I muttered a sure followed by an I guess, all while wishing my mind was able to accept América’s compliments, to agree with her reading of me. But instead my thoughts jumped to my father’s America, to the time she’d called Pops a good man, to the pictures hiding in my closet. I despised her and him and myself in that moment. Why couldn’t the world just let me fall further in love?
Now we’ve got a chance to shut their asses up, América said. If we do this thing right we can prove they don’t have to hate on everything. We can be free from their shit—from Mrs. Anderson’s shit—from this entire school’s shit.
The way she’d ended that sentence made it seem like she wanted me to add to it, feed the fire of our liberation. But I didn’t know what else I had to give other than a question I hadn’t offered anyone before.
So what do you need from me?
By the tilt of my love’s face, you’d think she’d never expected to hear those words directed at her.
I need you to listen, she said. And to not get in my fucken way.
Órale, I responded, smiling in a way that felt, for once, effortless. That’s the only shit I been doing.
Then my love laughed, peeling away some of her mask, that thing you build to survive this world. It appeared to me then, while watching América let loose her own smile, that I was actually learning a worthwhile thing.
On the walk back to Pops’s place I glided over the pavement, feeling all feathery despite the weight of the books América had helped me check out. There was an excitement coursing through me that made every step of this tired-ass route seem like I was heading in an entirely new direction. When I strutted through the front door, my head was a cloud floating in the endless possibility of a blue sky. But upon entering my bedroom, I found laundry folded in neat stacks along my freshly made bed. Even though the celebratory glass of chocolate milk stayed clamped in my hand, something inside me broke to pieces.
I didn’t have to look hard to find them. Somehow, despite the suffocating dread of the situation, there was a sureness to my actions, as if I’d read this script beforehand, read it over and over each morning I caught some gabacha pouring herself water in the kitchen, wearing nothing but one of my father’s t-shirts, the sight of me causing her to hurry back into his bedroom, face blooming with disgrace.
As anticipated, the pictures I’d printed were in Pops’s room, on top of his dresser, a handwritten note placed over them. It was from America. Everything she’d scribbled was pink and barely legible. The ruca must’ve wrote it in a rush—or a fury.
I know these are yours. How could you let him find them?? He’s a child!! This is the last straw. We are over!! For good.
It didn’t matter what the stories behind those words were. It didn’t matter how many straws America’s back had taken before discovering my secrets. It didn’t matter ’cus I knew the truth of what she’d written. I knew my father. I knew how he treated his own secrets. I knew we’d never talk about America again, pictures or no pictures. But I also knew, no matter how many other Americas would come and go, this one would never be gone. Not completely. I understood then that it’s impossible to forget the people you love.
Or at least that’s what I told myself in the backyard while sparking Pops’s grill lighter. As the flames began to swallow the paper, incinerating faces and bodies and words, I couldn’t help but wonder how long love was supposed to last in order for it to be real. And when Albuquerque’s wind swept the ash from my feet, it occurred to me that the same could be asked of a dream. But instead of hoping for an answer, I just said a little prayer for my loved ones and thanked the fire for doing what it was born to do.