Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) (7 page)

“Maybe more temporary than I’d first planned.” I let my words hang in the air for a minute. He could draw his own conclusions. “But about involving myself in Raf’s fight…I’m not apologizing for that. I didn’t see any other way. I don’t think it would’ve ended well if I hadn’t been the one to end it.”

“Back that up, man,” John said. “There wouldn’t have been a fight if you’d minded your own business in the first place. You did a stupid thing, Henry, taking one of our kids to Managua without our permission. Now I’m not here to come down on you like your dad would, because, you’re right, I should’ve given you all the information. We all make mistakes. It is what it is, though.”

I’d been just about to tell him I’d made a decision in the night when he laid today’s
La Noticia de Managua
on my lap and there I was, front-page news. My passport photo and Raf’s mug shot from yesterday were side by side, looking like a clueless tourist and a punk kid.

Fortunately Raf’s name wasn’t listed because he was a minor, but mine was—giving all the haters an American face and an American name as the reason American-run orphanages weren’t doing their job. The Nicaraguan government had been looking for reasons to run us all out of the country for a while now.

I got the gist of the Spanish article from the headline—“American Volunteer Ignores Court Order, Endangers Minor.”

The implications settled over me like a blanket of ice. I might not have known about the court order yesterday, but that detail wouldn’t matter in the eyes of the government or the public. They were ready to condemn us because of who and what we represented.

Now, even if I stayed, I’d need to keep out of sight. I shouldn’t go into Managua, not to find supplies or find labor, not to freaking eat at a restaurant. Raf’s next stop, if he showed his face again, would be a juvie nightmare. And that nightmare would be preferable to the blowback he could get from those gangsters, who’d named themselves the eaters of the dead, for the love of….

“That’s not all,” John said. “The article mentions Quiet Waters by name. Thankfully, our location isn’t given. It’s possible the reporter had a moment of integrity and knew printing our location would be begging for a hit. But anyone with a computer and motivation could find us if they wanted to.”

I listened to John while I scanned the article for clues about how much they knew already.

“Let me translate the important part of that article for you,” he said. “It lists our major funding sources. It names the charities that support us. This gives the Ministry of Family a reason to look at us.”

“I screwed up, John.”

John glanced up at me and then down at the article. “The reporter catalogued the licenses we’ve received or applied for, including your contractor’s license. He had a source at the permitting office who said none of our construction projects have been approved. He claimed our finances are being reviewed for tax errors.”

“What? You have a file full of approved forms, and our finances are none of their business.”

“You’re right,” John said. “None of this is true. But no one cares if it’s true or not. It’s just lousy timing. I’ve never told you about
Programa Amor
.”

“What?”

John sighed. “It’s a program started by Ortega a few years ago that aims to remove kids from orphanages and return them to their lousy homes or put them in foster situations. We’ve been operating under the radar, hoping they’d forget about us.”

I shook my head, completely out of my depth. “I’ll leave tomorrow, John. You can call the Ministry of Family office and tell them you disciplined me and sent me packing. We can fix that part of this.”

John dismissed this idea with a wave of his hand. “Get that out of your head now, Henry. I’m not firing you and sending you home. We need you here.”

I raised my hand to object, but he ignored me. “You know, with all of this trouble, there’s still something far worse, in my mind.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Raf is angry. Unreachable. He’s refusing to come out of his room.”

John, who’d been leaning against the edge of the bunk, eased down to sit on Whit’s empty bed. His voice grew hollow. “He doesn’t know what to think or who to blame, so he’s blaming you. He’s only fifteen, even if he acts like he’s twenty-five. We’d made a lot of progress with him, with his stinking attitude and anger issues, but I think we’ve lost any gains we’d made.”

“Permission to speak freely?” I poked the beehive that was John’s patience. “Do not get mad. Just listen.” I waited for John to nod his head. “Find him another home. He doesn’t belong here around these kids. It’s like tracking mud all over white carpet. You don’t have time to watch him and do everything else you have to do.”

John was quiet for a long time. I figured he was thinking about my suggestion. In hindsight, I know he was counting to ten to keep himself from bouncing my head off the wall.

“I don’t like to talk about the backgrounds of these kids I love. Once they’re here, it doesn’t much matter to me what happened in the past.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. John was frustrated with me. “Kate and I made the decision not to tell you everything about their pasts because we wanted you to learn to love them for who they are now. Maybe we made a mistake. I should have been more open about Raf’s situation with you.”

I shifted on the bunk, already dying to know more about this kid with gang tattoos who read fancy books and spoke nearly perfect English. “Can you tell me now?”

John stared at me, the lines around his eyes growing deeper. “Raf…Rafael Garcia. His story should be a movie.” John locked his hands behind his head and stretched. “Raf had a mom who loved him. Smart, smart woman. She had a Ph.D. in Sociology and taught at Central American University in Managua.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

John shook his head. “Raf got her brains. He’s a smart cookie. Reads all the time. He flies in the stratosphere in our little school here. You ever wonder why his English is so perfect?”

I nodded. “He sounds like us.”

“His mom made sure of it and they traveled to the States a lot when he was little.” John paused here, remembering something that made him smile.

“If he’s so smart, what was he doing in a gang?” Was I the only one who saw the disconnect there?

John’s smile changed, telling me I wouldn’t believe what came next. “His mom studied the origins of gangs in Nicaragua—like how they came about during the revolution and how the members are one hundred percent Sandinista.”

He stood up again and paced the room as he talked. “Gangs here are different—they’re violent, yes; they deal drugs, yes; but they’re respected by the neighborhoods because they keep a semblance of order. Their members are from rich families and poor families. They mix it all up—one for all, all for one.”

“Such musketeers,” I said, throwing a Nerf ball of Whit’s at the wall.

“Anyway, his mom’s focus in the last ten years of her life was
Los Comemuertos
. She moved to Reparto Schick, the toughest neighborhood in Managua, to be close to her subjects.”

“Dang,” I whispered.

“Unfortunately, her obsession with this gang meant her son grew up believing he’d get her attention if he joined. By ten he was running drugs for them and doing grunt work. He was initiated by twelve and moving up in rank. His mom either didn’t know or turned a blind eye.”

John glanced at me to see if I followed.

I nodded my understanding. “He got her attention and she got dead.”

“Pretty much,” he agreed. “He walked in on one of his
brothers
attacking a girl who lived next door to Raf. He went to the police and informed on the guy—serious no-no. The rapist went to lock-up, but the cop was dirty and he leaked the name of the informer. The gang iced Raf’s mom in retribution.”

I rubbed my hands through my shaggy hair. “But, John, come on,” I said. “They should have the equivalent of a witness protection program here. He should be in a safe house with a new name.”

“They don’t spend money on former gangsters. Raf entered the system as a ward and we got a call because we’d offered our services if a minor came into the system and needed a place.” He turned to meet my gaze. “Yesterday, you sent him back into the fight he never asked for.”

I jumped down from my bunk and put on jeans, stalling while I processed Raf’s history. In my mind, though, wrong as it was, I still saw Raf’s gang tattoos next to Aidia’s face. I saw him the way he looked on that street in Managua. He looked just like the other gangsters who’d shown up to knife him. Those guys wouldn’t think twice about breaking into Quiet Waters to find him.

This didn’t work in any universe, on any level. Raf had to go. Somebody had to say it, right? My heart might hurt for Raf, but it was bleeding for Aidia.

I used my most reasonable voice to make my point. “I get that what he’s been through was bad, worse than anything I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t change the fact you’ve got innocent little ones running around here relying on you.”

John shook his head, holding up a hand to stop me, but I kept going. “If you’re going to turn this place into a halfway house for juvies, I think you ought to send Kate home where she’s safe.” I wanted to take it back as soon as I’d said it.

John rubbed a place on his jeans that had gone thin and soft. When he finally spoke, he ignored my insult to him as my sister’s husband and went straight back to where we started and where he wanted to stay.

“Don’t confuse anger with violence, Henry,” he said. “Don’t mistake hunger for greed. Raf’s mother was
murdered
because of something he had the courage to say. He spoke the words that killed her. Don’t you think that might cause some anger management issues? Possibly some PTSD?”

He yanked my spine out, knob by knob, from between my shoulder blades. And he wasn’t finished.

“You think he’s not full of enough self-hate? You want to add to his misery by telling him he has to leave the only place he feels safe?” John leaned down to pick up the toys Whit had left on the floor. “His only other option is a detention facility. Because of his history, he’d be treated like a felon. If I fail him now, I couldn’t forgive myself.”

“Then forget I said it.” I took a shirt out of my closet and put it on.

“Here’s my philosophy,” John said. “We’ve all been hung up for far too long on ignoring people like Raf because we think we’re so clean and holy. I’m sick of it. There’s a big difference between holiness and mercy.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. “If you feel disgust for Raf because of what he represents to you then that’s going to ooze from your pores.”

I could only nod.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “And, by the way, I’d never let anything happen to these kids or my
wife
and
son
, and you know it.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He pointed at me. “You’re here to serve these kids, Henry, and, until you know that in your bones, you’re just spinning wheels and throwing mud. If that’s where you’re at, I’d rather you go home. Not because some Nicaraguan official tells me I should send you home, but because your heart’s not in this.”

I swallowed hard. “I understand—”

“But,” he interrupted. “If you’ll let it happen, these kids will change you for the better. Raf will change you. You haven’t even given the kid a chance.”

I nodded but said nothing more, figuring that was best for now. Last night I’d decided that I’d go home for a while. Whether John would admit it or not, my departure might give Quiet Waters a little more time. I’d slip back in when things were clearer. I couldn’t make myself tell John right at that moment, though. Not after he’d laid his heart and soul out for me to see.

His shoulders slumped as he moved to my door. “Come on to breakfast when you’re ready.”

“I’ve got to get hold of Meg first.”

I dug my fingers into the sore place on the back of my neck and hit send on my phone.
Pick up, pick up, pick up
. I couldn’t count how many times Meg had called me in our early days as a couple when she needed to talk about her mom. Now the tables had turned. I needed her.

Her whispered hello stopped me in my tracks. I sank down to sit on the floor next to the bunk bed, my heart picking up a more normal cadence with one word from her lips.

“I woke you,” I said. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“No, it’s okay. I was getting ready to call you.” Her voice sounded shaky.

“Are you all right?” I said.

“No. I want you to come home.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.” My issues mattered a whole lot less all of a sudden.

I listened quietly as she went through the whole mess of car tag with Tennyson and some new guy at school. She described dealing with the police and told me how it felt to be accused of something she would never do. I recognized the shame in her voice because I was feeling it, too.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I know you wanted to help her, but she needs more than you can give her. You’re not going back there, are you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll see. How are you? You sound stressed.” Meg can always read me. It’s part of what drew me to her in the first place.

“Little bit, honey. Little bit stressed.”

“Tell me,” she whispered.

I ran my hand through my hair, trying to keep myself from telling her that I’d be on the next plane home; that this boat was taking on water and I wanted out.

“I’m just having trouble making things work.”

“Supplies for the flex building?”

“That, yeah. I sort of hit a bump in the road yesterday that I can’t get over. I’m mulling over options. I’d give my eyeteeth for a Wyoming Building Supply right about now.”

“What happened yesterday?” She stifled a yawn, making me laugh.

“Raf and I took a field trip to Managua and ran into some old friends of his.” I tried to inject a laid-back tone into my voice. Meg heard the bull in that immediately.

“As in gang friends?”

“As in.”

“Henry Whitmire! Did they hurt you?”

“Only my feelings,” I said. “Raf and I made it home okay, but one of the other guys ended up in the hospital. I made the front page of the Managua newspaper. You can probably Google me now. I’ve got street cred.”