La Linea Read Online Free PDF

nose. Then he looked directly at the chupacabra ’s rear end.
    â€œActually,” he said, “this part looks a lot like el presidente, don’t you think?”
    Then everyone laughed and joked and told more La Llorona and chupacabra stories, each one wilder than the one before it. They told these tales with a purpose, to comfort each other, and to comfort me. The crazier the stories got, the less we needed to believe them.
    But mostly, they told these stories to avoid telling the ones that were one hundred percent true, the ones that we had to believe.
    Fátima didn’t tell how her brother Eleuterio left suddenly one day, only to be found two weeks later, suffocated to death, stuffed into an abandoned tractor trailer one mile north of la línea, dead with twenty-six others.
    Lalo didn’t tell how his father was robbed, beaten, and left for dead in the desert. He didn’t tell how he came back, deaf in one ear, the fingers of his right hand gone. He didn’t tell how his father now spent his days in a darkened room, speaking to no one.
    And no one spoke of the Martinez sisters, ten-year-old Juana and twelve-year-old Julietta, sent for by their parents, sent across the desert with a coyote, and never heard from again. No one speculated on the fate of the girls. No one wanted to say how they might have died or, even worse, how they might still live.
    And for many, many minutes, no one spoke at all. Finally, one by one, they wished me well. They hugged me and shook my hand, pressing a few pesos into my palm. They left, walking away into the darkness.

CHAPTER 9
    Lalo, Chuy, and I sat in a tight circle around the barbacoa pit, watching the fire die down to red embers and white ash. We poked at the coals with sticks, and bright yellow sparks flew out into the night.
    Elena moved behind us, cleaning up from the party. She worked quickly, but silently. She carted dishes and food to the house, gave a bone to the dog, and took scraps to the animals in the barn.
    Finally, she threw the rest of the garbage on the coals, right in front of me, a messy glop of paper and grease. The fire popped and sputtered angrily. It leaped to life. A long tongue of flame rose up next to my foot. I moved back quickly. I turned to give Elena a piece of my mind, but she was gone. The door to the house slammed shut.
    â€œWhat’s up with her?” Chuy asked. “¿Qué tiene?”
    He motioned toward Elena’s pile of burning garbage, now a big black blob. It bubbled and writhed.
    I shrugged. “Nothing. She’s just mad because I’m going. She’ll get over it.”
    Chuy kicked at a log, sending more sparks into the air. “If you say so, Miguel.”
    He turned and looked at our casita, and the light that lit the room Elena and I shared. Her shadow moved back and forth. Then the room went dark. Chuy turned back and stared into the flames, silent.
    Suddenly, Lalo unbuttoned his shirt. Under it, he was wearing an America soccer jersey I’d never seen, just like the kind I’d always wanted. He quickly stripped off the shirt and carefully folded it into quarters.
    â€œI got this from my cousin.” He placed the jersey in my hands. “I thought you’d like it. “ No es nueva. It’s secondhand. Don’t get too excited.” But he looked at me sideways, checking my reaction.
    â€œIt’s perfect,” I replied. I pulled it over my head, fingering the silky fabric.
    Chuy reached deep into his front right pocket. With one swift movement, he pulled out his carving knife, placed it in the palm of my hand, and closed my fist tightly around it. I felt the smooth bone handle, still warm from Chuy’s touch, and the switch that released the razor-sharp blade.
    â€œYou might need this,” he said.
    I knew this was his only knife. It was the only knife he’d ever carved with. Neither of us spoke. The stories from earlier, told and untold, hung in the night