In May, 2008, two girls walked along the quiet section of schoolyard where oak trees stabilized the difference between school and public sidewalk. Melissa, tall and skinny, wore her red hair tied back into a tight pony tail. The skin of her forehead stretched upward and back. Her braces flashed underneath dry lips. Sharon, next to her, spoke soft and intermittent. Her pink backpack swung easy. It was strapped too low, as was the style. She pushed blonde bangs out of her eyes and gripped the straps of her bag with both thumbs.

“Katie says he has a list,” Melissa said. “I just thought you should know she said that.”

“Katie’s just being – I don’t know,” said Sharon.

“Maybe.”

“Probably.”

“I don know no-thing seen-your,” said Melissa.

Sharon laughed and in this way they concluded their conversation about David, the sixth grade boy who recently learned Sharon’s name. Deciphering his sudden interest was the full time preoccupation pulling them through the last days of school year before summer break.

Above, through the spread of branches across the black wrought-iron fence by the oak trees between school and sidewalk, the sky was hot and dry. Sharon had reason to doubt David’s intentions. He was two grades older. It was hard to notice the younger grades, but somehow David did. Perhaps because he saw her hair, she thought, and wondered about her during recess. Perhaps he watched how kind and smart she was and realized, all of a sudden, that he loved her and couldn’t be without her.

Melissa winked at Sharon, who only wanted to hear one thing about David, though opposing evidence mounted. They said he wanted to kiss her and cross her from his list of every girl in the fourth grade. Melissa pulled back and dodged through a gap in the fence. She traversed the primary school playground, ran past dumpsters, and entered the multi-purpose room, where band practice was held.

Three more neighborhood blocks remained until Sharon’s home. She strummed the black fence and paced out her steps. Her sneakers were clean and white. When David noticed her, she thought, did he notice these clothes? Did he notice this hair? He had perfectly straight, brown hair. His clothes were always ironed. He smelled good, like soap. Summer break was days away. Could this be her first summer romance?

She heard a low growl but didn’t register the car until she heard the man’s voice. It was a black Camaro and it rolled slow alongside her. The muffler’s rumble was deep and steady. The man calling had a wide beard and wore mirrored sunglasses. He motioned in with his forearm.

“Gotta light?” he chuckled.

Sharon snapped her gaze to the cracks in the concrete walk. Her spine tingled. Kidnapper, she thought. Stranger.
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Before approaching the park bench, Zandra took in the air around her. She sat down next to the last of the old men and the birds surrounded her and the rest of the park bench. She pulled out a sack of bread crumbs and began tossing them about and watching these birds scramble for the food.

Five years earlier there was a man by the name of Arturo Menedazco and he left his job as a waiter to rob a shoe store on the upper east side. He ran into Zandra on his way out of the store. Several blocks later he was caught in the neck with a bullet from the gun of the owner. Arturo Menedazco was 35 years old and had no surviving relatives.

This morning, early, before the sun rose, Zandra woke up suddenly and grabbed for the half empty water glass near her bed. She drank the water and walked to the bathroom sink and drank from the tap, using her hands as cups. Zandra never fell back to sleep.

The only way to reconcile Arturo with Zandra is to go back even further to their parents. Arturo was born in Nicaragua and his parents were both missionaries who would be killed by the time Arturo reached the age of 8. Zandra doesn’t know where her parents are. She was taken to an orphanage as a baby and grew up in rugged clothes and fighting off most of the other kids. She knows what fleabites are. She knows what hunger feels like. She left the last home she would live in when she was 11 and then she took to the streets in a desperate attempt to find love, money and something different.

Arturo was her first trick. They didn’t speak. He was nervous. She threw up after. He left money in her empty shoes and left.

When Arturo passed by Zandra she didn’t recognize him. He didn’t recognize her. They each passed the other on the way to something else: he, on the way to death; her, on the way to pigeons at the park bench.

Adrian Alvarez
Berkeley, CA
1-14-03