A pause seized the world then, as if the entire room was inhaling as much air as it could to roast my ass. But the only reaction that mattered—the one I concentrated on even as the uproar hit its full force—was América’s. Her face, when she finally turned my way, was painted with rage, lips imploding, brows united in a V. Our stares aligned for the first time, and despite the pitying shakes of her head, I was convinced my love’s expression must’ve meant she understood my noble intentions, that she was pissed off at everything else but me. In that brief window I was where I wanted to be. I was somewhere beyond that classroom, beyond its rows of desks and incomplete textbooks and Cesar Chavez bullshit. I was wherever América was looking. If only I had the strength to maintain eye contact for more than a fucken second.
At the same time my father’s America kept coming around, lasting longer than any other hyna I could remember since Moms. The gabacha would even be at Pops’s pad during the day, waiting for me to return from my Personal Growth & Development Club meetings, which I’d decided to invest all my energy into. It was the one space left that made any sense, the only time I felt any sense of control.
The worst part was that America insisted on starting conversations with me, asking questions like how my day was, what I learned in school, if any bullies were giving me a hard time or if there were any cute girls I had a crush on. I made sure to limit all my responses to grunts and hums, leaving things at a shrug whenever possible. Internally, there was this voice screaming: Who the fuck do you think you are, lady? Based on my father’s track record, the gabacha’s days in this casita were numbered.
But my projection of disinterest didn’t stop America. One Friday evening, when Pops was way deep into his end-of-the-work-week nap, she offered to cook me dinner, insisted even after I told her I was all set with my frozen flautas, blocked my path to the microwave.
You can’t go on eating that junk, she stated. Ain’t nothing useful for a growing boy in there. Let me fix you some real food, sweet thing.
With my ass finally captive, America took the opportunity to unload everything about herself. She told me about her childhood as a military brat, about bouncing from base to base before ending up at Lackland in San Antonio, the same spot my abuelo was stationed at when Pops was born—right before the family moved to Albuquerque and the vato’s drinking and fist swinging went off the rails. America explained, while grilling some vegetables I didn’t know were in the fridge, that this coincidence was what they bonded over, my father and her. It was their shared connection to the armed forces and San Antonio, a place he lived for three fucken years. What sort of foundation for love was that?
I stayed silent through it all, conceding a small smile here and there whenever America attempted to relate her experience to mine, saying she understood what it meant to pinball between homes, how hard it was to have such busy parents. I paid more attention to her than her rambling, tryna figure out what made America so special in Pops’s eyes. On the surface not much separated her from the vato’s previous flings—maybe a little older, nearer to his age than most, but otherwise she fit the type: bulging curves, painted nails, straight and highlighted hair. It’s not like I was keeping stats on his rucas or whatever. I just couldn’t help but notice their similarities—how they all looked the exact opposite of my mother.
So, America said, laying the vegetables over a bed of buttered rice and next to an under-seasoned chicken breast. Has your father told you how we met?