Girl Without A Country

I slide down in my seat. I hear the sirens. “You’re going to have to talk to the cops.” I want to run, but the man is blocking my door. I have no choice but to wait for the police and this won’t be good. “Over here, officer.” The man leans into my door. “She won’t talk to me so you can ask her why she pulled into me.” “Step back, sir.” The young policeman guides him away from my car. “OK, but you ask her why she did such a stupid thing. I wanna hear what she has to say.” “That’s not how it works.” The younger cop takes the man’s arm. “You and I are going over to your car and you’re going to tell me what happened. My partner’s going to talk to the girl.” “I want to hear what she says. If she says it was my fault, she’s lying. She pulled out in front of me and there was no time to stop. I swear it’s her fault.” “OK, I’ll hear your side and my partner will hear her side and we’ll issue either one or two tickets.” He is walking the man away from my car. “Two tickets?” The man puffs up. “You’re not giving me a ticket. I told you. She pulled out in front of me.” When they’re away from my car, the tall policeman steps up to my window. “I need your license and proof of insurance.” I don’t know what to say. I stare at him and can feel my stomach flip-flop. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Habla inglés?” I can’t get any words into my mouth. I just stare at him. “Yo necesito su licencia de conducir.” I rest my head against the steering wheel. “I don’t speak Spanish.” “Really?” He shifts his weight and leans inside my car even more. “Then how about you show me your license?” “I don’t have that either. We applied for my Citizenship a long time ago, then the DHS said we sent the papers too late and that I would not be approved. They’re just being jerks.” “So let me get this straight. You don’t have a license and you’re not a legal citizen of the United States?” He leans closer. “I don’t have a license and I wasn’t exactly born in the United States, but I have been living right here since my American family pulled me out of the mud and I don’t have a family in Mexico, and I don’t speak Spanish and I live here, and I speak English, so I guess that makes me a legal citizen, right?” “What do you mean they pulled you out of the mud?” “Oh, sure. I was living with my Mexican mother in cardboard boxes on that big hill in Tijuana that’s right by the main road to the border between the States and Mexico.” “And?” “Oh sure, it rained and every time it rained, the box would slide down the hill. And my box slid down the hill and the American family found me and took me to their beach house.” “So, you’re telling me that they found you at the bottom of a hill in Tijuana and took you home? Didn’t ask your Mexican Parents, just took you to live with them in the United States?” “Yeah, pretty much but we’ve been working on my paperwork for years and we can’t seem to get it and they keep saying next year, next year, then somebody changes the rules, and we have to start over. What am I supposed to do?” “Not sure what you’re supposed to do, but it’s my job to issue you a ticket and then determine next steps.” “A ticket for what? I didn’t mean to roll into the street, and I’ll tell the man I’m sorry and my American parents will pay to have the car fixed and….” “And I’m going to issue you a ticket for reckless driving so the gentleman you hit can leave and we can get your American parents down here to help clear things up.” He takes a pen and a book and writes for a few minutes. “OK, you need to sign that you received this ticket. You are not admitting guilt but are admitting that you know you must go to court.” “OK, I can do that.” “Now, we need to call one of the Americans you live with to come and get the car and explain your situation a little more comprehensively.” “Uh.” I start to explain, but the young cop comes up to the passenger window. He’s holding my totally smashed phone. “This yours?” He hands it to me through the window. “What happened to my phone?” “Not sure. You need to tell me.” I start to tell him that it must have happened when Shanice was trying to get a selfie of us driving, but I stop. I have enough trouble without bringing Shanice into it. “Must have fallen out when the man hit my car.” “That doesn’t make sense, but here, take your phone.” He hands me the shattered mess. “Thank you.” I take the phone. “So is one of your American parents at home?” The cop in my window asks. “Uh, no.” I can hear the panic in my voice. “Can you call a parent and have them come talk to us?” “Uh,” I hold my phone up. “I don’t think this works anymore.” “OK, give me a number and I’ll make the call. “I don’t know their phone numbers. They’re on my phone. I just call them that way. I don’t dial the number.” “Do they live or work close by?” He’s getting pissed off I can tell. “Yeah, we live right up this street.” I point up the road. “All right.” “Uh, but,” This is not going well. “They’re not exactly in the country right now.” I know this sounds bad. “So, exactly where are your parents?” “Umm, uh Mexico.” I turn my face away from him. “Let me get this straight.” He takes a deep breath. “The American family who pulled you from the mud in Tijuana is in Mexico. They left you here by yourself with no paperwork that says you’re legal, just the keys to the car?” “I’m not alone, my aunt was supposed to pick me up this morning, but her mother’s sick so she couldn’t, but her husband, my uncle, is going to pick me up at six tonight.” “Do you have either of their numbers?” “No, those numbers are on my phone too. Who knows phone numbers?” He looks across to the young cop leaning inside the car. “ICE or CPS?”