LA MORENITA, Chapter 20

“Cuantos?” the bored woman at the Chaparral Theater box office said. N turned to M.
“Dos,” M said.
The woman frowned as she pushed the tickets forward. N paid and took the tickets. He started to say something rude when he realized the woman probably wouldn’t understand him. M pulled him away by the elbow.
“Don’t pull me like that,” he said.
“You’re in the way,” she said. “Others are trying to get in to see the movie.” N moved out of the way and turned to study the others standing in line. Skinny boys, the kind M referred to as ‘flacos’ and thick, sturdy boys she called ‘gordos’ stood next to dark-haired girls of all shapes and sizes in tight, sleeveless blouses and blue jeans. The clothes they had on were well-worn but clean. He took a long look at each of the girls and decided that he wasn’t attracted to any of them.
“Come on,” M said. “Let’s go in.”
They went inside. A tall ‘flaco’ with light brown skin and jet black hair took their tickets and nodded deferentially toward N. N nodded back.
“How about the balcony?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We’re not going to fumble around inside each others clothes, and that’s what they do in balconies.”
The movie, which was in English with Spanish subtitles, was sparsely attended. N and M took their seats on the right side in the back row next to the aisle. When he reached for her hand, she didn’t pull away, but they both concentrated on the movie.
When it was over, N realized that, except for the hockey scenes, he didn’t enjoy the movie. “That movie wasn’t really much,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That’s the sorriest damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”
Maria laughed and told him she loved it. Throughout the movie, he had been excited by the warmth of her upper arm as it rested against his. He had wanted to wrap his own arm around her or drop one hand in her lap. Anything that would make him feel closer to her. At the end, when she cried, he turned his face to hers and kissed the softest lips he’d ever kissed.
Outside the theater, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and offered it to her. She took it and dabbed at her eyes.
A young Mexican approached. “Hey, rubio,” he said. “What are you doing here? Slumming?” The boy was stocky, but too muscular to be called ‘gordo’.
Anger flashed in N’s eyes. He stepped forward to say something when M grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “You say one word, and I’ll never speak to you again.”
The boy chortled, mumbled something unintelligible, and moved on.
#
Araceli stopped. A word she never heard before popped into her consciousness. She scratched out the last sentence and replaced it.
#
The Mexican chortled, mumbled something under his breath, then moved on.
N could make out the word—maricón—, but he didn’t know what it meant.
#
Araceli reached into the chest at the foot of her bed and extracted a Spanish-English dictionary. She thumbed through it until she located the word and read: “Maricón: sissy, effeminate.” She put it away and continued writing.
#
After the boy moved on, N turned to M. “I hope you had a good time,” he said.
“I surprised myself,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“I had a great time.”
“Then why did you cry?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said as she wiped the corners of her eyes and laughed.
“Would you like to get a bite to eat?”
“Maybe. What do you have in mind?”
“Burgers and fries.”
She paused. Then she said,“Okay.”
He helped her into his car, a red 1959 Impala, then drove to a burger joint on the edge of the barrio, where the houses of Mexicans and poor whites stood side-by-side. He ordered for her and discovered too late that she wanted to order for herself.
“Why?” he asked. “What’s the problem?”
“I wouldn’t have ordered fries,” she said. “And I prefer chocolate shakes to vanilla.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll never do that again.”
She nodded and ate her fries.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Greasy,” she said.
When they came out of the burger joint, a tall, barrel-chested teenager with freckles and hair the color of wet straw approached N and blocked his way. “Hey, you!” the boy shouted. “Just what the hell are you trying to prove?”
“I’m trying to prove it’s a free country,” N said casually.
“It ain’t free for spicks,” the boy said.
“That’s not what our Constitution says.”
Just then, a short, pock-faced boy with slicked-back, dirty brown hair approached M and grabbed her by the arm. “Hey, dark meat, you want to do it with me?” N grabbed him from behind and flung him into the street, where he fell on his backside and spun like a top.
The barrel-chested boy advanced quickly on N. “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?” he said.
“Okay,” N said. Before the boy knew what happened, N threw a hard punch that landed on the tip of the boy’s chin, causing him to fall backwards—hard—against the cement and lose consciousness.
N took a step back and raised his fists as two more boys advanced on him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
The boys stood their ground, posturing for a few seconds. Then they peeled away to help their unconscious friend.
N turned back to M. She was so upset she was shaking. “I’m sorry about this,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
She clung to his arm as he scooted with her back to his red Impala.