Read The Book of Unknown Americans: A novel for Free Online Page B

watching as she stood still, her hands folded in front of her. I thought I should probably say something to her, you know, just to be neighborly, but she was clearly so far out of my league that I was having trouble remembering how to work my mouth.
    I put one hand in my pants pocket, trying to seem cool. She didn’t even look at me. Whatever I said, it had to be good, something that would make her think I had game. Finally, I blurted out, “You just moved in.”
    Sra. Rivera glanced at me. Maribel barely looked up.
    Great. I was an asshole. “You just moved in”? That’s what I’d come up with?
    “To our building,” I went on. Jesus.
    She stared at me, her face as blank as a wall.
    “Yeah,” I said, and looked at my feet in humiliation. What was wrong with me? I should just keep my mouth shut from now on. Which is exactly what I did after that. Our moms talked while I stared at my shoes—my brother’s old black-and-white Adidas that I always thought looked cool and retro but at the moment just seemed stupid and old—and counted the minutes until we could get out of there. Then, through my fog of embarrassment, I heard her mom say something about the Evers School.
    I looked up and saw my mom raise her eyebrows. “Did you say Evers?”
    “Yes,” Sra. Rivera said.
    I looked at the girl again. Evers? That was the school for retards. We all called it the Turtle School.
    My mom said, “Of course. Yes. That’s a great school. She’ll be very happy there,” and smiled a little too big.
    The girl pulled her arms all the way into the body of her yellow sweater so that the empty sleeves hung like banana peels, and I saw it was true. There
was
something wrong with her. I never would have guessed it. I mean, to look at her … it didn’t seem possible.
    My mom changed the subject after that, telling Sra. Rivera where to find the cheapest hair salon and the best Goodwill and how to get to the nearest Western Union. She told her to steer clear of the sandwich shop at the end of Main Street because Ynez Mercado, who lived in our building, had found a hair in the hoagie she’d bought there, and of course she told her about the horrors we’d just experienced with the Laundromat. Sra. Rivera repeated “Thank you” anytime my mom gave her an opening, and finally my mom wrapped up by telling her our unit number and encouraging them to stop by anytime. “I’m almost always home,” she said. I guess she couldn’t help herself, because she added pointedly, “My husband likes it that way.”

Benny Quinto
    My name is Benny Quinto. I came from Nicaragua, baby. The Land of Lakes and Volcanoes. Been here eight years almost to the day.
    Back in Nicaragua I was studying to be in the priesthood. I thought I heard God calling my name from up in the clouds somewhere, man, and I thought he was telling me I was the chosen one. This deep, booming voice. I wasn’t even high. Drugs hadn’t come into my life yet. But I think I must have been hallucinating or something, because I’ve had conversations with God since then and He’s like, Nope, don’t know what you’re talking about, Benny. Never said all that about you being the one. Sorry to disappoint.
    A few buddies of mine left Nicaragua to come make some real bones over here. Wasn’t no money for pinoleros like us back home. Politically, you know, it wasn’t so bad anymore. Somoza was long gone, the contras were nothing but a memory. But leaving the poverty of Nicaragua to go to the richest country in the world didn’t take much convincing.
    I left when I was twenty. Told a dude I would pay him two thousand dollars to bring me over, three hundred up front. Took me a while to scrape it together. Three hundred dollars! In Nicaragua you could live off that for a while. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I stole some of it from the church. Stuffed the offering envelopes up under my shirt one week when I was supposed tobe doing my Eucharistic Minister duties and walked out with