The Goal Would Be That She Drops
“Move, gringa,” Carla Badillo said.
Badillo is the married name of my grandmother who I never called abuelita (though my cousins did).
Carla filled up the high school bathroom doorway with her skinny body and her pregnant belly. ‘Move’ was her command, not ‘muévate,’ and I was in her way.
My oldest sister might have punched her for that, pregnant and all, because without the sun my sister and I are the same complexion even though I am half-gringa and half-descended from the Badillos, de la Rosas, DeLaFuentes of Texas-which-was-once-Mexico.
Half of me wanted to shove her, pregnant mistakes and all, into the heavy door and hear her body go smack and slide down. Half of me wanted to say something smart back in Spanish to demonstrate her error, but the words wouldn’t come. They never come.
So, the half of me that was gringa let her be right while the half that wanted to tell her how it really was burned in my cheeks, my ears, my eyes. If my skin was browner you wouldn’t be able to see the blush rise, but it isn’t.
Carla Badillo walked in.
I walked out.
Alissa DeLaFuente hails from the rainy Pacific Northwest, though she spent the bulk of her college years in the Tucson desert. She writes fiction and creative nonfiction. Her favorite animals are road runners and snails because of their (polar opposite) charismas. This is her first major publication.