Page 3 of Luka

“Wow.” She slides her sunglasses down her nose to peer at me over the top of them. “You must’ve been out there for a while.”

I tuck my hands beneath my thighs and take too long to say something. I know this. But all at once, an impossible discomfort comes over me.

This woman is a stranger. I don’t talk to strangers. I don’t meet strangers.

“Do you speak English?” she asks with an obvious disapproval in her tone. “¿Habla inglés?”

I told Mario we promised each other we’d try to blend in and chided him for his speech. Yet I’m the one who’s going to ruin things for us, aren’t I?

I clear my throat and shift in the seat. “Y-yes. Sorry, yes. My boyfriend’s truck broke down about four hours ago.”

“Doesn’t seem like much, but Vegas summers will cook youfast.”

I look around at the barren land, my lips lowering with a frown. I'm very good with English, but her words don’t quite make sense.Vegameans fertile land by a body of water in my language, and not an inch of this land looks fertile.

What is a vegas summer?

Am I not as good with English as I thought?

Should I have prepared more before coming here?

I know every capital of every state. Everything there is to know about Tecate, California, where I’m supposedly from. I can recite the Declaration of Independence, list the presidents in order, tell you the names of every Supreme Court Justice. Yet I still feel stunted with ignorance.

The woman angles her head toward me like she can sense my confusion, and although I can’t see her eyes, I can tell I’m missing something basic.

“Yes, I agree.” I nod while trying to smooth the confusion from my wrinkled brow.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

I don’t hesitate. I’m not used to talking to strangers, but I’ve spent weeks preparing for this question. “California. My boyfriend and I are just passing through on our way to see friends in Illinois.”

“Mmhmm.” She nods with a cocky grin lifting one side of her lips.

I shift uncomfortably.

“You want a word of advice?” she asks.

My eyes trained on the road, I shrug. “Sure.”

“If you want people to believe you’re fromCalifornia, you might want to pretend you know about Las Vegas. Most Americans do.”

LasVegas. The city.Of course.

Idiot.

“I am American.”

“Okay.”

“I got confused because you called it Vegas instead ofLasVegas.”

“You’re making it worse.”

I open my mouth again, but then close it and wring my hands.

Would she call the police? Turn me in? How easy will it be for them to confirm I’m here illegally?

“I’m Piper, by the way.” She,Piper, flips her iron-curled hair off her shoulder to flow over her back. A bright pink bra strap peaks through the blonde strands that darken to brown above her ears. I wonder if she knows how obvious her bra straps arein her tank top or if that’s the point. The black and pink are striking. I’d never wear something like that.

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