The Only Road by Alexandra Diaz Read Free Book Online Page B

diminutive features. He smoothed out her wrinkles and captured the brightness in her eyes. The hand-stitched embroidery surrounding the collar of the dress seemed to almost jump off the page. In ten minutes he finished and tilted the book for her approval.
    She squealed with delight, placing a wrinkled hand on his cheek, but then pointed to the empty bottom right-hand corner, waving her fingers as if she were holding a pen.
    Jaime remembered what his fourth-grade teacher had said when they had studied Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa : “The famous painting is unsigned, but at least we know Leonardo painted it. If not, it would be virtually worthless.” Not that his art was worth anything, but it was fun to pretend it would be. He switched from the colored pencils to the lead one, and wrote his full name in a lavish scribble: Jaime Antonio Rivera Muñoz.
    Slowly, carefully, he tore out the page from his book. He picked at the raw edge to remove the scraggly bits of paper. It was worth it to see the viejita’ s skin crinkle into a smile and to hear her utter words of gratitude he didn’t specifically understand as her spotted hands clutched the portrait to her heart.
    At the next village she once again nudged his shoulder. She stood, barely a meter and a half tall, with her fist outstretched. Jaime shook his head. “ No es necesario .”
    â€œ ¡Sí! ” she said with such insistence it would have beenrude for Jaime to disobey. He held out his hand, and three coins tumbled into it.
    â€œ Gracias .” He beamed at her as she waved her hands over him in a blessing and shuffled off the bus, one hand laden with her shopping bags and a cane, the other cradling his drawing as if it were a treasure.
    Ãngela, who had alternated between looking out the window and watching the transaction, nudged him in the ribs. “How much did you get?”
    Jaime turned over the heavier gold-and-silver coin and then the two bronze ones to read their value. “Twelve pesos.”
    â€œLook at you, Diego Rivera,” Ángela teased. “You keep this up and you can fly us to Tomás on an airplane.”
    Jaime rolled his eyes but was secretly pleased. It wasn’t too hard imagining he was related to the famous Mexican painter—after all, they shared a last name. But to someday be known around the world for his paintings like Diego Rivera? He couldn’t imagine how great that would be.
    He did the peso/quetzal conversion quickly in his head. If he was right, twelve pesos would only buy him a drink and, if he was lucky, a cookie. Didn’t matter how little twelve pesos translated to. He was now officially a “professional” artist. Nothing could take that away from him.
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    There were no villages around when two men appeared from the bushes and flagged down the bus. Their clotheswere dirty and torn, as were their faces. One had crusted blood from a gash on his forehead, while the other’s bottom lip hung like a wet sock on the washing line. They each gave the driver a coin and hovered near the front instead of going the length of the bus and sitting down.
    About ten kilometers later the bus driver pulled over again to the side of the road. A truck zoomed by with a whoosh that made it feel like the bus would tip over. The battered men thanked the driver and disappeared back into the bushes.
    A few minutes after that, the brakes squeaked and protested as the bus slowed down again. Through the open window Jaime saw no village, no buildings anywhere in sight, just lush trees, overgrown bushes, and long grasses all squeezed together, fighting against one another for their right to live on a bit of earth. Everyone on the bus shifted to look out the cracked windshield, where lights flashed their warning.
    Something was wrong.
    A hushed whisper vibrated through the bus. “ La migra .”
    Orange cones blocking the road forced the bus to come