Page 1 of Luka

1

LUCIA

The smell of burnt oil takes up all the space in my nose, and I question if it’s the smell of freedom or its demise.

I’ve been pondering it for the past three hours that Mario and I have been stranded on the side of this road in the middle of this American desert. We’re over a thousand kilometers away from home but not quite far enough to say we’ve made it.

“Mierda!” Mario growls, his hand flinging at a passing car. I watch him from the pickup, one leg dangling out the open door as my head rests against the seat dampened with my sweat.

My stomach turns, and I don’t know if it’s from the foul odor our overheated engine has made or if it’s the increasing hopelessness of Mario’s attempts.

“Maybe we should try walking,” I suggest.

“Walk to where?” he spits in Spanish. I don’t voice it aloud, but I wonder if that’s part of the reason we aren’t being picked up. “Look around, Lucia.” He waves his hands, clearly frustrated. I don’t humor him by looking. I’ve already searched the flat earth that runs as far as I can see. There’s nothing but dirt and this modestly trafficked road.

I eye Mario’s frustrated expression, his clenched fists. His black hair is slickened and glossy with sweat, pulled back into a low ponytail. He’s young, only twenty-four, but his youthful face is compromised by a jagged scar on his cheek and hairs darkening the space above his lip. The black cut-off he wears make the skull tattoos on his arms look threatening.

He looks like a criminal. If I were driving a car down this road, I wouldn’t stop to pick him up.

He’s too angry for me to tell him this, so I lower my eyes to my white dress and count the little yellow flowers along the seam. When Mario comes toward me, I don’t look up.

“I’m going to fix this, my love,” he says in Spanish, his voice not quite the purr he wants it to be. It’s muted with the defeat we’re both feeling. He cups my cheek with his large palm to bring me to look at him. “I promise.”

My eyes lower to his lips as a sigh sags my shoulders. “We’re undocumented here,” I say, making a point to speak in English. “We promised each other we would do everything possible to blend in.”

His lips press tightly together. “We’re the only two people out here.”

“We shouldpractice.”

When his sunburned face begins to harden, I sink lower in the seat.

“Before yesterday, you’d never stepped foot outside your Papá’sfortress, Lucia. How about you let me handle this, yeah? I know what I’m doing.”

Ouch.

I fight to maintain eye contact and ignore the burn along my neck. Ungrateful thoughts swirl in my head but are quickly replaced by guilt.

He’s right. Not only that, but Mario is already risking too much taking me along with him on this trip. His only request is that I let him lead, that I play by his rules.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Lo siento.”

He must realize the effect his harsh words had because his face gradually softens. “Not everyone have good tutors like you, Amor.”

He gives me a tight smile that I accept as an olive branch while pretending not to notice the butchered English. He’s right, I was more fortunate than some.

I force a smile back. “It’s a new country for us both… We each have plenty to learn.”

“Mmhm.”

He holds words behind his pinched lips, but his eyes say it all. I have much more to learn than he does. Even in Mexico, I’d feel out of place outside of home.

A glint catches my eye, and I peer through the back windshield at a car in the distance driving toward us. I put my hand on Mario’s.

“Let me try alone,” I insist with as soft a voice as I can manage. “I might look less threatening.”

He looks off into the distance at the car and considers it, wrinkles fanning from the crevices of his eyes.

“It’ll be okay.” I cup his cheek gently. “I’ll be careful.”

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