The Book of Unknown Americans(35)

“You can. I’m just asking if you want help.”

I knew the answer, though, when she pulled out a bowl, set it on the counter, and lined up her ingredients next to it.

“So you know where everything is?” I asked, before I left her alone.

“Mami,” she said, “I live here. I’ve lived here all my life.”

“That doesn’t help your father,” I said. “Try asking him where anything is.”

Maribel dipped a finger in the sugar and licked it.

“Okay,” I said. “Call if you need anything.”

From the next room I could hear her humming as she measured and poured and stirred. I heard drawers opening and closing, and the clank of spoons against the inside of bowls. I heard the dough hit the counter and her little grunts as she kneaded it and rolled it out. I was sewing a button onto one of Arturo’s work shirts when she walked out with flour on her chin.

“Are they done?” I asked.

She sat next to me and laid her floured hand on top of my knee. “It’s going well,” she said solemnly, as if she were a doctor who had emerged from the operating room to deliver an update.

She disappeared again, and I heard the crackle of the oil as it heated and the sighing sizzle as she dropped the flattened discs of dough in one by one. She’s doing it, I thought. My girl.

My parents came over for dinner that night and we ate, flush with the merriment of the season. After everyone was finished, Maribel hurried into the kitchen, where her bu?uelos waited on an oval platter covered by a dish towel. She brought them out proudly and, like a perfect hostess, carried the plate around, holding it over each person’s shoulder while they helped themselves to the desserts. The bu?uelos were golden brown, and the cinnamon Maribel had sprinkled on the top of each while they were still warm had melted into the dough like tiny amber crystals.

“You made these?” Arturo asked in disbelief.

“All by myself,” Maribel said.

Arturo looked at me.

“She did,” I confirmed.

“They look wonderful,” my mother said.

And I saw Maribel, looking over all of us, her face ripe with pride. I saw her growing up before me. I saw the family she would have one day and the food she would make for them. I saw her entire life in front of her, waiting.





Mayor


I hadn’t had a run-in with Garrett since I’d stood up to him that day with Maribel. I’d seen him around, hanging out alone behind the school, scratching at the sidewalk with a rock, flicking pebbles at the tires of the buses as they lined up to take everyone home. I’d seen him slouched in the hall, his hands in his coat pockets, staring at his scuffed boots. And I’d seen him during gym even though he never got changed anymore. He showed up in his regular clothes, and Mr. Samuels would say, “You don’t get dressed, you don’t participate,” and Garrett would shrug and plant himself on the wood bleachers and close his eyes for the next forty-five minutes while we ran around shooting basketballs and learning badminton.

Then one day, just before the winter break, I was digging a notebook out of my locker when I heard someone say, “How’s birdbrain?”

I turned around.

“How’s your girlfriend?” Garrett asked. “Retard girl.”

“Don’t call her that,” I said.

“What? ‘Girlfriend’ or ‘retard’?”

“I told you to leave her alone,” I said.

“You did?” He screwed his face into an exaggerated look of confusion.

I put the notebook in my backpack, shut my locker, and started walking.

“Hey!” Garrett called. He trotted up beside me and grabbed my arm, yanking me so that I was facing him again. “I was still talking to you.”

“I need to go,” I said, trying to pull my arm free.

“She a good lay? I bet she is. I bet you can do whatever you want to a girl like that.”

“Stop it.”

“I’ve been thinking about all the things I could do to her. Tell her to take her clothes off—”

“Stop.”

“Have her suck my dick—”

And that’s when I punched him. I’d never punched anyone in my life, but before I knew it, I squeezed my hand shut, drew back my elbow, and punched Garrett right in the side of the neck. I’d been aiming for his face, but I missed.

“Jesus!” he shouted, falling back.

Then he ran at me, throwing his arms around my waist, ramming his head into my stomach, tackling me to the floor.

“Get off me!” I yelled.

Garrett socked me so hard I could taste blood in my mouth. All his weight was on top of me, pinning me to the floor. Very dimly, I was aware of a small crowd forming around us.

Garrett nailed me a few more times, in the chest and the ribs, before Mr. Baker, the driver’s ed instructor, broke it up. “That’s enough,” he said, prying us apart. “Up on your feet, boys.”

Garrett shook Mr. Baker off and paced in a tight circle. Mr. Baker snatched Garrett’s coat sleeve. “Settle down,” he said.

I put my hand to my mouth and felt my bloodied lip, split right down the center. What had just happened? Had I really punched him? But instead of feeling pain or any kind of remorse, I felt exhilarated.