The Book of Unknown Americans(65)

I kept my hands balled in the pockets of my jeans while the cold air knifed at my lungs.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“This.” She held her arm up, the end of the coat sleeve flopping.

“Yeah,” I said, like it was no problem, which in a way it wasn’t. Forget about the trouble we were in, or who might be looking for us, or how, after this, it would probably be even harder to see her again. Forget all of that. I would have done anything for her.

I shifted my weight from side to side and clapped the edges of my sneakers together, knocking the wet sand off. I was freezing without my coat, but there was no way I was going to admit it. Goose bumps pricked up on my skin under my shirt, and a shiver spread across my back.

Maribel crouched down and ran her hand along the sand, barely skimming the surface. “So beautiful,” she said again.

I put my hand on her head, on her damp hair, and when I squatted beside her, she looked at me with her golden brown eyes and her long black eyelashes. I reached under her hair and put my hands behind her neck and kissed her. Her face was moist from the falling snow. Maybe I should have stopped, I don’t know. I should’ve given her a chance to come up for air or to protest or whatever. But when she put her hands on my shoulders, pressing her mouth to mine, I knew she wanted to be there as much as I did. I kissed her again and again and again, greedily, like I was making up for the time I’d lost, like I was making up for all the times I might not get to kiss her again once our parents found out what we’d done, like I was making up for my whole life when I hadn’t known her, which seemed unbelievable and like a crime. And by the time I finally pulled away, I wanted to devour her. I wanted to tackle her to the ground. I wanted to put my hands along every inch of her. I felt crazy—spinning lights, blurry vision, pounding ears—with want. Her face was flushed, and I was breathing fast. We were kneeling in front of each other. I slid my arms up under her shirt and felt her ribs and her hot skin under my hands. My fingertips brushed along her bra and I reached around to fumble with the hook until I gave up and lifted the whole band up over her breasts. I laid my hands on them, the softest things I’d ever felt, and she took a sharp breath. “Are you okay?” I asked, and she nodded. Under my pants, I could feel myself getting hard. I didn’t want it to happen again, though, the way it had that day in the car. I didn’t want Maribel to think I had a problem or something. So I dropped my hands to her waist and tried to take a breath, to calm down and just look at her. Maribel blinked. “You have snow in your hair,” she said. I smiled. “So do you.” I reached out and lifted a few strands of her hair, drawing them across my tongue, through my teeth, tasting her shampoo and the icy flavor of snow. I was shaking and my skin tingled. Maribel unzipped my coat and spread it open like wings, folding it around me as far as it would reach. I inched closer to her on my knees through the sand, and the two of us crouched together, huddled in my coat, listening to the crashing waves, our breath pulsing into the salty air, watching as the snow landed on the water and melted away. And then Maribel fell backwards, right onto her ass. She started laughing. “I knew it wouldn’t last,” she said. I knew it, too. But I wished like hell it would.





Micho Alvarez


I came from México, but there’s a lot of people here who, when they hear that, they think I crawled out of hell. They hear “México,” and they think: bad, devil, I don’t know. They got some crazy ideas. Any of them ever been to México? And if they say, yeah, I went to Acapulco back in the day or I been to Cancún, papi, then that shit don’t count. You went to a resort? Congratulations. But you didn’t go to México. And that’s the problem, you know? These people are listening to the media, and the media, let me tell you, has some f*cked-up ideas about us. About all the brown-skinned people, but especially about the Mexicans. You listen to the media, you’ll learn that we’re all gangbangers, we’re all drug dealers, we’re tossing bodies in vats of acid, we want to destroy America, we still think Texas belongs to us, we all have swine flu, we carry machine guns under our coats, we don’t pay any taxes, we’re lazy, we’re stupid, we’re all wetbacks who crossed the border illegally. I swear to God, I’m so tired of being called a spic, a nethead, a cholo, all this stuff. Happens to me all the time. I walk into a store and the employees either ignore me or they’re hovering over every move I make because they think I’m going to steal something. I understand I might not look like much. I work as a photographer, so I’m not in a business suit or nothing, but I have enough money to be in any store and even if I didn’t, I have the right to be in any store. I feel like telling them sometimes, You don’t know me, man. I’m a citizen here! But I shouldn’t have to tell anyone that. I want to be given the benefit of the doubt. When I walk down the street, I don’t want people to look at me and see a criminal or someone that they can spit on or beat up. I want them to see a guy who has just as much right to be here as they do, or a guy who works hard, or a guy who loves his family, or a guy who’s just trying to do the right things. I wish just one of those people, just one, would actually talk to me, talk to my friends, man. And yes, you can talk to us in English. I know English better than you, I bet. But none of them even want to try. We’re the unknown Americans, the ones no one even wants to know, because they’ve been told they’re supposed to be scared of us and because maybe if they did take the time to get to know us, they might realize that we’re not that bad, maybe even that we’re a lot like them. And who would they hate then?