Tarnished Beauty by Cecilia Samartin Page A

girl lowered the rifle a bit. “I never heard of a girl crossing on her own before. And I sure as hell never met a wetback that speaks English so good.” The woman appraised Jamilet with guarded fascination. “And why are you dressed like that?”
    â€œI thought it would be safer to travel as a boy,” Jamilet answered with a shrug, realizing that she couldn’t have been more wrong.
    â€œWe don’t need any more Mexicans here, boys or girls. I don’t understand why you don’t stay in your own country where you belong, why you keep sneaking over like thieves.”
    â€œI came to see a doctor,” Jamilet said.
    â€œThey got doctors in Mexico.”
    â€œNot the kind of doctor I need.”
    A momentary glint of intrigue softened the woman’s expression, and Jamilet wasted no time. She pulled her shirt up and turned around so the worst part of the mark, where the skin was thickest and shiny red, was visible.
    â€œHoly shit!” the woman exclaimed. “It looks like you were skinned alive!” She was about to say something more, but was interrupted by the crunching sound of wheels rolling across the gravel driveway outside. Moments later, a car door could be heard to open and close, followed by steps up onto the wooden porch. A man’s voice called out, “Nancy. Hey, Nancy!”
    The woman became momentarily flustered, and seemed confused about what she should do next. She lowered her shotgun so that the barrel pointed at the floor, and stared blankly at Jamilet, watching her as she tucked her shirt back into her pants. “Wait here and don’t make a sound,” she said, and then she left, taking the extra time to close the barn door securely behind her.
    Peeking through the slats of the barn wall, Jamilet watched the woman who she assumed to be Nancy make her way across the yard and over to the porch to join the men waiting for her. She leaned casually on her shotgun, and crossed one boot over the other while conversing in an offhand manner with the two officers in dark green uniforms. A long bus of the same color with windows covered in wire mesh was parked in the drive. Four Mexican men were sitting in back, three sleeping and one watching the scene on the porch. Jamilet immediately recognized Juan, and when he lifted his hands to scratch his nose, she saw that he was handcuffed as well. In spite of everything, she felt bad for him. He had protected her as well as he could under the circumstances and she hoped that his detainment would be a short one.
    Nancy pointed out beyond the road, toward the woods that Jamilet had traversed, and then entered the house, returning moments later with a can of beer for each officer. They accepted her hospitality with a nod before stepping off the porch and climbing back into the bus. As it headed down the road in the direction that Nancy had indicated, a thick cloud of dirt rose up from beneath the tires, obscuring the vehicle from sight although it was possible to hear the rumble of the engine for some time afterward.
    When all was silent again, Nancy returned to the barn, without her shotgun this time, and instructed Jamilet to follow her into the kitchen. There, she prepared a meal of leftover fried chicken and corn mash. Jamilet tried to eat politely, but after a few dainty bites, she couldn’t help but shovel the food into her mouth like a wild animal. Nancy watched her from the sink as she filled the canteen with fresh water from the faucet. The last time Jamilet had seen water running from a faucet like that had been at the Miller house.
    â€œHow’d it happen—that thing on your back?” she asked after Jamilet had almost finished her meal. “Did someone beat you bad?”
    Jamilet shook her head and swallowed the last of her corn mash. “I was born with it.”
    â€œDoes it hurt?”
    Jamilet shrugged, and took a closer look at the bruise on Nancy’s face, noticing that