Gold Rush Girl by Avi

Author:Avi [Avi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781536211825
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2020-04-14T16:00:00+00:00

WE SQUISHED THROUGH THE MUD TO Portsmouth Square, going right to the old schoolhouse, a small, single-story wooden building. When we reached it, I stood next to Señor Rosales at the front door, trying to catch my breath and unclutter my thoughts.

“What do you wish to do?” he asked me. “I can talk to whoever is here. But perhaps it’s better that you do. Jacob is your hermano.”

It may seem stupid to say, or even simple, but I was learning that being frightened while trying to decide the right thing to do is difficult. I struggled hard to control my distress. “I’ll talk,” I said, and forced myself to stand straight and wipe the tears from my face. “I’m ready,” I said, though I didn’t think I was.

“Bueno. Think for a moment what you will say.”

I took a deep breath. Then nodded.

Señor Rosales pushed the door open.

It was a large room, divided in half, front and back, with a door to the back part. Next to the door was a bench with a man sitting on it. He was bent over reading the Alta California, the newspaper for which Thad’s father worked.

When we came in, this man looked up. His weather-beaten face bore a large and crooked nose, as if it had been broken some while ago. The skin about his small eyes was puffy, his mouth set in a frown, his chin neither smooth nor bearded, while his thick hair was much disheveled. A large pistol was stuck in his belt.

In short: there was something altogether disagreeable about him.

Señor Rosales spoke first. “Señor, con respecto, where is the police chief?”

The man looked at me and then at Señor Rosales. He appeared to be one of those people who take time to speak, not because he is thinking but to show you he’s in charge. When he did respond, he nodded toward the door, saying, “Don’t know if he’s there.”

“Why?” I said.

“He don’t answer to me.” With that, the man shook out the paper as if it contained crumbs that needed disposing of. Then he made a demonstration of resuming his reading.

Ignoring him, I went forward and knocked on the door. No one answered. I looked at Señor Rosales. He pursed his lips. I looked at the man with the newspaper. Though he kept his eyes fixed on the paper, I was sure he was not reading but waiting to see what I did.

Agitated, desperate to do something, I twisted the big doorknob and pushed the door open.

There was a big oaken desk in the middle of this smaller room, plus a few large chairs. On the wall hung a picture of James Polk, the former president of the United States, the one whose words had brought my father and thousands of others to California.

A man behind the desk was leaning forward, his head resting in his arms. Judging by his heavy, steady breathing, he was asleep.

I shoved the door farther in, went forward, and stood before the desk. “Sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

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