My look of bewilderment was so blatant that America felt the need to clarify the origin of her name, how she came from a real patriotic, military background. But there was no way for her to understand the loop she’d thrown me for. I never knew life could be that fucken stupid, that it could turn your private battlegrounds inside out and into the butt of some joke. I couldn’t help but feel that my love for América had been cheapened by this Dolly Parton knockoff. But that feeling didn’t last long. It was swallowed by some more familiar shit—a blizzard of anger toward my father, anger that he could never let me have anything to myself.
Anyway, Pops said, scratching his neck like there’d been an awkward lapse in the moment. America and I were just about to head out—have to be back at the hospital later—you’ll be alright tonight, right m’ijo?
In a normal world, my father’s question would’ve annoyed the fuck out of me. It wasn’t like him to ask those things, which meant his words were some huevón gesture to cover his ass in front of this gabacha, to make sure she saw that I acknowledged and respected the work he was putting in for me, his child of divorce. But instead of showing her otherwise, I just jerked my head in affirmation.
See you around, sweet thing, America said before winking and heading toward the front door. The black peach fuzz of my arm stood on end as she brushed by, as if something had been rubbing against her to create an electrical charge. An iciness dropped down through my insides, churning an urge to puke my brains out—or run through a wall with ecstasy.
Everything got real complicated after that. I kept slacking in social studies, more concerned with maintaining my cool in front of América. And despite my best efforts to avoid her, we ended up having one interaction, which wasn’t so terrible given the nightmare circumstances surrounding it.
Shit happened during our one-day dive into Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers. América had been interrogating Mrs. Anderson about the vato’s asshole views toward women, asking again and again why we were focusing so much on his accomplishments instead of a real pioneer like Dolores Huerta. Already over her constant objections, our teacher told my love to zip it, to stop being such a distraction, to let her teach the damn material. I never expected such emotion to crack through Mrs. Anderson’s face, never knew it could turn that pink. Her breaking point sparked a green light for one of the cabrones in the back to shout: ’Bout fucken time someone shut that puta up!
And then the gunfire of my classmates’ response ripped through the room, a barrage of hisses and oohs and laughter. Although I couldn’t see América’s face, I pictured it as wounded and devastated as my heart was for her, prompting me to remember a lesson from my Personal Growth & Defense Club: stand up for the things you love. Without a real plan, I projected my voice as far as it could reach, which resulted in the loudest, shrillest crack my mouth had ever produced.