didn’t. She jumped as I slipped my hand into hers, but then she intertwined her fingers with mine and squeezed.
And somehow, it was everything, that single squeeze.
That squeeze meant I hadn’t made this up in my head. This weird thing that I felt—I didn’t know what it was exactly, but now I knew she felt it, too.
We climbed the hill into the little valley. Our little valley. I slipped my arms around her neck and she kissed me, again, slower and lighter than before.
We didn’t need to hurry. We had all the time there was.
Maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t only an experiment. Maybe this was something else altogether.
Maybe it was even something real.
“¡Oye, mira por aquí!”
“¡Volver!”
Two boys, maybe nine years old, were shouting to each other across a dusty street, kicking a soccer ball back and forth between them. A third boy joined in and they took off down the block. My friends and I ducked out of the way just in time to avoid getting slammed by either a ball or a kid.
“Ahh-ki!” someone shouted. At first I thought it was one of the girls from our group—half of them still pronounced my name wrong—but it was Juana Suarez from our jewelry-making class. We’d started having lunch at the Suarezes’ house every afternoon, and Juana’s mom was an amazing cook (that was according to Christa—I was still mostly sticking with my toast). Her dad played the guitar for us at vespers, and he was teaching Juana to play, too. She’d explained that to Lori and me one afternoon by singing a hymn and accompanying herself on air guitar. It had been adorable, but I’d had to resist the urge to correct her technique.
“Hola, Juana.” Now that I’d been in Mexico for a week, I could say a few words in Spanish without feeling like a complete fail. “¿Cómo estás?”
“Bien.” Juana didn’t seem to think my speaking two complete sentences in Spanish was quite as big a deal as I did. She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward where the other kids were playing in the street. “¡Vamonos!”
I laughed and swatted away a buzzing mosquito. “No puedo.” I pointed to the light blue dress I was wearing, trying to show her that I didn’t want to get it dirty. Which was true. I’d borrowed it from Lori, and it was the first time all week I’d worn something that I didn’t expect to get covered in paint.
Juana pouted at me for about half a second. Then she dropped my hand and ran after the ball.
I laughed again. Then I must’ve forgotten where I was, because I started to reach for Christa’s hand. At the last moment I settled for smiling at her instead.
We were walking into town with a dozen or so people from different youth groups. It was Saturday, and we had the morning off. This afternoon we had to be back at the Perezes’ house for some kind of dance performance, but for now, we were free.
We hadn’t really gone anywhere but the old church, the work site and Reverend Perez’s house the whole time we’d been in Mudanza. The town was small, but still big enough to get lost in, so the chaperones had told us to make sure we traveled in groups today. In the few blocks we’d come so far, all we’d seen were a lot of gravel roads and squat buildings with pink walls and corrugated metal roofs. Oh, and two more churches.
Christa and I were near the front of the group. She had two cameras hanging from her neck, a fancy digital one and an old-fashioned one that took black-and-white photos. She’d worn a dress today, too—it was black and fit snugly around her waist—with three strands of gold Mardi Gras beads wound around her wrists.
Most of the girls in our group had dressed up. It was the first chance we’d had since the welcome party to look halfway decent. I’d even borrowed some of Lori’s mascara. I didn’t wear makeup much back home, but now that I was sort of dating someone, I figured I ought to make an effort.
Except Christa and I weren’t dating. She was already dating someone else. The two of us had just been sneaking off into the hills behind the church to hook up on a nightly basis.
Well, but still.
“Hey, puppy!” Lori called out to a dog trotting along the sidewalk near us. Christa stopped walking and lifted her camera to take the dog’s photo. Lori stooped to pet it, but it ran away before she could get close.
“I wouldn’t pet any stray dogs in Mexico,” said Sofía, one of Drew’s friends. She was tall, Hispanic and intimidatingly pretty. “You never know who’s got rabies.”
“You can tell if dogs have rabies,” I said. “They foam at the mouth and stuff.”
“Not always,” Sofía said.
“Yeah, you can’t always tell with dogs,” Drew echoed. I was positive Drew didn’t know if that was true any more than I did, but I knew how it was when you liked a girl.
“There’s a chicken up ahead,” Christa said, clicking away on her digital camera. I thought she was kidding, but I looked and, sure enough, a chicken was wandering around between two houses. Just hanging out, as if it had nothing better to do. “Should we check it for diseases to be safe? You never know with chickens.”
Lori and I laughed. Drew covered his mouth, but I was pretty sure he was laughing, too.
We’d reached the end of the block, where the kids were kicking the soccer ball around. Two of them stopped playing and turned to watch us.
I wondered how we looked to them. A huge gang of mostly white people walking along their dusty road on a Saturday morning, all dressed up as if we were going to a party.
“Sure, I’ll sign it,” Gina said behind us. At first I thought she was talking to me—Gina went to our church back home, and she hung out a lot with Lori and me—but when I turned, she was talking to Jake. “You got a pen?”
“Yep. Thanks, Gina. You’re awesome.” Jake passed her a pen and paper. Gina stopped walking and held the paper against the nearest pink wall, scribbling her name on it.
“I thought it was mostly over,” Becca said to Jake. I’d only talked to Becca once or twice before. She was white, and she went to Christa’s church. “The war, I mean.”
“We still have troops stationed over there,” Jake said. “The plank they’re voting on calls for us to withdraw all US military from the region except humanitarian aid missions.”
I interrupted them. “Wait, is this a different petition from the one before?”
“Yeah.” Jake pointed to the paper. “This one’s on whether Holy Life will officially call for an end to the war. Want to sign?”
“Wait, it’s my turn next.” Becca took the pen from Gina. Jake grinned.
“Are you still doing your other petition?” I asked him.
“Yeah, but this one’s gotten way more
