Pops had left a note on the fridge saying he wouldn’t be back till late, and America was nowhere to be seen, affirming my belief that this plan was perfectly timed. Without heating up food or changing out of my uniform, I tore into the small office that separated my father’s bedroom from mine, body driven by the type of determination that pulled me through the Personal Growth & Defense Club’s workouts.
My fingers tap danced over the keyboard and soon Dom’s website burst onto the screen, spewing a hurricane of images, the same kind he’d shown us, set against a bright pink background. Not wanting to put any thought into this shit beyond getting it over with, I sent the first three photos on my screen through the printer, figuring that’d be enough to get the job done.
The paper was still hot when I made it back to my room. I set each picture across the chaos of my unmade bed and positioned myself above them, waiting for the storm to start. The women in these photos were all gabachas with perfect, hairless skin, every single pixel of which was glaring up at me. Seconds passed, then minutes, and still no clouds or thunder or lightning. Other than a pulse feeding my verga, more painful than blissful, there wasn’t nada going on. It occurred to me then that I didn’t love these pictures. They weren’t my Americas. The disgrace in that thought, in my failure, forced tears to my eyes. I grabbed the papers off my bed, placed them in my closet on a pile of dirty laundry, and threw some unwashed clothes over them.
Later that week our social studies class began its wrap up of the US Citizenship unit by introducing the “Who Are We?” assignment, a project that required us to be put into pairs based off our preferences of the topics we’d covered. I hadn’t tried to guess which subject América might put as her favorite. I’d aimed for the opposite, remembering how heated she got about Chavez and the United Farm Workers. I selected my topic with the goal of sliding by my love without risking further embarrassment. I’d convinced myself to just be cool with the memory of that single stare, how it had briefly, unforgettably, lifted me from this world.
Mrs. Anderson read off the pairings at the end of class. Upon hearing our names coupled, América looked directly at me for the second time, honing her eyes into my own and chucking a baseball through the glass window of my heart. Once the bell rang she marched up to me, and I was grateful to still be seated ’cus my legs went all wet spaghetti.
Meet me at the library after school, my love said. We’ve got stuff to establish.
I can’t—I’ve got a club thing.
Tough shit. I’m not letting your stupidity fuck my grades up. Comprendes?
My head bobbed like a woodpecker, mirroring the rhythm in my chest. América punched out a short sigh and turned away, leaving me to slide down a waterfall of amazement at how she’d used the word we in reference to the two of us.
I never thought I’d be so damn overwhelmed by a library, especially our library, which smelled like a used gym sock and had more cracks in its ceiling and stains in its carpet than books on its shelves. But there I was, my leg a hummingbird’s wing, my sweaty palms rubbing into one another beneath the table where América was schooling my ass. She showered me with details about the Delano Grape Strike, about that culero Chavez getting all the credit and the two thousand Filipino pickers who started it all being erased in the lesson plan. She explained to me, only me, how Dolores Huerta directed one of the most groundbreaking boycotts in this country’s history.
And I tried real hard to glue myself to her words, but I couldn’t get over how near our bodies were, how the heat radiating off América swam in and out of my own as she swayed in her chair like a candle’s flame. I could only focus on how my love was almost as close to me as she’d been in my dream.
That’s what we’re gonna do for this, she said. Okay?
Okay, I replied, praying América wouldn’t pick up on the fact that I had no idea what she was talking about.
Can you handle that?
I think so.
You think so?
I parted my lips, then paused, detecting she wasn’t buying my lies. When I opened my mouth again I tried not to show her that I was gasping for air.
So what do you, like, mean? I managed to ask.
My love shook her head, as if rejecting the breath I’d blown her way. We’re gonna say we’re more than the stories they teach us, she stated.
But what does that mean?
América’s gaze volleyballed between my eyes, probing the colored parts to find out whether I was really that big of a huevón. Don’t the mamones in our class get on your nerves? she asked.
The speed of my blinks was enough of an answer for her.
When they all ganged up on you, after that…noise you made, I felt sorry for you and honestly fucken pissed. I thought you were tryna get in on the dissing—that your voice just did that thing that happens to boys—but then I actually saw you and was like, this kid gets it. He’s had enough of their shit, too.