I felt my feet launch me out the door, across the casita’s narrow, carpeted hall and into the bathroom. I ran the faucet and ripped toilet paper from the roll, revulsion and confusion corkscrewing my stomach. That past year there’d been a two-week session of the sex-ed unit meant for boys only. It had been taught by the school’s gym teacher, who offered just a couple remarks about wet dreams, probably along the lines of Gonna happen to your ass sooner or later. The clusterfuck of that whole situation, the joke we made of it, turned whatever information we were supposed to learn into another pendejada thing not to give a fuck about. So what else was there to call what I made that night but love? Wasn’t love meant to be all scary and powerful just like that storm América had brewed inside me?
I washed and wiped furiously, hellbent on undoing the confirmation of my new reality. By the time I gave up, the toilet was hissing from its sixth flushing and steam had started to glaze the mirror, blurring my burnt-red face. I turned off the sink and the bathroom grew quiet, a second of perfect silence blanketing the space, my lungs finally free to fill themselves with air.
Then, through the shower window, I heard keys undoing locks and the groan of the iron screen door. From what I could hear my father was alone, which meant I didn’t have to avoid being seen or dodge anything beyond some half-assed small talk. I wringed out my soaked boxers in the sink, tucked them behind my back into the towel I’d wrapped around my naked body, and splashed some water through my hair to imitate evidence of bathing. I managed to have the toothbrush scrubbing my teeth in time for the announcement of his arrival. My heart hadn’t stopped its sprint and drops leaked down my legs from the scrunched-up briefs, making me squirm, but it was the best I could do.
The first time Pops called my name I didn’t respond, just cranked the faucet to its max strength. When the vato repeated himself, I spat liquified toothpaste with frustration, wishing to curl up in my bed without having to speak, without having to be self-conscious of the cracks in my voice. Pops knocked on the door, creaking it open before I could grant permission, causing my spine to snap upright. That was a habit of his, intruding but not barging in.
I met my father’s gaze via his reflection in the clouded mirror. Through the moisture I could still pick out his smile (tight-lipped, almost pursed) as well as one of his raised, expectant eyebrows, which were black and bushy yet far apart along his blockish face. Pops was dressed in his work getup: pleated khakis and one of those blue, loose-fitting button-ups, the kind that made his broad frame look childish and insignificant and concealed the brown of his arms. It was an outfit that reminded me of our public school uniforms, a grownup version of them.
Oye m’ijo, he said. You eat yet?
I nodded and gave a closed-mouth grunt, praying the towel wouldn’t lose its grip on my boxers.
Shame. Got some burritos from Twister’s. Thought we could share.
I measured the shakes of my head, tryna make them all polite and apologetic while croaking out a thanks.
Maybe they’ll make a good lunch for school tomorrow, Pops said. Nice reprieve from that stale cafeteria crap, huh?
Sure Apá, real nice. Thanks again.
Even though he jerked his head in acceptance, I could feel Pops reading my face in the now clear glass, searching for the source of my shortened speech. I stretched my eyes wide and directed them at his reflection—a way to say spit it out—something I’d learned from watching Moms.
You okay, m’ijo? he asked.
I’m good—f’real Apá—just getting ready for bed.
My father gave a drawn-out blink and sighed through his nose, showing me he was let down. I bit my lip despite being used to his disappointment. Maybe I did that ’cus I’d already been feeling guilty—guilty for hiding things, for creating that sticky shit, for being made raw by América. I looked down into the sink, teeth digging deeper, boxers moistening and irritating my skin.
Goodnight m’ijo, Pops said. Sleep well.
He closed the door before I could say it back.