February 2017
“This fucking city,” Camila breathed, rolling her eyes that way she did, fast and loud—like this fucking city.
She shifted, trying to turn to look behind us. The end of her spine dug into my thigh at a painful angle. “Sorry, Libertad,” she said, squeezing my wrist. I could taste the vanilla in her perfume, sweet but sharp in my mouth.
I followed her line of vision. We watched the cop walk back to the police car, Miguel’s student ID in hand. There was something measured in the way he moved his body. An evident relishing in the flow of his stroll.
My older brother, Maynor, often said Tegucigalpa was best understood by a single rule: la ley del más fuerte, the law of the strongest. The refrain came to him often while driving—when it was clear that stoplights and traffic regulations were not the dominant language in the streets of la capital. Rather, it was the driver with the biggest car—or least scared of a wreck—who set the pace.
In the driver’s seat, Miguel also turned his whole body around to look at Carla and Valeria in the back seat. Valeria was trying her best to keep it together—lips pursed and long, thoughtful blinks, like she was finding a way out of this behind her eyes. Her parents, like my mother, would kill her if we ended up having to call them.
Miguel shrugged. “I told y’all I didn’t have a license.”
The streetlight caught the upper half of his face, emphasizing the sharp bridge of his nose.
“Why don’t you just call your dad and put him on speaker? He can tell the cop he let you borrow the car. And that you turn eighteen in, like, three weeks,” Carla suggested. The mascara she had applied minutes before brought out the desperation in her eyes.
“I’m driving at night without a license, in a car not registered to my name, with four underage girls. And just look at y’all.” Miguel ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. His eyes swept the car. “I can’t even tell him we’re driving home. We clearly look ready for pijín. Oh, and Camila’s sitting on Libertad’s lap in the passenger’s seat—neither of them wearing a seat belt. That’s, like, at least four violations.”
“Okay, okay,” Valeria said, turning around to look at the police car. The cop stood next to la patrulla, leaning against the driver’s door, plugging Miguel’s student ID into some system in his car. “Just give him what he wants.”
“I don’t have that much money on me.” Miguel sighed. “So unless all of you help me come up with at least two thousand Lempiras—we’re fucked.”
“Fine.” Valeria shoved at the boxes pressed against her hip. She and Carla barely fit in the back seat around all the junk, hence the seating arrangement with Cami in my lap. “It’s better than the alternative.”
El chepo strolled back to the car and knocked on Miguel’s window. Miguel rolled it down so quick the squeaking of the handle barely registered. The breeze of the night hit Camila’s bare thighs. She rubbed her arms—up and down. Behind the cop, the city lights of Tegucigalpa blinked its hundred eyes.
“Bueno,” the officer said, handing Miguel his student ID. “You’re not supposed to be driving without a license, and I don’t believe you’re eighteen. I don’t believe any of you are. Also, what these two señoritas are doing”—he gestured toward Cami and me in the passenger’s seat—“is dangerous. I’ll need to impound the vehicle and detain all of you until your legal guardians can claim you.”
Miguel took a deep breath. I wondered, then, if he wished there was another guy in the car—someone who might help him do the talking. The police officer’s eyes moved between us girls, a glint of hunger in his gaze. Miguel swallowed.
