our skin cool. Red, white, and blue sugar water drips down our hands for the dogs to catch.

  When I was younger, I would save the Popsicle sticks with jokes written on the ends. I would tell them to my family. But they never laughed at these jokes in English. They still don’t laugh at my jokes. These days, I don’t laugh at their jokes in Spanish, either.

  HER LAND Leslie speaks Spanish with Mom. She calls her mamá and calls her dog Guapa. She sings to Los Tigres del Norte with tía Carmen and tío Jorge as if she grew up in Michoacán. Instead of me.

  Leslie goes to Spanish culture club after school and dances twice a week with the Baile Foklórico dancers. Leslie asks to learn the recipes and the prayers. She cries for our dad and speaks about him like she knew him. She has always been this way, which suddenly makes it hard for me to be around her.

  DISTANCE Mom asked me to pick up Leslie from Spanish culture club every Tuesday. I wait for her in the front hallway of the school and watch storm chaser videos on my phone. When Leslie comes down the rows of lockers, she and her friends dance and laugh so loud that their voices bounce off the white- tiled walls.

  The only girl in the group I’ve seen before is Valentina Hernandez, Rodrigo’s cousin. They all look like babies to me. With her round Muñoz face and pink ribbons wrapped above her ponytail, Leslie looks the youngest of them all. So innocent. So free.

  It is a mile-and-a-half walk home under the hot, streaky, smoke-filled sky. I don’t want to ask Leslie about her day. And yet I find the question leaking out of my mouth. “I think I really like my teachers this year,” she says, looking up at me. “And most of my best friends are in my homeroom. Mr. Lawrence doesn’t even care if we talk too loud.” Beyond this simple question, I don’t have anything to say to her right now.

  Two little dogs follow us down Canal Street. Dogs without collars or tags can move along quietly. Sometimes Leslie calls to these dogs— dogs that don’t belong to anyone. Sometimes she wants to take them home. Sometimes she names them: Chula, Guapa, Princesa. Sometimes I go along with her and think about bringing them home.

  Dogs like this come and go in Moses Lake. They dip between houses and find other scrappy friends to follow for awhile. We make our way down Methow, Peachy, and Ferry streets. We cut through the dirt paths, past old pickup trucks and dust-covered concrete yards.

  It is :4. 30 and the sun is still smack in the middle of the sky. I want to walk faster. But my feet are too sweaty to pick up and put down without my sock sliding out from my shoes. In the desert valley, apple country. It’s crazy to think these are two in the same place. Like me and Leslie.

  HURRICANE HEAD Yesterday Mariana told Rodrigo she didn’t want to date him anymore. During lunch today, he says that nothing looks the same to him now. He says that his heart is like a trapdoor— he never knows when the door might open and he will fall through it. A stomach-dropping sadness. I want to tell him that I feel worse than he does.

  I look around the lunch table. How do I ask my friends where they were born? Rodrigo and Juan and Jose and Eric and Jessica and Maribel? Can they tell that I don’t have papers? Can they tell that I am undocumented?

  Julia waits for me at the bottom of the stairs after lunch. We’ve always been friends, but this year we have a few of the same classes. She’s easy to talk to. Getting to see her in class is the only reason I’ve been coming to school lately. When I see her, she asks what’s up. I say, “Nothing,” and make a joke. This is something I’m too good at doing.

  TÍA ALEX TEXTS 8:49 : p.m. Hey Osmel! I’m coming home tomorrow for Dias. You wanna grab lunche? 8:50 : p.m. Yeah! When?

  Tía Alex pulls up to school in her silver truck. She turns down the Juan Gabriel song “Abrazame Muy Fuerte” and smiles real big. “¡Hola sobrino!” she says, happily. I put my backpack in the back seat and climb in.

  “Boy, you need to eat! You look so thin since last month. What did you do? Get a girlfriend, chico?” she asks, smacking her gum. “Naaah, tía.” I wish. Through the blue mirror of her sunglasses, I can sense her eyes meeting mine. She whips her head forward and cranks the truck into second gear.

  “Yeah, I saw your text wanting to know more about DACA, the college program,” she says. I sigh, “Yeah, that was two weeks ago.” Two weeks of worry. She looks back over to me. “Mi culpa, Osmel, I’m sorry.” “It’s all good,” I lie to her, as I make room for my knees under the crammed dashboard— suddenly wishing I was anywhere else but here.

  HOT NOODLES With hot noodles in front of us and two bottles of Coke, we are ready to really talk. Tía begins by scratching her face, as if struggling in a debate with another law student at school. She looks too old to be . She has worried too much in her life. “Remember how I said no one knows what’s going on in our family when it comes to our status in the U.S.?” she asks, with her hand resting on her chin. “Yeah,” I say, as I eat my noodles. “I want to change that. I want to help everyone know their rights. Get you set up for an education. I know my hermana thinks college just comes with good grades. But she didn’t see what a struggle it was for me to get where I am.” Tía tells me more about DACA: Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. Tía was able to get into law school because of DACA. She says that because we came to the U.S. when we were very young, this legal paper allows us to study in college and remain safe. “So the government can’t send me back to Mexico, then?” Tía smiles and nods while eating the last of her noodles. “You’ve got it!” Tía gives me the name of a social worker who can help me apply for DACA. Guadalupe Soledad. GUADALUPE has an office that was once a closet. Over her desk there are two flags: a Mexican flag and a small red one with a big black bird on it. “You know of Cesar Chavez?” asks the woman with big wild curls and a belly round with a baby. I smile. “Yeah—sort of.

  That’s his flag right? For the Farm Workers’ Union?” She nods and gives me a wink. “Do you have family who work in the orchards or packing sheds?” The very pregnant Guadalupe, who said to call her Lupe, sits down on a folding chair. She points to another in the corner for me
. “I work at Garrett Orchards sometimes with my uncle. My mom and aunts work in the packing sheds,” I say. Lupe nods and winks again, writing something about my life on a pink Post-It note. “And did you know I had an office in the school?” she asks. “No,” I say. Lupe pretends to slam her head on her desk. “How did I miss you?” she yells, with her curly hair waving madly. We laugh uncomfortably. She throws up her hands and looks to me. “How can I help you?” I ask her about DACA. Lupe’s eyes lower. She puts her pen down. “You are undocumented, yes?” I nod my head. Lupe takes a breath. “Osmel, DACA would have been an option for you... but the program is no longer accepting new—” I crack my neck side to side and sigh. I can tell from her sad face that my sigh was loud enough for her to hear. “It would have allowed you to live in the U.S. and go to college. But even so, DACA was not a way to becoming a U.S. citizen.” Lupe reaches over and pats my shoulder. Her eyes are like my mother’s. “Mijo, you can still go to college in Washington. Most schools here don’t ask how you got here— I can help you find a school if that’s what you want,” she says.

  “I would like that,” I say. I wanted to go to University at Washington in Seattle anyway. She smiles. “What would you like to study, Osmel?” she asks. “The weather,” I say.