90 Miles to Havana by Enrique Flores-Galbis

cement. I’m floating behind them like a balloon on a string.
    As we run past the man in the blue coveralls he waves at the pilot. We walk up the steps, onto the plane, and then the big door closes behind us.
    As we bank over Havana the broken plate in my pocket is poking into my leg, reminding me that it’s not a dream—everything has fallen apart. One minute we were together and safe, and the next minute, everything is broken and dangerous.
    Outside my little window the thunderheads are rolling white-cloud boulders into castles, high in the deep blue sky.
    Our new dictator can wave his cigar, wag his finger, make people stand in lines, fill the streets with tanks and soldiers, close my school, turn everything upside down, but he can’t tell the clouds what to do. Every day, like clockwork, the clouds still build their castles, then they come tumbling down with the afternoon showers.

MIAMI AIRPORT
    â€œWe’re about to land,” Alquilino says. I can barely hear him over the roar of the engines. Two ladies across the aisle are frantically fingering their rosary beads as the tires screech on the Miami runway. Everybody’s waving and shouting as if a great miracle has occurred.
    Gordo is already standing up in the aisle as Alquilino leans over me. “Julian,” he says softly, “grab the cigars!”
    When we step out of the airplane, I stop on the first step to look out at the flat landscape. The rising thunderheads almost look the same as the ones I left behind, but then the slap of the gasoline breeze wakes me up and everything looks very different.
    Alquilino prods me down the steps. “Pay attention, Julian, look where you’re going,”
    At the bottom of the stairs a man in a dark suit smiles and reaches in for my box of cigars.
    â€œ
¡Oye! ¿Que haces?
What are you doing?” I clutch the box tightly, but the man pulls even harder. “¡Alquilino,
mi tabacos
!” I yell. What luck, the first person I meet
en los Estados Unidos
is a cigar thief. When he realizes that I’m not going to let go of the box, he waves a ten-dollar bill in front of my face.
    â€œ
¡Dolores! Muchos dolores.
”
    Why is he is saying that?
Dolores
means
pains
in Spanish. But when I listen a little closer, I remember what my father said: “They are as good as dollars.” Gordo reaches past me and grabs the bill and hands it to me. “Give him the box, stupid. Take the money!”
    â€œWelcome to America!” the man says as he collects the cigar box.
    Alquilino grabs my arm; I follow him into the terminal and then stop at a row of green plastic chairs by a wall with framed travel posters hanging on it.
    â€œMami told me this is where a guy named Jorge is going to pick us up and take us to the camp. Look for a guy wearing a yellow hat,” Alquilino says at we sit down.
    â€œWho is that man going to give the cigars to?” I ask Alquilino as I study the face on the ten-dollar bill.
    â€œPapi told me they’re for the president. I think his name is Kennedy. He’s crazy about Cuban cigars,” he answers.
    I’m looking around at all the happy reunions. Each traveler searches the crowd, finds their smiling face, then they hug and pull back to get a good look and hug again. I search the crowd, too, but I don’t even know the guy who’s supposed to pick us up. Then Gordo points at a tall man who’s walking toward us. “Alquilino, is that the guy? He’s got the hat.”
    Alquilino stands up. “Jorge, Pedro Pan?” he asks, and then puts his hand out.
    The tall man shakes his hand, then slaps him on the back. “Welcome to America!”

INITIATION
    A strange city is glittering in the distance as we breeze along the empty highway. Then we zigzag through a maze of streets lined with seemingly identical little houses. I’m counting the lefts and the rights, looking for landmarks, but then we turn onto a dirt