exemption to keep Drew from having to register for the draft when he turned eighteen—but I’d never heard him talk about the marriage thing.
Drew shrugged at Gina. “I don’t know.”
“A lot of black people don’t support gay marriage,” Becca said. “Church people especially.”
Everyone got quiet then. I had no idea what Becca was talking about.
“My dads told me that,” she said, when she realized we were all staring at her. “They’re gay, so they should know.”
“That’s completely not true,” I said. “And if your gay dads told you that, they—”
“Hey, I think this store sells that toast you’re so obsessed with.” Christa tapped her finger on my arm kind of hard. That was the most she’d ever touched me in front of other people, so it was enough to shut me up. “Want to go see?”
She was right. We were in front of a tiny grocery store with a sign in the window for the brand of toast I’d been eating to the exclusion of almost everything else since we’d come to Mexico.
“Okay,” I said. Becca was eyeing me. I really wanted to keep talking about her dads (and to ask what it was like to have gay dads in the first place), but Christa was probably right. That conversation wasn’t going to end well.
The store was tiny. When Christa and I ducked inside, we took up nearly all the available space. A woman was sitting behind the counter, reading a newspaper. I smiled and said, “Hola,” but I was too anxious to try to say anything else.
The store definitely sold toast, but I didn’t see the point in buying any since our hosts put it out at every meal we ate. It felt like we should buy something, though, so Christa found a pack of ponytail holders and went up to pay, fumbling in her purse for the pesos we’d all gotten at the airport. I walked around, gazing at the shelves of canned vegetables, then caught a reflection in the store window that said Salud. Salud meant health. I turned around.
Across the street was yet another one-story cement building. A stone fence stood around it, and the front of the building was plain except for the painted words Casa de Salud above the door. In my head, that translated to house of health, but it probably sounded cooler in Spanish.
The name made it sound like the building was some kind of doctor’s office, but it didn’t look anything like the clinic where I’d volunteered back home. This place looked old and deserted.
I’d seen doctors’ offices in Tijuana when we drove in from the airport. They’d looked pretty similar to doctors’ offices back home—neat and shiny, with giant signs announcing the doctors who worked there and what their specialties were, in Spanish and English.
Maybe there was a big, shiny doctor’s office in some other part of Mudanza. I was still curious about the Casa de Salud, though.
“I’m all set.” Christa pocketed her ponytail holders. “Sure you don’t want to grab some toast, seeing as how nothing else in the whole country is edible for you?”
“Oh, whatever. Listen, do you want to go check out that building across the street?”
“What? Oh, uh.” Christa craned her neck to read the sign, then looked at me quizzically. “Sure.”
“I only want to stick my head inside. See how it looks.”
Christa reached for her digital camera and followed me across the street, through the opening in the stone fence and up to the front door of the Casa de Salud.
The door swung open. Christa lowered her camera. Inside, the building looked just as old as it had outside, but it was far from deserted. In fact, all I could see no matter which way I looked were people, waiting. There must’ve been at least thirty of them, mostly women and kids, swatting at the mosquitoes that buzzed around them.
There were only a few chairs, so most people were sitting on the floor or standing. At first I couldn’t see what they were waiting for, but then I spotted a desk strewn with papers in the far corner of the room. Behind it was a door that must’ve opened into another room. A young woman in a button-down shirt sat behind the desk, talking to a woman with a baby on her lap. The baby was crying. The woman behind the desk was trying to explain something, but the woman with the baby was arguing with her. I wished I could understand them.
An older woman came up to Christa and me, speaking rapid Spanish. She was wearing a stained gray sweatshirt and holding a jar of bandages, and she didn’t look particularly happy to see us. I dipped my head in an apology and murmured “Lo siento” before backing out the door with Christa.
“Did you see any medical equipment in there?” I asked when we got outside.
“Some bandages, I think?” Christa glanced back over her shoulder. “Most of the equipment was probably in the other room. That must be where all the doctors and nurses are.”
I had a feeling that wasn’t the case.
The clinic where I’d volunteered back home wasn’t anything fancy, but it was neat and mosquito-free. And it had rooms full of equipment. Machines that the orderlies wheeled around. Drawers and drawers full of medicine and syringes.
I didn’t know what to think of any of it. Maybe I should ask Dad. He probably understood it all better than I did.
“I think we lost them.” Christa pointed up the street. We could still see the rest of our group, but they were so far ahead of us now, we couldn’t tell who was who.
I didn’t actually mind, though. There was only one person I’d been looking forward to spending time with today, and she was standing right in front of me.
“Well.” I turned to meet Christa’s eyes. “If they’re that far off, I guess there’s no point trying to catch up.”
Christa smiled.
“I’m quite confident,” she said, “that we can have a lot more fun on our own.”
We spent the rest of the morning exploring the town by ourselves, stopping so Christa could take photos whenever we saw something interesting. And now that I was actually paying attention, there was a lot of interesting stuff. Mudanza was beautiful, with the hills in the distance and wide, open streets. Everyone we saw smiled and waved at us. One man even tipped his hat. When Christa asked a few women standing in front of a shop if she could take their photo, they beamed and twisted into so many different poses Christa finally had to tell them she was running out of storage space on her camera.
I asked her questions about the photos she was taking, and it turned out that was really interesting, too. She had a whole method she’d learned from classes and from reading tons of articles online.
“This camera shoots on film,” she told me, holding up the old black-and-white camera. “I only have so much film, so I have to be really choosy about what I shoot. I’m using it for artsier shots, where there are cool shadows and stuff. Those are the ones I want to print out and play around with in the darkroom once we get back home.”
“Darkrooms are still a thing?”
“Yeah! I mean, not many are still around, but my school has a tiny one in the art department. They have a way fancier one at the school I wanted to go to, but my parents wouldn’t let me apply. Hey, did you ever think about going there? Your parents would probably be cool with it. It’s called MHSA, the Maryland High School for the Arts. It’s a public school, so it’s free, but you have to apply, and they only take the very best. They have lots of different programs. Visual art, theater, music.”
Sweat broke out along the back of my neck. I should’ve known this might come up. “I, uh...”
I could tell her the truth. This would be the perfect time to tell her the truth.
But