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José hated Mondays, listening to everybody tell their stories about parties, dances, movies, and all the things he didn’t have time for. He worked second shift stocking groceries both Saturdays and Sundays. It was hard labor for little money. But every canned good he lifted, José understood, was one step closer to affording college.

  “Stay awake today, cuz,” Tony joked just before class started. He’d blown it last Friday, but luckily Tony had caught him napping before the teacher did. “Your snoring distracts me too much.”

  José toasted Tony with his energy drink. “Your ugly face distracts me.”

  The two friends traded friendly insults—clean ones in English, dirty ones in Spanish—until Mrs. Howard-Hernandez called them out, in Spanish, to remind them she knew exactly what they were saying.

  “Take out The Things They Carried. We’ll start today with the story “On the Rainy River.” Would anyone like to read?”

  “I’ll do it,” Jake said, earning a proud smile from his teacher. Jake read a few pages of the story until someone else volunteered. José found the book hard to follow because it wasn’t really a novel, but a series of stories. And it was supposed to be fiction, but the main character’s name was Tim O’Brien, the author’s name.

  Mrs. Howard-Hernandez read the last line of the story over again—“I was a coward; I went to war”—and repeated it another time. Then she said, “Let’s break up into pairs and discuss that.”

  Jake latched onto Mia, so Tony and José paired up as always.

  “Tim had to decide,” Mrs. Howard-Hernandez continued, “either go to Vietnam and fight for his country, or flee to Canada and avoid the draft to stay alive. He decided to fight. Right or wrong? Talk about it in pairs, and then we’ll debate it as a large group in a few minutes.”

  “They don’t do that anymore do they? A draft, where they make you go to war, right?” Tony asked the teacher. Like José, Tony was over eighteen and, if there was a draft, probably eligible.

  “No, it is a volunteer military, so no, there’s no draft.”

  Tony leaned toward José. “I wouldn’t go. I don’t like people telling me what to do.”

  José laughed. “You can’t run away from your responsibilities.”

  Tony wasn’t laughing. “Why not? My father did; so did Jake’s pop. Half the kids here got no dad at home.”

  For a second, José envied Tony. Every time José quit school, he thought about running away from his family and all of the responsibility he’d inherited so young.

  “If somebody attacked me or my family or my country, I’d fight,” Tony said. “But from what we learned about the war, that didn’t happen. I wouldn’t kill people who didn’t hurt me.”

  As José thought about his answer, he felt a splitting headache start. But he gulped down an energy drink and fought through the pain.

  “Cuz, how many of those you doing a day?” Tony asked.

  José shrugged. “I lost count.” Tony slapped José on the back and laughed.

  “So, Tony and José, what have you decided?” asked Mr. Aaron, the educational assistant with great gray dreads. Tony explained his position, which boiled down to staying alive at all costs.

  “I don’t know,” José said when Mr. Aaron turned to him. “If you’re born in the US, you should fight for it, you shouldn’t have a choice. Like your family, you didn’t get a choice. You just do whatever you have to do to protect it.”

  7

  EVENING / TUESDAY, JANUARY 14

  ST. PAUL

  José’s dad climbed slowly into the car, starting to tell another story from his childhood. José seethed in anger that once again, his dad had missed the Metro Mobility bus home. José was never really off duty on his day off.

  “How was rehab?” José asked sharply. His father said nothing. He didn’t remember.

  “You seem to have some strength coming in your right arm,” José said, mostly a lie. If there was any difference, it was like changing from a D– to a D.

  “I want to work again.” The expression on his dad’s face was a half-frown, as always. The droopiness on the right side was permanent.

  “You were going to tell me about growing up,” José said, changing the subject. He knew telling stories about growing up in Taxco brought joy to his dad.

  When they got back home, they opened the door to the sound of adults shouting and children crying.

  “¿Quién te va a cuidar a los niños?” José’s mom asked. From the way Cecilia was dressed—high heels, low-cut dress—it was clear she wasn’t staying home to watch her children.

  “José,” Cecilia answered, not as question, but as a fact. She picked up her black purse.

  “¡A ver si puedes cerrar las piernas esta vez!” José’s mom shouted. Whenever Cecilia left the house, José’s mother always said something like that: Keep your legs closed this time.

  Back and forth the sisters yelled at each other, while Cecilia’s children bawled from the other room. A neighbor pounded on the wall. José stood frozen for minutes, until finally he shouted, louder than any other sound. “Mamá, Cecilia, ¡basta, ya párenle!” Stop it!

  But it didn’t matter which language he spoke, his mother and aunt were in no mood to listen. The neighbor pounded on the wall again for quiet.

  “José, ven aquí por favor.” José heard his father call from his bedroom.

  His father sat at the foot of the bed. At his feet, Cecilia’s children cuddled silently. On his lap José’s father balanced an oversized book. An old photo album.

  “Look at them.” José’s dad pointed at a photo of his mom’s family. In the photo, José’s mom cradled her baby sister in her arms. In the other room, the shouting continued.

  “Why can’t things be like they were, not like they are?” José’s dad muttered in Spanish, quieter but more powerful than any scream. José left his dad, grabbed his books, and fled.

  José got lucky and found an empty study carrel at the Metro State University Library. He liked sitting in a college library; he was living his future a few minutes at a time. José leaned back in his chair and pulled out The Things They Carried. He liked how it usually distracted him from his real life. But that night, his father’s question kept ringing in his ears: Why can’t things be like they were? Deep down, José knew the answer.

  8

  TEN YEARS EARLIER, LATE SPRING

  BENSON, MINNESOTA

  “Get him out of here!” the foreman shouted at José, at the same time that José’s mother was shouting questions for José to ask the foreman.

  “What happened?” José asked the foreman, who towered over the ten-year-old boy.

  “What do you think?” the foreman replied. He nodded toward José’s mother. “Tell her to quiet down. She’s giving me a headache.”

  José’s mom wouldn’t stop firing questions at José, who had to recall what his mom said, ask the foreman, get the answer, and translate back to his mom. Meanwhile, José tried not to get distracted by his dad, who kept trying to stand up but failing. “She wants to know why he’s on the ground.”

  “It’s his own fault. He showed up drunk and tripped,” the foreman said. José relayed the information to his mom, who helped his father up. His father’s eyes had an odd, far-off look.

  His mom was firing off more for José to translate. It was hard to keep up with the adult questions he didn’t understand. “She says he doesn’t drink. She says it’s your job to keep him safe. How is tripping his fault?”

  The foreman just looked away and shook his head, which struck José as odd.

  “¡Ambulancia!” José’s mom yelled.

  “And who has the pesos for an ambulancia?” the foreman said. His tone made José nervous.

  When José’s dad regained his feet, he tried to talk, but he slurred his words. Yet it was clear he didn’t want an ambulance. He took another step away from the house, then bent over and vomited in the grass.

  “You see? Look, I don’t know if he’s still drunk or just hungover like m
ost of these guys. But he can’t stay on my worksite.”

  “Drunk?” José had seen people drunk, and they did behave kind of like this, but he knew his father didn’t drink. He complained all the time about coworkers who did. But if he wasn’t drunk, José wondered as his dad finally made it to the Chevy, then what was wrong with him?

  9

  LATE MORNING / TUESDAY, JANUARY 21

  MRS. HOWARD-HERNANDEZ’S CLASSROOM

  “He had it easy,” José mumbled under his breath to Tony. Mrs. Howard-Hernandez was reading the story “The Dentist,” which described the typical stress-filled day of a soldier in Vietnam.

  “Right, except for the life and death part,” Tony cracked back.

  “Maybe,” José mumbled. He gulped another energy drink and tried to stay focused.

  As other students answered the teacher’s questions about a typical day, José thought about how his typical day wasn’t long enough, or at least didn’t allow enough time for sleep. He’d worked eight hours every day over the weekend at Rainbow, and then he worked two nights at UPS as an emergency fill-in. When he’d quit UPS after Christmas, his boss, Mr. Harmon—a pretty nice guy, José thought—told him it was too much paperwork, so he’d just keep him on the payroll as a temporary worker and “if you want work every now and then, you let me know.” So he did.

  Mrs. Howard-Hernandez started to read from the book again. “This part is called ‘How to Tell a War Story,’ ” she started. “After we’ve read it, you’ll break into groups …”

  José pulled his hat over his eyes. They’d stay open, then they’d shut. His head would pitch forward, then he’d pull it back. Like he’d learned about Vietnam, fighting his tiredness was a war of attrition that, in the end, he couldn’t win.

  When the bell rang to end language arts and woke José, Mr. Aaron told him to report to Mrs. Baker’s office. “Lots of people sleep in class,” José told Mrs. Baker. She wasn’t moved.

  “But those people didn’t make it a specific goal not to fall asleep in class.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Baker bounced a pencil up and down against the desk. “José, that’s not enough.”

  “What else do you want from me?” José asked quietly, but he wanted to scream the words. Not just at Mrs. Baker, but at this family. Everybody takes from me, José thought, but nobody gives.

  “I want to know what your plan is,” Mrs. Baker snapped, like his mom did when angry.

  “We already went over it.”

  Mrs. Baker clicked the mouse on her computer and looked at something on her screen. “Your plan lists what goals you want to achieve, but we need to talk about how you plan to achieve them. You said that you’d get more sleep at home, yet once again… And I understand it is not just in one class, but in all of them.” José’s head dropped, not in exhaustion, but in shame.

  “Look, it’s really complicated.”

  Mrs. Baker turned off the screen and leaned across her desk. “José, everybody’s life in this school is complicated, that’s why they’re at Rondo. It’s not an excuse.”

  “I’ll try to do better, really. I’ll make up the work from today.”

  “OK, let’s do that right now,” Mrs. Baker said. “The group assignment today, I’ve learned, was to discuss telling memories as stories, and how the stories change over time as they’re told and retold.”

  “I guess.” He’d fallen asleep before that. He was angry at himself, but also at Jake, Mia, and Tony for letting him sleep. Like fellow soldiers, they were supposed to have his back.

  “So, do you have any stories like that in your life, José?” Mrs. Baker asked.

  José closed his eyes to concentrate on the one that came to mind. José wished he could change the story and be the hero in the story instead of the villain. “Not really.”

  “José, think of one and tell it to me tomorrow.”

  José said nothing—he knew silence was the only weapon he could use right then.

  Mrs. Baker turned back to her computer. “José, you’re free to go.”

  10

  EVENING / FRIDAY, JANUARY 24

  HOME OF MANDY GOMEZ, JOSÉ’S UNCLE

  José huddled in the corner of the furnished basement at his Uncle Mandy’s house, playing video games and talking with his cousin Carlos. Carlos was a junior in college. He’d spent his first two years at Metro State but had transferred to the University of Minnesota. That was the path José thought he’d take. Except that, once done with Metro State and his generals, he’d go someplace else. Someplace out of state, maybe Texas or California. Someplace warm and far away.

  “You still at Rondo?” Carlos asked. It seemed to José that when he said the word still there was an edge to it.

  “Yes, but this time, I’m sticking with it.” José tried to sound confident, determined.

  “That’s good,” Carlos said. “The world doesn’t need more uneducated and unemployed Latinos making all of us look bad.”

  You’re talking about my dad, José thought, and I know it.

  “You still working too?”

  José nodded.

  “That’s hard, but I know all about that.”

  José looked at his cousin’s hands. Not a scratch on them. He laughed to himself.

  “Okay, next round,” Carlos said. José was glad to focus on the video game. “Cuz, I’m smoking you!” Carlos shouted.

  José said nothing as he played the game, more by instinct than interest. Like life, video games were all about choices. As bodies fell around him, José thought about the story he’d written for Mrs. Baker, about his father and his uncle coming north and how two brothers had lived such different lives.

  After his dad and uncle had left the beet fields of northern Minnesota, his father followed some friends to Benson to work in a small factory. But it got raided, and his dad barely made it out free. After that, he found work with the roofing company. He loved it—until the accident. Then they moved to St. Paul, where Uncle Mandy lived. After Mandy had left the fields, he’d moved to the big city, where he got two things: a GED and a legit green card for marrying a US citizen. Since then, he’d prospered and gotten more education, and now he ran a small trucking company while his wife worked for the state in an office job. Both of his sons were in college, with Carlos at the U and the older son, Miguel, in his first year of the MBA program at the University of Pennsylvania.

  “Cuz, what’s wrong with you?” Carlos asked. He was killing José in the game.

  “Sorry, I just got a lot on my mind,” José answered. He told Carlos about balancing school, work, and family duties, hoping for maybe empathy, if not sympathy.

  “Tell me about it,” Carlos replied and then listed his problems, all of them small.

  Upstairs, José heard people laughing and speaking, but mostly in English. Uncle Mandy didn’t use much Spanish in his house. José knew that meant his mom and dad felt as left out upstairs as he did in the basement.

  “The key is getting that money,” Carlos said, stating the obvious. Even the basement of the small house seemed huge to José, compared to his tiny apartment.

  “Go again?” Carlos asked.

  José nodded. “In a minute, I gotta make a call.” José pulled himself from the comfortable sofa, away from the big-screen TV and the new Xbox, and walked toward the downstairs bathroom. If he took more hours at UPS, his family could afford some of those luxuries too. He closed the bathroom door behind him and hit a key. The temptation of those ten digits shouted José’s name: his UPS boss’s number. He stared at the screen for a full minute before he put the phone away again.

  11

  TEN YEARS EARLIER, LATE SPRING

  BENSON, MINNESOTA

  “Intoxicado,” José’s dad kept repeating as he lay in the backseat of the Chevy. They’d taken him home as he’d asked, but finally José’s dad relented and allowed his wife to take him to the small hospital in Benson. He kept his right hand on his stomach and his left clutching his he
ad. José guessed it was something more than an upset stomach. Maybe his dad had food poisoning.

  The small emergency room was empty. Two nurses sat at the desk. José’s dad leaned on him for support, but his mom raced ahead. By the time she reached the nurses’ desk, she was shouting for help for her husband.

  The nurses looked at each other and then toward José. José’s dad stumbled as he approached the desk and began talking. But even if the nurses spoke Spanish, they wouldn’t have understood his slurred words, repeating the same phrases over and over.

  “English?” the older nurse asked.

  “I speak English,” José said over his dad’s increased volume of blabbering.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the nurse asked.

  José told the story about finding his father face-down at the work site. The two nurses didn’t seem concerned, but asked José questions that he didn’t really know how to answer.

  “What is he saying?” the younger nurse asked. José’s dad was now shouting one word.

  “Intoxicado,” José answered, repeating the Spanish more clearly. He hadn’t yet learned the words it translated to in English: nauseated, or sick from food. But the nurse raised an eyebrow like he had told her what she needed to know.

  The older nurse picked up a phone, dialed quickly, and spoke with her hand over the receiver. “Take a seat,” the young nurse said. José explained to his parents what she’d said.

  José sat with his parents, waiting for the doctor. José breathed in relief when the door finally opened, except the uniforms were not that of a doctor or nurse, but rather of two police officers.

  12

  LATE MORNING / MONDAY, JANUARY 27

  MRS. HOWARD-HERNANDEZ’S CLASSROOM

  José clutched the pencil like a drowning man hanging onto a life raft in the ocean. He’d told Mrs. Baker he would get an A in at least one class, and he knew language arts was his only hope. After missing school for chunks of time, it was hard to get caught up in his science or math classes. I’m so far behind, José thought, I should drop out again.