90 Miles to Havana by Enrique Flores-Galbis Page A

road surrounded by a field of swamp grass, scrub oak, and palmettos.
    â€œWe’ll never be able to find our way out of here,” I mumble out the window.
    At the end of the road there is a gate with a wooden sign swinging above it. Crudely carved letters spell “C-a-m-p K-e-n-d-a-l.”
    When the camp station wagon squeals to a stop, Jorge points at the kids pouring out of four metal buildings thatlook like huge pipes cut in half. “There’s your welcoming committee.”
    â€œWhy are they all wearing bathing suits?” I ask, but before he can answer the car doors open, and hands reach in and pull us out into a cloud of red dust. We’re surrounded by a mob, and I can’t see daylight, just the pattern on my brothers’ shirts right in front of me and an occasional wild face rushing by. The mob is chanting; “
¡Piscina, piscina, vamos a la piscina!
” The pool, the pool, let’s go to the pool.
    When the crowd begins to move, it feels as if we’ve been swallowed by a big animal. I hear the sound of splashing water—screams, and then the wall of bodies opens up and there’s choppy water below and blue skies above. I take a deep breath, plant my feet, and dive for a small opening in the mass of splashing, screaming kids.
    If I stay on the surface I know they’ll try to dunk me; we played this game at the pool in Havana. I swim to the bottom, kick off my shoes, and hook my toes into the drain. Above me a tangle of kicking legs and waving arms block out the sky. They’re waiting for us to come up but I can hold my breath for a long time. To my left Alquilino is frantically unbuttoning his shirt and Gordo is pulling at the knot in his tie. Brilliant, I think, they’re taking off their clothes so that when we go back up we’ll blend in!
    I slip out of my clothes, and then ball them up. I swim for the ladder, climb out and then start running. Halfway across the dusty space the crowd catches up. We’re surrounded again but now they’re laughing and pointing at me.
    Gordo and Alquilino are shirtless, but still wearing their dripping dress pants. I’m down to my underwear—this is like a bad dream.
    An older boy swaggers into the circle.
    â€œGordo, isn’t that Caballo?” I whisper.
    Gordo is looking at Caballo—measuring him. “He’s even bigger than he was before.”
    Caballo was in Alquilino’s class. He thought that just because he was one of the bigger kids he could push everybody around. That’s why he and Gordo never got along. Caballo might have been one of the strongest guys in the schoolyard but the real boss was the kid who came to school with his bodyguard. When that kid was around, Caballo had to jump and dance to his tune. That was one of the reasons why nobody really respected him. The other reason was he was the only kid we knew that chose his own nickname; everybody else had a nickname given to him or her. It was something that followed you around like a stray dog. Caballo changed it and then threatened to beat up anyone that called him by his real name.
    â€œHey, Caballo. How you doing?” Alquilino says and then steps forward to shake his hand. A troublesome smirk is rising on Gordo’s face and somehow I know exactly what he’s going to say.
    â€œRomeo, how have you been?” Gordo says.
    Caballo pushes Gordo; he flies back into the crowd. When the crowd spits him out, Gordo rushes back at Caballo. Alquilino jumps in between them.
    â€œCaballo, we’re all friends!” he says as he tries to hold Gordo back.
    The crowd is closing in. I’m hopping around on one leg, trying to pull up my wet pants, but I lose my balance and fall into a forest of dusty legs.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caballo huffs. “You weren’t my friends!”
    Then I see Caballo’s black leather shoe come down hard on Gordo’s bare foot and now