Court Kasie

COURT KASIE

by

Bill Gourgey

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Dried Brains

La Migra

Stop! Thief!

Professor Jake

El Pueblo

Negative Goals

Rainbows and Clouds

InBrief

Promises

At. All. Costs.

Home Court

Vinegar Eggs

Madison Café

Going Dark

Do You Prefer Catrina?

The Temptation of Kasie

Smarty-Pants

Confession

I’m Nobody

The Dead Have No Rights

Odds & Ends

The Iceman Cometh

A Fly Buzzes

Turning Point

Nosotros el Pueblo

Passion for Life

More Fun Facts: The Supreme Court

On Immigration

References

Literary Talk

Acknowledgments

Other Books by Bill Gourgey

Jacked Arts

Washington, DC 20008

www.jackedarts.com

Copyright © 2017 by Bill Gourgey

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903673

Print ISBN: 978-1544097183

ebook ISBN: 978-1370223053

Title Font: Montserrat.

Cover Art: Upset teenage girl with backpack sitting on stairs by New Africa, AdobeStock; Handwriting by Cocoparisienne, Pixabay.

for my father

who had the courage to seek a new land

Dried Brains

Early-morning shadows from the schoolyard’s barren trees creep across the chain-linked blacktop. Between their swaying skeletons, fiery-red shards of glass, kindled by the sun’s rising glow, dot the dark surface. Overhead, bony branches creak and scrape in the wind. I shiver and retreat deeper into my hidden hollow—a stand of tall bushes clustered in front of the apartment building on the corner of 18th and East Capitol.

Out on the street, a school bus roars by, blocking my view; it’s followed by a DC Metro bus. Their noisy interlude shatters the uncommon silence hanging over Eastern High School. In their wakes, an acrid plume of exhaust lingers, momentarily suspended, as if held by a spell, until a gust of wind tears through the hovering soot, scattering it.

Papá always told me I had a vivid imagination.

Demasiados libros, he would say to me, shaking his head. M’ija, you read too much.

Whenever he told me that, I’d remind him that he was the one who claimed we were descended from Miguel de Cervantes, the legendary seventeenth century Spanish author who wrote Don Quixote. In fact, I couldn’t resist teasing him last year when I read that a team of archaeologists found Cervantes’s missing tomb.

Maybe we could get them to run DNA tests, Papá, I jested during our weekly phone call, to see if we really are related. He laughed and said it would be too expensive. You just have to trust me, Kasie. But take Gran Tío Miguel’s advice and don’t read so much, it will dry up your brain.

My papá’s been saying that to me ever since we read some of Don Quixote together. He especially liked that part of the story where Cervantes explains how Don Quixote came to be such a hopeless and delusional romantic. The exact words are:

He so immersed himself in those romances that he spent whole days and nights over his books; and thus with little sleeping and much reading, his brains dried up to such a degree that he lost the use of his reason.

I have an unusual ability to recall texts word for word. It’s always been that way. My head is filled with precise passages from everything I’ve ever read. And since I’m a total bibliophile, I’ve read more books than most people can imagine, especially for a fifteen-year-old. The only downside is that I tend to lose myself in the fiction. It gets awkward sometimes when I blurt out seemingly strange lines in the middle of a conversation. I’ve been learning to keep them to myself. I often wonder if my papá is right; maybe my brain will shrivel up from reading too many books.

I miss my parents.

With another shiver, I pull up my hood and stuff my hands into my poncho’s makeshift pockets—a custom feature devised and artfully sewn by my mamá. It’s not just the raw memory of my parents that’s so chilling, nor is it this frosty air that’s colder than usual for Washington, DC, and much too cold for my wool poncho. No, it’s mostly because I’m afraid.

I was born during the time of the Aztec celebration of the dead, which has become known as Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. You might think that means I was born on November first or second, when the Mexican national holiday coincides with All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, but that association only happened after Catholicism came to Mexico. The original Aztec celebration—which dates back thousands of years—took place during the month of August.

Supposedly, it was mi abuela, my grandmother, who told my parents when I was born that I was so skinny I looked like a skeleton, so they named me Catrina after the traditional image of death in Mexico. It might sound morbid, but since La Catrina is revered in Mexico, they meant it as a tribute. But I guess it could explain why I’m prone to dark and gloomy thoughts (at least, my mamá always said so), like this morning: I sense unusual malice in the air. That’s why I’m hiding in these bushes, feeling grateful for the creepy November shadows, because they’re providing enough cover to conceal me.

As more buses pass, a familiar metallic-red Mazda with shiny chrome wheels and tinted windows cruises into view. It’s crawling down East Capitol Street. The darkened windows are cracked open just enough to allow blaring music and a stream of smoke to escape. As it passes, I feel vibrations from the booming bass, followed by a sweet, pungent aroma. Behind the Mazda, a long line of cars has built up; some of them honk in frustration.

The Mazda is like a float that’s lost its parade. Kids turn their heads to watch. Some wave. When it reaches the intersection, it swings in a lazy arc to circle the school grounds.

The car belongs to Marcus, and this is his daily ritual. Marcus is a senior, and probably the most popular kid in school. He comes and goes as he pleases. It’s like he never worries about a thing. Me, I’m just the opposite.

Well, I guess we do share one thing in common: I could graduate this year, even though I’m officially a junior. I should really be a sophomore, like my best friend, Miley, but I skipped a grade in middle school. When my guidance counselor suggested I graduate this year, I chose not to because I couldn’t imagine leaving Eastern yet.

From my hiding spot, I watch my classmates file into our high school. My stomach squelches bitterly. I so want to be with my friends right now. I know it sounds weird, but I love school—I always have.

I see Miley, and I nearly charge out of my hiding place. She’s more than my best friend; she’s like mi hermana, my sister. If it weren’t for Miley, I’d be a hopeless loner. She keeps me connected with…well, with everything. Her family, the Herreras, took me in when my parents were snatched by the Iceman. I had just turned thirteen and had no place to stay.

I can see that Miley’s wearing the new jeans her mom bought her. Without thinking, I send her a quick text:

Nice jeans compa <3.

I see Miley pull her phone from her back pocket. As soon as she reads it, she stops and looks around.

Miley’s one of those bombshell Latina girls: glossy black hair, long lashes, supermodel figure with curves in all the right places. Me? I’m a scarecrow with wavy hair that frizzes into a nest at the mere threat of rain. My face is too thin, my eyes too big—and they’re so bad that I wear bifocals. Believe it or not, my glasses are the one thing I have going for me. Miley helped me pick them out. They have iridescent tortoiseshell frames that make me look sophisticated (according to Miley). If I would listen to her more often, I might not look like the Patchwork Girl, but I do—I mean, I don’t listen to Miley, but I do look like the Patchwork Girl (one of my favorite characters in the Oz universe).

I essentially have two outfits that I switch up depending on my mood and what’s clean (my standards aren’t as high as Miley’s). My favorite is my jeans and one of my two long-sleeve Western-style tops. (I always wear long sleeves, even in summer, because I’m embarrassed by my scrawny arms.) I’m wearing my plum top today with my charcoal Kate Spade Keds. Glittery sneakers are totally out of character for me, but Miley insisted, and since they’re knockoffs, they didn’t cost too much. I’d never admit it to her, but I’ve grown to like them.

It’s not like I’m a total tomboy with my clothes. My other outfit’s an ankle-length Peruvian cotton skirt (the kind my mamá favors) that I wear with Ghillie Tie Flats and a long-sleeve, lace-up top (I have two of those, too). The only winter jacket I own is my wool poncho. Luckily, DC usually doesn’t get this cold.

Miley can’t understand why I don’t put more effort into my appearance. She teases me by calling me Scraps, which is the Patchwork Girl’s nickname in L. Frank Baum’s tale (it’s the only one of the fourteen original Oz books that Miley tried to read; I’ve read them all—several times). But I don’t mind. I prefer a good book to a boy. At least, that’s what I keep telling Miley. And I remind her that even though we judge books by their covers, they don’t judge us back. The truth is I don’t have much money to spend on clothes—or anything else. And even though the Herreras treat me like a daughter, I know I’m a burden to them. Occasionally, Mrs. Herrera offers to buy me a new shirt or pair of pants, but I always tell her I’m fine. I find what I need at the Good Will near Eastern market.

Quick as lightning, I get a text back:

where r u? mom said u left b4 anyone got up.

Miley is standing at the bottom of the school’s front steps while people file in around her. She looks up from her phone again. It’s obvious she’s looking for me. Not good. If the Iceman is watching her, he might start looking for me, too.

Had 2 drop stuff @ library, I reply, which isn’t exactly a lie.

I really did drop off my black getaway bag (always packed with a change of clothes, spare money, a few sundry items, and the handful of books I can’t bear to part with). But I didn’t take it to the school library, which is what my text implies; I took it to the SCOTUS library—the only place I could think of that was close and safe.

SCOTUS stands for Supreme Court of the United States. Sounds crazy that I have access to the Supreme Court, I know.

I quickly punch in TTYL and send my reply. Miley reads it, and continues to scan the school grounds. She knows I’m somewhere nearby.

Just then, Brice Weir taps her on the shoulder. She likes Brice, which means I’m suddenly and totally forgotten. I can see Miley laugh at something he says to her. She slides the phone into her back pocket and sashays up the stairs a step ahead of him.

I have an overwhelming urge to rush across the street and join them, but I know the Iceman is out there, lurking in the shadows, ready to make his move, ready to grab me.

La Migra

The Iceman—if it hadn’t been for him, my parents would still be with me. I haven’t seen them in two years, and I haven’t heard from them in nearly three weeks. Whatever hope I’d clung to that they might turn up and surprise me is gone now that the Iceman is back. It’s like he’s the harbinger of death and destruction.

It was yesterday after school, as I was shelving books, when I saw him.

Most days, I like to stay after school to get my homework done in the library, where I also assist Ms. Waters, our school librarian.

Ms. Waters is the best. Even though we’re not related, she’s like mi tía—my aunt. She helped me get my internship at the Supreme Court, which is, like, the hardest position in the world to get. In fact, I think I’m the first high school student ever accepted—maybe even the first immigrant. Not only did she give the Supreme Court librarian, Dr. Meger, a glowing reference for me, but, when I turned fifteen, Ms. Waters also helped me get documented through Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals—DACA.

When it’s not used as a punching bag by politicians, it has allowed immigrants like me, who were brought to the United States illegally by their parents, to apply for a work permit and social security number. That opens the door for things like a driver’s license, a bank account, a real job, and a college education. Miley told me I was crazy because everyone knows Homeland Security just uses DACA to find and deport us, but Ms. Waters insisted it would benefit me in the long run. She thinks I can get into an Ivy League school. She told me it would be a crime if I didn’t go to college, so she helped me get DACAmented, which paid off when the Supreme Court internship came up.

Volunteering in the library after school is the least I can do to show Ms. Waters my appreciation. It’s not like I mind. Libraries are like sanctuaries to me: not only do I feel safe, but I also feel a deep sense of belonging, as if all those silent, orderly tomes are my congregation, waiting patiently for their turn to be called upon.

But when I spotted the Iceman yesterday, the steadfast walls of my sanctuary shook and crumbled like adobe mud.

It was around 3:30 p.m. I’d paused between the twin, arched library windows, holding an armful of books that needed to be shelved, admiring the new cover on the latest reprint of S. E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, when I sensed before I saw someone standing on the sidewalk just outside the school’s semi-circular driveway. I became strangely aware that I’d both anticipated this moment and that this moment did not belong to me, but was some surreal scene from a horror movie. Naturally, I froze.

When my heart started beating again, I ducked out of sight. I don’t think he saw me, but I can’t be sure. I crept back to the window, but he was already gone.

Even though I didn’t get another look, I didn’t need one. My heart tells me it was the Iceman. I remember everything about him. I still have nightmares.

After the shock, it took me a while to muster the courage to leave the library. But I had to get to work. I wouldn’t dare miss a day. I love being at the Supreme Court even more than I love being at school, if that’s even possible. It’s like, well, high school is my well-worn trail—comfortable, familiar, and filled with chitchat and laughter; but the Supreme Court is my shimmering castle in the clouds—reverential, extraordinary, and shrouded in all things historic.

As I set out for SCOTUS yesterday afternoon, my ancestors must have been looking out for me because I saw no sign of the Iceman. When I finally got home to the Herreras’ last night, I knew it would just be a matter of time.

I wish I could have called my parents, but they don’t have a cell phone. It doesn’t do them any good to have one in their small Mexican village because there’s no service for miles. That’s why we talk at the same time every week. On Sundays, they take the bus into town to attend church. After mass, the minister lets them use the church phone (for a small donation).

I’m so worried about them and, now that the Iceman is back, I just know something bad has happened. Last night, I fell asleep crying into my pillow.

When I woke up, it was early. Everyone was still asleep when I snuck out of the room I share with Miley and her younger sister to take my getaway bag over to the Supreme Court. I stowed it in the ladies’ room on the top floor by the basketball court and gym.

By the time I got to Eastern, I wasn’t sure I should even be here. But I had nowhere else to go, and I’d started to doubt myself. Maybe I just think I saw the Iceman because I’ve been so worried? I know my imagination gets the better of me—a lot. But I have this sense of dread that tells me he’s nearby.

Didn’t I tell you he brought death with him? 

As usual, a fictional scene jumps to mind. This one’s from Eugene O’Neill’s 1946 play, The Iceman Cometh, when Rocky, Joe, and Chuck are about to kill each other.

My Iceman of death is the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent who seized my parents in the predawn hours of a cool October morning two years ago, and deported them to Mexico, which is where we’re from. I was born in a small village outside Magdalena de Kino, in Sonora. It’s a couple of hours south of the border, near Arizona.

My parents brought me here when I was around two years old. I don’t remember anything about Mexico, other than from the stories my parents used to tell. They tried so hard to assimilate to America (and were so afraid of being deported) that they did everything they could to learn English—paying for classes they couldn’t afford, reading English newspapers and magazines, watching TV in English, even insisting that we speak English at home. I mean, I can speak Spanish fluently, but Miley makes fun of me and says I speak it like a gringa sometimes.

I hear the school bell ring. The kids hanging around the front steps dart through the doors like a flock of sparrows evading a hawk—in this case Dean Smith, who’s nowhere in sight, but is known to swoop in when he’s least expected. Pretty soon, it’s down to a few stragglers. I’m so tempted to run across the street and flee into the safety of the building that my legs start to twitch. I imagine I’m a racehorse stomping inside my gate, snorting hot plumes into the frigid air. Eastern is so close. I feel like if I can only get there, nothing bad will happen. I know it’s not true—lots of bad things happen in school—but it’s always felt safe