Then the second America came crashing into my world. Pops brought her around a week after my dream, while I was still tryna calibrate and manage the love it marked me with. Social studies had become a personal hell within that time. It was like the sun had set up shop in our classroom, some shit I couldn’t look at or get too close to without going blind and being burned to charcoal. I’d made a habit of bulleting down the halls to be the first through Mrs. Anderson’s door, setting myself up by the window so that when América showed up, I could keep my gaze directed somewhere beyond the glass—or at the surface of my desk—at anything besides her and the composure in her silhouette, the angle of her arm as it raised to answer every question, those impatient fingers drumming the pages of her books. Most of the time my strategy failed. Whenever América opened her mouth magma poured from her lips and I was melting all over again, wanting to know and know and know.
The day I met my father’s America there’d been no Personal Growth & Defense Club meeting, so I pulled up to his place early, all restless and feeling like I needed to punch something. Upon twisting my key into the door I realized it wasn’t locked, meaning Pops and whatever he dragged home with him would be there to greet me.
Oh, is that him? I heard a voice ask from the family room, squawky like that Texan gabacha with the tumbleweed of blonde hair who was our principal’s secretary.
Pops gave a labored, sighing response, which got muffled by all the shit standing between us, but I didn’t need to make out his words to know the vato wasn’t looking forward to dealing with this situation.
Before I could kick off my shoes and slip into my room, a woman blocked my path, clad in bedazzled blue jeans and a flower-plastered shirt with a deep V, emphasizing the cleavage that bisected her chest. I was grateful for a recent growth spurt, nearly four inches, which, with her platform sandals, was the difference between me staring directly into her massive fucken chiches.
Oh my gosh, she said. It is so great to finally meet you, sweet thing! Every bit a looker as your father!
The ruca spread her arms wide as if offering a hug, which I declined with a bob of my head, lips twitching as they fought back those cringes you get when eating something sour. Then my father materialized behind her, still in his work clothes. I shot him a glare while this lady kept blabbing on about how running into me was such a darling coincidence. This was my attempt to grill his ass for breaking the silent pact we’d grooved into our routines. Cabrón could go on running through his gabachas as long as he kept them out of the open, sealed behind the walls of whatever room I wasn’t in, which usually meant he wouldn’t bring them back till late, when the darkness allowed us to move around one another unseen. I relied on that agreement. I needed it to keep the light glowing at the end of a tunnel I’d imagined, a fantasy I should’ve let go years before—the fantasy where my parents got back together.
Oye m’ijo, Pops said in a breathy tone, as if talking to or even looking at me was a tedious thing. This is my friend, America. America, this is my son.