Guarding Secrets (Locked Out)
Text copyright © 2015 by Patrick Jones
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
Darby Creek
A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
241 First Avenue North
Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.
The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Pashok/Dreamstime.com (young woman); © iStockphoto.com/DaydreamsGirl (stone); © Maxriesgo/Dreamstime.com (prison wall) © Clearviewstock/Dreamstime.com, (prison cell).
Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5.
Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Patrick, 1961–
Guarding secrets / by Patrick Jones.
pages cm. — (Locked out)
Summary: Since her mother went to prison to await execution, eleventh-grader Camila Hernandez has been shuffled from one aunt to another, avoiding friendships and keeping to herself in hopes no one will learn her secret, and worrying that she will turn out to be a criminal, too.
ISBN 978-1-4677-5801-7 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-4677-6185-7 (EB pdf)
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Secrets—Fiction. 3. Conduct of life—Fiction. 4. Aunts—Fiction. 5. Prisoners’ families—Fiction. 6. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 7. Hispanic Americans—Fiction. 8. Anaheim (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J7242Gu 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014018697
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 12/31/14
eISBN: 978-1-4677-6185-7 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-7694-3 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-7693-6 (mobi)
To Gretchen Wronka, who guarded my back for so many years.
1
SEPTEMBER 18 / FRIDAY AFTERNOON / GARDENWALK MALL / ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA
“Do you want to know a secret?”
Someone was whispering behind Camila. She took her eyes off the row of long black dresses in front of her to dart a glance at the two girls behind her. She recognized both of them. She prayed they didn’t recognize her.
They were from her current school, juniors like her. Lisa Guevara or Herrera, and Angela, or Angelina, or something like that. Camila got the sense that they were both divas. Too much makeup, perfume, and attitude. They probably didn’t know Camila’s name, let alone her secret.
“I heard Ricky likes ….” And with that, Camila tuned out the girls’ voices. Rattling on about stupid crushes, acting like each break-up and hook-up was a matter of life or death. If they only knew.
In the corner of the store, a young black security guard stared at Camila like she was a cockroach on a white rug. The watchful store clerks were giving her the same look.
She started shuffling through the marked-down dresses faster, until she found one in her size. She checked the tag: still pricey, even on discount. This was why she shopped so rarely, and almost never at the mall. Like all the relatives she’d lived with over the past decade, Camila’s aunt Maria worked hard but never had extra money to buy nice clothes.
Behind her, she heard one of the girls—Lisa—ask, “Hey, don’t you go to Anaheim High?”
Camila didn’t turn around, not even when the girl tapped her on the back, sending a shock through her system. “You deaf or something?” Lisa demanded.
Camila pulled in a deep breath, tugged down on the long sleeves of her oversized black hoodie, and pivoted. Eyes down, she stared at the girls’ identical black four-inch heels.
“I know you,” Lisa said. “We’re in advisory together. Camila Hernandez, right?”
A nod served as Camila’s only answer.
“What’s the dress for?” asked the other girl. Camila didn’t respond. Instead she looked past the girls at the security guard.
Lisa snapped her gum. “That’s way too boring for homecoming.”
Camila fought an urge to laugh. Her, go to the school homecoming dance—right. This dress was for—well, it was for a homecoming of sorts, her mom’s after so many years away.
Without a word to the girls, Camila headed for a dressing room. Inside the stall, she ripped the price tag and sensor strip from the dress, then stuffed it under her hoodie.
A few minutes later she walked casually toward the store’s exit, past the two girls—who were still watching her—past the other customers, past the security guard. No alarm went off. No shouts followed her. If Lisa and what’s-her-face had guessed her game, they hadn’t bothered to tell the guard. At least not fast enough. In another moment Camila had blended into the crowd of passing shoppers.
As she made her way toward the mall exit near the bus stop, she couldn’t stop thinking about all the answers she could’ve given those girls. Did they want to know a secret? Well, Camila had one she’d kept most of her life, walking around with it like a sharp stone in her black high-tops.
She boarded the bus with the question still on her mind. What’s the dress for? Her answer was simple and sad. It was for her mother’s funeral.
2
SEPTEMBER 18 / FRIDAY EVENING / LINCOLN APARTMENTS / ANAHEIM
“Where have you been?” Aunt Maria asked as soon as Camila walked in the door.
“Out,” Camila muttered as she made her way toward her bedroom. The apartment was tiny. As she moved from relative to relative, it seemed her world got smaller.
Her aunt followed her. “Out where?”
“Just at the mall.” She could’ve lied to her aunt, since not telling the truth ran in her family. Aunt Maria and other relatives had lied to her for years. Your mother went to Mexico to care for her father was the story she was told. A noble tale of family sacrifice.
“You’re supposed to come home right after school—” Aunt Maria started as Camila reached her room.
Camila slammed the door to shut out the lecture. She’d had enough of those back when she lived with Aunt Rosa. The past year that she’d been with Aunt Maria had been fairly quiet, fairly drama-free, by comparison. But Maria still got high and mighty on her sometimes, and Camila wasn’t in the mood.
She stashed the stolen dress in her closet, flopped onto her bed, and turned on the radio. Unlike most kids, Camila’s didn’t have a phone. Partly because of money, but partly by choice. She liked to keep her life private. To live in her dreams and shut out the rest of the world.
Deep into the booming music, Camila was jarred by a loud banging on her door.
“You have a visitor!” Aunt Maria yelled.
Camila turned down the music. “Who?” she called. The split second it took her aunt to answer felt like forever. There were only two names she wanted to hear, and one—her mother’s—was impossible.
“That boy.”
“Be right out!” Camila vaulted from her bed to the dresser. As she checked herself in the mirror, she glanced at the photo of her mother that sat next to it. Not a recent one—it was from her mom’s high school years. Before years of drugs and violence had hardened her mom’s features. Before the gang tattoos of Los Reyes de Aztlán had filled her mom’s arms.
After brushing her long, thick hair and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss, Camila started for the door. Then she doubled back, this time heading to her closet. She quickly swapped her black hoodie for a bright green
blouse. She usually wore black, but green seemed right for Juan. After another glance in the mirror, she left her room.
“He’s out front,” said Aunt Maria.
“You didn’t let him come up?” Camila shot her a dark look. If she starts in about men being trouble, like Aunt Rosa used to do …
“I offered. He said he was fine waiting outside.”
Which was where Camila found him a minute later, out on the cracked sidewalk in front of the apartment building. In the street, she saw his black pickup.
“Hey, Camila,” Juan said softly. Camila could barely hear him over the soundtrack of the neighborhood—planes overhead, bass booming from cars on the streets, and sirens in the background. He kissed her cheek. “You look nice.”
“Thanks, you too.” Juan always dressed up like he was going to church. Clean shaven with short hair, he looked like the marine he hoped to one day become. They’d known each other nine months, and had been dating for almost six, but Camila still felt a little catch in her throat whenever she saw him.
“So I was heading home from an Honor Society meeting and thought I’d swing by,” he said. “Wanna go somewhere?”
By “somewhere” he probably meant anywhere outside this neighborhood. Juan’s family lived in a safe part of town, no kids selling drugs out in the open, no fights breaking out on a daily basis. She knew Juan’s dad didn’t like him spending time over here. She guessed he thought like many people did: If you come from the hood, you are one.
“Sure,” she said. “Somewhere with air conditioning?”
“I know the perfect coffee place,” said Juan. He didn’t suggest going to his own home. By now he’d probably sensed that Camila wasn’t comfortable there. Someone else was always around—Juan’s dad, mom, sisters—looking at her like she was a puzzle that didn’t deserve to be solved.
She felt that way enough without the Cruz family rubbing it in.
So many times when she glanced in a mirror, she was reminded of how much she looked like her mom at that age. Some days she stared at her mom’s high school photo, amazed at the resemblance, loving it. Other days, she couldn’t stand to look at it. If she shared an outside, maybe she shared the inside.
She couldn’t bear the thought of Juan—or Juan’s family, or anyone—looking at her closely enough to find out.
3
SEPTEMBER 23 / WEDNESDAY EVENING / ST. ANTHONY CATHOLIC CHURCH ACTIVITY CENTER
“Who would like to lead us in prayer?” Father Gomez, doddering but kind, looked expectantly at the members of his youth group. As usual, when no one volunteered, Juan took the lead.
Camila tried to concentrate, but it was hard. Not just because she was standing next to Juan, close enough that their shoulders brushed. She didn’t really like the youth group. Aunt Maria had insisted she join. It’ll be good for you—give you something constructive to do. “Constructive,” in Aunt Maria’s vocabulary, basically meant anything that wasn’t illegal. Aunt Rosa had told enough stories from Camila’s wild days to put Maria on constant yellow alert. She was always asking Camila what she was up to, who she was hanging out with, who her friends were.
Friends—as if she had any, besides Juan. Outside of school, where she disappeared easily, the youth group was her only point of contact with people her age. She knew she wasn’t smart enough to hang out with the good students, not dangerous enough for the bad ones, not social enough for the popular ones, and not an artist or an athlete. She guessed that few students knew her name. Which was just the way she wanted it.
Really, the only good thing about the youth group was that she’d met Juan here. At first she’d resisted his efforts to get to know her, his offers to hang out. But Juan was persistent and polite. And as she learned more about him, the more she liked him. He was sweet and smart. Responsible. Safe.
After the prayer, Father Gomez said, “The theme for tonight is forgiveness. We talk a lot about the importance of forgiving our enemies, but I want to focus on something that’s often harder: forgiving those we’re close to. The people we love—friends, family—can let us down, can even betray us. Those are the wounds that cut deepest and take longest to heal. Would anyone like to share an example … ”
That was all Camila heard before she bolted from her seat.
The next thing she knew she was standing outside the building. She wished for a cigarette or a joint like those she’d smoked when she lived with Aunt Rosa in Riverside.
“You OK?” It was Juan. He put his arms around her, pulling her close to his six-foot frame.
“Sorry, just sometimes … ” Camila stopped. The less said the better.
Juan said, “You can talk to me about it, you know. Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”
“No, it’s fine. Really. I’m fine. Forget about it.”
“OK. If you say so.” Juan pulled her tighter as a cooling fall twilight descended. One thing she’d quickly come to love about Juan: he never pushed her. He let her have her secrets.
“Shame you can’t come on Saturday,” Juan said. Camila felt herself shriveling a bit. It was his sister Marcela’s quinceañera celebration. Camila was a little jealous—she hadn’t had one of her own, when she’d been living with Aunt Rosa. But that wasn’t why she’d refused the invitation. She couldn’t tell him the real reason. Not now, not ever.
Family obligations, she’d said when he invited her. Not really a lie.
“But I understand,” Juan said. “My dad always says the family tree is stronger than any California redwood.”
Camila pulled Juan close to her. No, you can’t and never will understand anything about my family. My family tree doesn’t have roots. It has metal bars and steel doors.
4
SEPTEMBER 27 / SUNDAY / EARLY MORNING / ANAHEIM BUS STATION
Five a.m., still full dark. Camila had never been a morning person. But she was completely alert as she and Aunt Maria boarded the prison shuttle bus. She always was on days like these. Through the four-hour trip to Chowchilla, the visit itself, and then the trek back: no sleep, no peace.
As always the bus overflowed with children, most of them younger than Camila. For ten years, she had watched the children get younger as she got older. She donned an LA Angels baseball cap to hide her face, just in case someone from school or church saw her. It didn’t matter that if they were on the bus, they were in same situation. There wouldn’t be any comfort in that. She wanted this part of her life separate and secret. After today, that would be easy to do. After today, she’d never set foot on this bus again.
“What are you thinking about?” Aunt Maria asked as they sat down.
“I just wonder if I’ll miss being on this bus,” Camila answered, touching the torn upholstery.
“I won’t miss it,” said Aunt Maria. “I hate it.”
Camila didn’t respond. Could you only miss things you loved?
By now, Camila knew every sign along the highway by heart. As a game, she’d guess how long it’d take them to reach certain landmarks. This driver, an older black man, drove faster than some others, but it always seemed to take four hours.
No more than half an hour out of Anaheim, Aunt Maria fell asleep. Camila didn’t mind. She was used to making these journeys alone.
Every now and then, there would be a boy her age who tried to hit on her, or a girl who tried to make friends, but Camila wasn’t interested. Sometimes she’d play games with some of the younger children. But this time, she kept to herself with the project she’d planned for the journey: rereading a packet full of her mom’s letters and handmade cards.
She had a ten year supply to choose from, so she’d taken the ones from Mother’s Day and her birthday. They were almost always the longest, yet hard to read because they were stained with tears from the writer and the reader. The words were mostly the same. Love you, miss you, be good, see you soon, you’re my special girl. Mostly lies. Never any explanations. Those had come from relatives, piece by piece—each piece uglier than the last.
Aunt Maria woke up at about the halfway point. She and Camila talked about nothing much. Aunt Maria’s world was as small as Camila’s. She worked, went to church, and then worked some more. It seemed like the life lived by most of the women on their block.
The energy on the bus revved up as the bus exited the highway toward the access road. The children gathered up their things. The parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and guardians took a collective deep breath.
“There’s my mom’s sign!” the little girl yelled at Camila as the bus passed the wire fence and the sign for the women’s facility.
Camila almost wished she could share the girl’s excitement. How many times will she take this bus? Camila wondered. How many years? I’ll bet the day she makes her last visit, she’ll be just as happy as she is now, because on that day her mom will be coming home.
That was why Camila rarely talked to the other kids on the bus. Most of them could imagine a time when their parents would be free again. Unless their parents were serving life without parole. But even those families, Camila thought, had more reason for hope than she did.
Her mom, Gina Hernandez, wasn’t sentenced to life, but to death.
5
SEPTEMBER 27 / SUNDAY / AFTERNOON / CHOWCHILLA, CALIFORNIA
“When it is our turn?” a young boy behind Camila whined to a young man who looked not much older than Camila. They were new, so they didn’t know that the four-hour bus trip to the prison was a joy compared with the endless visitor intake process.
“I can’t wait to hug Mommy!” the boy shouted, and Camila felt another tug at her gut. She used to be able to hug her mother—contact visits, they’re called—but that was years ago, before her mom shoved a shiv into a guard who “disrespected me,” as her mom said. The guard recovered, but Camila’s mom had lost what few privileges she’d had.