Bridge Read online

  Text copyright © 2014 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 updated reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Cover and interior photographs © Dale May/CORBIS (boy);

  © iStockphoto.com/joeygil (locker background).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jones, Patrick, 1961–

  Bridge / by Patrick Jones.

  pages cm. —(The alternative)

  Summary: Eighteen-year-old José serves as the bridge between his non-English-speaking family and the rest of the world, and because his parents are illegal immigrants and extended family lives with them, money is tight, so José works nights and arrives at school so tired that teachers at his alternative high school step in to help.

  ISBN 978–1–4677–3903–0 (lib. bdg.: alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–4636–6 (eBook)

  [1. Work—Fiction. 2. Spanish language—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Illegal aliens—Fiction. 6. Hispanic Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J7242Bri 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013041390

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 7/15/14

  eISBN: 978-1-46774-636-6 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-46777-377-5 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-46777-378-2 (mobi)

  1

  EARLY MORNING / MONDAY, JANUARY 6

  ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA

  It was six in the morning when José discovered his pinche Chevy Impala wouldn’t start.

  José turned the key, but there was no roar. Just the sputter of the ten-year-old car’s failing engine on a frozen Minnesota morning. In the familiar driver’s seat, José cursed in Spanish and thought about everything he needed his car for that day. School, working second shift stocking groceries at Rainbow Foods, and handling whatever crisis of the day came up at home. He was jammed in a two-bedroom apartment with his always-exhausted mom, his disabled dad, his frantic aunt and her two young children, seven statues of the Virgin Mary, and one hundred plastic flowers, so it was always something.

  If the Chevy wouldn’t start, it meant a long bus ride to school for José. It also meant bus rides for his mom, to the first of her two jobs, and his dad, to physical therapy. José checked his phone. He thought about calling his best friend Tony for a ride and decided no, only in an emergency. Except my life has seemed like one long emergency for the past ten years, José thought.

  José set his phone on the torn and frayed passenger seat, grabbed the ice scraper, and headed into the cold with his thin coat and a red wool cap to keep him warm. As he scraped the windshield, he wondered why his parents had left the warmth of Mexico for the cold of Minnesota. At school he’d always wanted to ask the Somali, Hmong, and other Latino students the same question: What were our parents thinking, moving to this icebox?

  The scraping sound on the stubborn frost seemed louder than normal in the quiet of the early morning. José scraped the other windows with alternating hands, switching as each arm got tired. He knew too well from his dad how much losing the ability to use one hand mattered.

  Even in the cold, José worked up a sweat removing the ice from the windows. Back inside the car, he tried the engine one last time, hoping somehow that clearing the ice would make a difference, but nothing. Maybe his mom could pray the car would start, he thought, as she prayed for everything.

  José picked up his phone and found the numbers he’d need to call between classes: the Metro Mobility van, to pick up his dad; the landlord, about the rent being late again; and the pharmacy, to tell them they had messed up the medicine for his aunt’s oldest kid. José would need to communicate for her, as he had to for most appointments and other errands, because he was the only fluent English speaker in his house. His unlimited phone minutes were filled with unlimited tasks, translating and beyond, for his family.

  As he thought about going back to school one last time, José wondered if he could stand the stress. At what point, he asked himself, would he buckle under the pressure?

  2

  MORNING / MONDAY, JANUARY 6

  RONDO ALTERNATIVE HIGH SCHOOL

  PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE

  “Do we understand each other, José?” Mrs. Baker asked. She sat at her desk, looking very much in charge of the school. José stood in front of her, head bowed, his red cap in his hand. “This is your fourth try here at Rondo, but I’m afraid it’s your last chance.”

  José nodded. He came to the school in ninth grade, already behind in credits. That was five years ago. Most of the people he’d started with had come, graduated, and gone. Twice, he’d dropped out when his Aunt Cecilia had her babies and needed the help around the house. This past fall José had left Rondo after six weeks to work a full-time third-shift job at UPS in addition to his part-time job at Rainbow. He’d grown stronger muscles, but also stronger determination to graduate and go to college.

  “I know you’re over eighteen,” Mrs. Baker continued, “but I hope you’ve had your parents read the contract.” José said nothing. They hadn’t read it because it was in English. Besides, “contract” sounded like a legal document, something his undocumented parents would want nothing to do with. “The contract commits you to finish the school year. You’ve given me your word.” José nodded and held out the paper.

  Mrs. Baker took the contract from José’s hand and signed her name at the bottom. Then she motioned for José to sit in the chair in front of her desk. She sounded impatient—not as caring and concerned as he remembered the teachers and staff at Rondo.

  “What about your Personal Education Plan?” she asked. José unfolded the sheet of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. He handed it to Mrs. Baker, who slowly smoothed it out as she scanned it.

  “These are fine goals,” Mrs. Baker said. “Earn all your credits, earn at least one A, and attend the after-school tutoring program whenever possible.”

  “I can do it this time,” José said, embarrassed by his past failures.

  “Good, but let’s modify your behavior goals.”

  José frowned.

  “You say ‘Come to school every day.’ That’s a high standard, compared to your past performance. What I’ve seen from you is that if you do miss a day, then you get down on yourself, which causes you to miss more school, and before you know it, you’ve dropped out again. Let’s change that.”

  “What would you suggest?” José asked.

  Mrs. Baker hesitated. “What would you suggest, José?”

  José turned silent. After thinking for a minute, he said, “How about, come to school at least four days a week and be on time those days?” Mrs. Baker wrote the new language on the paper.

  “And I like this goal of not falling asleep in class as much,” Mrs. Baker said. “But how do you plan to do that? I know you earn credits for holding a job, so what will be different?”

  Another silence. Then, “I’ll get more sleep.” Like that was possible. His small sofa bed didn’t lend itself to restful nights. But it was the only thing José could think of to say.

  Mrs. Baker looked skeptical. “Keep thinki
ng on that. But the last one is excellent.” José smiled at the compliment, even if the last goal would be the hardest: talk more in class. He felt he already did plenty of talking as the voice of four people at home.

  “Is Mrs. Howard-Hernandez going to be my coach?” José asked. Every student had a coach to help keep them on track.

  “No, I’ve got someone else in mind.”

  “Who?”

  “Me,” Mrs. Baker said. “I am personally committed to helping you graduate.”

  “Gracias,” José said. “So, what do you think of my future goals?”

  Mrs. Baker examined the paper. “Good, except you only listed one, not three. Why?”

  “Going to college is my top priority,” José said. “Nothing else matters but that.” His parents’ hard lives, with little education, had committed José to his dream of graduating from college. The clock was ticking—you couldn’t attend Rondo after age twenty-one—and José knew he needed to focus on school, earn his credits, get his diploma, and get into college somewhere. With the Dream Act in Minnesota, it wouldn’t matter that his parents had fake green cards after overstaying their visas many years ago. José would be able to get financial aid for college. He’d be one step closer to getting his degree and a better life.

  3

  LATE MORNING / MONDAY, JANUARY 6

  MRS. HOWARD-HERNANDEZ’S CLASSROOM

  “Hey, cuz,” Tony said when José walked into language arts. Tony had been José’s best friend for years and was more like a cousin to José than some of his extended family.

  Fist bumps and back slaps finished the greeting. “Hey, Mia,” José said.

  “Hey yourself, sleepyhead,” she replied as José couldn’t hide a yawn. Mia was Tony’s cousin and one of the prettiest girls at Rondo, but José kept his distance. A girl like Mia deserved a man’s full attention, which José couldn’t offer with all his other responsibilities.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Mrs. Howard-Hernandez said. “It’s nice to see all of you back from winter break. And a special welcome back to José Gomez.”

  A few people applauded, and José shot them an embarrassed wave.

  “We’ve got a lot of work with this new unit, so hang on to your hats!” The teacher’s corny line drew some laughter, maybe because Rondo actually let students wear hats in class. “Today, we’ll start the book The Things They Carried, by author Tim O’Brien. This is probably the best book written by an American about the Vietnam War.”

  People jumped in with questions about the book, the assignments, and how they’d be graded. Then Tony asked, “What’s the Vietnam War?” Groans followed.

  While Mrs. Howard-Hernandez explained the basics of the war, she had Jake and Monica pass out copies of the book. Once everyone had one, she asked the students to follow along as she read. José struggled to keep his eyes open and not fail one of his goals on the first day.

  “OK everyone, before we read any further, put your books down and open your notebooks. What are the things you carry with you? Open your purses, bags, and wallets, and write down the list.”

  As papers rustled, Jake shouted, “How do you spell condom?” Mia blushed, Tony frowned, and the teacher shook her head. Similar spelling questions about weed, types of guns, and vodka followed. José knew some were just showing off, but for other people, those were exactly the things they carried.

  In his bag, José had the normal trappings of any student, and one extra book: his old Spanish and English dictionary. If only I’d had one when Dad got hurt, José thought, everything would be different now. When the teacher asked people to share their lists, José didn’t raise his hand.

  Mrs. Howard-Hernandez broke the class into small groups and then read the next section, about a soldier who carried a hatchet as a symbol of his culture. “What objects do you carry because you’re part of something else, like your culture, your family, or your friends at school?” she asked.

  José had to push himself to talk, even with Tony, Mia, and Jake in his group. They knew about his family and his dad’s accident, or at least most of the story. After the teacher read another passage, she put the book down and addressed the class again. “Now, here’s a slightly different question: what are the emotional things you carry?”

  For José, the response to this question wasn’t one he’d share even with his best friends. It was a simple three-word answer: shame, guilt, and regret. Yet it weighed José down, carrying those three words and the secret he’d kept for ten years.

  4

  TEN YEARS EARLIER, LATE SPRING

  BENSON, MINNESOTA

  “José, you’re needed in the principal’s office!” José’s fourth-grade teacher announced, causing a ripple of laughter through the classroom. He’d been to the office before, and it was never good. As he picked up his books and headed out into the hall, José couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong. His last fight was a month ago, with a kid who insulted his heritage. And he was doing well at school, working hard—he thought he was a model student.

  When he walked through the door, he was surprised to see his mother standing there, tears in her eyes. “Mamá, ¿qué pasó?” José asked. The office lady seemed to be listening in, although she spoke only English; he’d seen her do it before whenever he spoke with the other Hispanic students in Spanish.

  “Tu papá tuvo un accidente.”

  An accident? José started to ask another question, but his mom grabbed him by the hand and almost pulled him out the door. He barely heard the women in office yelling at them (“You need to sign him out!”) because of his mom’s heavy sobs and frantic shouts of “Rápido, rápido.”

  José felt nervous with his mother driving their new Chevy, since normally his dad drove the family everywhere, including trips from their town of Benson to Minneapolis to see his uncle. That two-hour-plus drive seemed short compared to the eternity it took to drive the few miles from school to Dad’s worksite. José stayed quiet so he wouldn’t distract his mom.

  At the worksite, José saw the white van and trucks of the roofing company, but no people. His mom parked, and together they raced toward the house. As José got closer, he heard a familiar voice: his dad’s foreman speaking in broken Spanish, telling everyone to get back to work. When he rounded the corner, José saw all the men standing in a large group. As the foreman yelled more, the workers walked slowly back toward their ladders. Except for José’s father, who lay with the left side of his face resting against the concrete porch slab, breathing heavily.

  5

  AFTERNOON / SATURDAY, JANUARY 11

  ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA

  Using his cane, José’s father pointed at the small piece of metal under a snow-covered tree. During the week, his father would take a bus to various places around St. Paul and look for scrap metal. He’d write down in a small notebook where he found pieces. Another man might be able to remember, but his short-term memory wasn’t so good. José’s father could recall vivid details of his childhood in Taxco, an old mining town between Mexico City and Acapulco. He could remember José’s childhood in Benson, but not what he ate for dinner the day before.

  José located the metal, put on gloves, placed the metal in the bag, and returned to his dad’s side. Slowly, the two men moved through the snow. His dad’s right leg dragged behind. “How is school?” his dad asked in Spanish. José’s dad had made it only through fourth grade.

  “It’s hard because there’s so much work and so little time,” José explained. It was easy for José to talk with his dad. It was almost like keeping a diary that nobody else read. His father wouldn’t remember most of what José told him, so he could tell his dad almost anything.

  Every now and then, his father would nod as if he understood. José was telling him with some excitement about the book they were reading when his father stopped. He pulled the notebook out of his front pocket, balanced it against his chest, and opened the pages. When he tried to turn the page, the black notebook dropped into the white snow. His fath
er cursed, his only bad habit. Every now and then, he’d do it in front of one of the Virgin Mary statues and cause a big fight with José’s mom.

  José picked up the notebook, quickly dried off the pages on the edge of his sweatshirt, and found the page his father wanted. There was an address and a badly drawn picture. He laughed to himself. Other dads took their kids skiing or sledding, but José’s was probably the only one who took his son scrapping.

  They didn’t say much until they reached the address, a burned-out house. Following his father’s instructions, José climbed over the fence, located the twisted piece of metal, and returned with a big smile on his face, only to find his father crying, as he often did for no reason.

  “Papá, ¿estás bien?” José asked and then handed his father the scrap metal.

  His father just wiped his tears and nodded, thanked José, and turned back to his notebook.

  Two hours later, when José and his dad walked in with their twenty-dollar scrap metal score, his mom and Aunt Cecilia were screaming at each other in Spanish. It was the same fight they’d had most every day since Cecilia showed up at their doorstep six years ago, in part to help with José’s father. Almost immediately some vaquero with snakeskin boots and snake-charmer words got her pregnant. It repeated a few years later. Many times in between and since, she’d had this argument with José’s mom: would Cecilia make the same mistake again, or would she get it right?

  In the background, José heard his cousins crying. The crying grew louder when his aunt slammed the apartment door. José’s mother folded her hands in prayer, mumbled some words to a statue of the Virgin, and went into Cecilia’s room to comfort the children. When she came out with a child clinging to each shoulder, José asked her why she put up with such bad behavior.

  Over the crying children, José’s mother said softly, “Porque somos familia, hijo.”

  6

  LATE MORNING / MONDAY, JANUARY 13

  MRS. HOWARD-HERNANDEZ’S CLASSROOM