Read an Excerpt
Los detallitos
“I’ll be your girlfriend.”
That’s what she said,
so I haven’t needed to define the relationship.
We make our feelings clear with detallitos,
all the little things that speak louder than words.
Like when I meet her outside of class one day and bend down to tie her loose shoelace.
Or when we’re walking home and I step too close to the road just as a semitruck speeds by,
and she yanks me onto the grass.
Or when we stop at the dollar store and buy ingredients for spaghetti,
which we cook together at my house because my family’s at the dentist.
Or when I find her standing alone one morning, a block from school,
looking sad, so I hug her from behind till she leans back into me, sighing.
Or when one of Snake’s minions trips me in the hall, but she catches me,
and everyone applauds as she slowly pulls me straight, looking into my eyes.
I’m a poet, but all these small gestures say more than any words I could arrange.
Sunday Morning at the Taquería
Our family is Catholic. Can’t eat before
Sunday mass because of the sacrament.
So we go to the early service,
stomachs rumbling,
and try to stay focused.
By 9:00 a.m., we’re hurrying out of St. Joseph’s, piling into
Dad’s pickup. He almost peels out,
making Mom click her tongue as he heads to Taquería Morales a few blocks away.
Most Sundays, the mayor and his wife are already eating—-
they’re Baptists, lucky ducks.
They can eat all they want before church.
Mr. Morales seats us, serves cinnamon coffee and orange juice in cups bearing the green logo of Club León, his favorite fútbol team.
We order. I get my usual, chorizo and eggs, with its sides of fried potatoes and beans,
which I spoon into fluffy flour tortillas along with salsa verde.
By this time, other parishioners come spilling in. Dad greets some,
ignores others, like his former boss.
Then in walks Joanna’s father,
Adán Padilla. I try a natural smile as he nods at my parents.
“Buenos días, Don Carlos,
Doña Judith. ¿Qué tal, Güero?”
I give a shaky wave and nod.
“¿Y su familia?” my mom asks.
“En casa. I’m picking up taquitos.”
Mr. Morales hands him a paper bag bulging with food. He pays and leaves.
Dad sips his coffee, shaking his head.
“A shame. That man should be a pillar of the town. Güero, you looked nervous.”
Mom’s left eyebrow arches the way it always does when she gets suspicious.
“Does he not know you like his daughter?”
I shrug, my face going red. “Not sure.”
I check my phone. No text from Joanna.
My parents mutter about new scandals and old gossip. I lean forward, trying to catch snatches, till Mom frowns.
“Cosas de adultos,” she says, flicking me back in my seat with her eyes.
“Do y’all know everyone’s secrets?”
I ask, still wondering why Dad used the word shame. He laughs.
“It’s a small town, m’ijo. And the nosiest folks are packed inside this taquería,
including you. Now, finish your almuerzo.”
So I take another bite. But my eyes wander across the crowded tables,
and my ears strain to hear past clinking and laughter,
the constant heartbeat of my community.
The Kiss
The next day,
first Monday of May,
Joanna and I take a shortcut after school through the orange grove near my house.
“You know,” she says,
letting go of my hand to wipe a sweaty palm on her black jeans,
“there’s just a month until school’s out.
It’ll be harder to hang out,
since my parents expect me to help them all summer.”
I stop. She turns to look at me.
There’s something in her eyes that I can feel with my chest,
which aches in a way I’ve never felt:
scary but good. Everything fades.
The sound of passing cars,
the harsh drone of cicadas—-
all drowned out by the beating of my heart.
The glossy green trees and bright, dimpled fruit—-
hazy, out of focus, until all I can see are her lips,
a red I can’t even describe:
dark, almost brown.
The color of mesquite pods.
Taking a shuddering breath that feels like it might be my very last,
I ask my fregona,
“Can I kiss you?”
She nods, slowly closing those big brown eyes.
“Sí, Güero. You can.”
So I do.
Her Song in My Blood
My heart thunders like a drum when our lips meet.
Above that rhythm
I can hear a new melody—-
notes from her soul slip into the measures of my heart.
When we pull apart,
all I want is to share that music,
to stand on a stage before the world and make them listen
to the vibrant, beautiful,
living pulse of her song in my blood.
They Call Her Fregona
Joanna Padilla Benavides.
That’s what her birth certificate says.
Padilla from her father, Adán,
who also gave her his love of cars and lucha libre and truth.
Benavides from her mother, Bertha,
who also gave her that wicked smile,
those beautiful brown eyes,
a big heart with quiet love,
a talent for math.
She’s Jo to the twins,
six—year—old menaces named Emily and Emilio.
Mama Yoyo to the baby barely learning to speak.
“I’ll kick your butt if you tell anyone,”
Joanna assures me, eyebrow raised.
“My lips are sealed,” I promise.
She gives me a quick kiss to make sure.
At school, of course,
they call her Fregona.
Most girls avoid her,
except for her cousins
and a few other friends who don’t quite fit in because of gender norms and queermisia.
Most boys are afraid of her,
at least the seventh—graders.
“I hate that nickname,” she admits.
“Güero is positive. People think of beauty.
Even the sounds are soft and sweet.
Fregona feels rough. Ugly. Like mopping or scrubbing grease from a dirty sartén.”
“You’re not ugly,” I tell her.
“And there’s no reason light skin should mean beauty. That’s wrong.
When I hear fregar, I think of the beating you gave that loser Snake Barrera,
how you stand up for family and friends,
how you own the fresas in Pre—AP Algebra.”
Joanna takes my pale hand in her deep—brown fingers,
calloused and beautiful,
like roots in sandy soil.
“Apá keeps pushing me to be tough—-
he’s seen what the world does to girls.”
She takes a deep breath. “He doesn’t want me to end up like his mother or sisters. Mistreated.
Ignored. And my mom’s a fregona, too.
I have big shoes to fill. Can’t let them down.
“But, ugh, being tough is hard. So thanks.
Seeing myself in your eyes? It helps.”
She looks up, shyly at first, then smiling like only she can smile. “And if Snake ever bothers you again, I’ll put him in the hospital. No one touches you but me.”
I put my free hand on the fist she makes,
giving her knuckles a gentle rub.
“Joanna, you don’t have to be tough when it’s just you and me. I see you,
through and through, all the soft and sweet parts, too.”
Her fingers unclench as she sighs and lays her head on my shoulder.
