The Boy Who Fell to Earth
by Héctor Chávez
You are ten years old, sitting alone under the trees during recess on the sidelines of the schoolyard where no one can see you. Out in the field, boys your age do the same things they’ve been doing since kindergarten. Some run sweaty behind a squashy football, lifting dust clouds as they kick and dive. When they score, they shout at the top of their lungs that they’re Pelé or Maradona. Others play-fight or shoot hoops, pretending to be the next Julio César Chávez or the next Jordan. Girls your age gather in the cool shadow of the hallways, filling the air with their spice-and-fruit-scented perfumes and Chapstick. Now, they talk about the telenovela actresses and singers and supermodels they want to be: “I’m Thalia,” “I’m Selena,” “I’m Cindy Crawford.” You used to play with them. You liked it better than being around boys. But eventually, they started giving you the same looks you’ve been getting from boys since second grade, when you showed your classmates your beloved toy. You’re in fourth grade now, and boys and girls keep telling you: “You’re not from this world, Mundo.” And by now you agree. You may have more in common with an alien than with any boy or girl around you.
*
After school, you get to walk home by yourself because, according to your parents, you’ve become “todo un hombrecito.” You don’t mind. It’s a short walk, and you like being home alone. You can play with whatever you want or watch cartoons, and no one tells you you’re too old for this or that you shouldn’t do that.
At home, you fix yourself a bowl of cereal with milk and chocolate syrup, then switch on the little TV on the kitchen counter. The image is grainy, and every sound that comes out of the tiny speakers carries the buzz of static. The intro music for the cartoon show begins, and there’s Flash Gordon piloting a spaceship. You’ve sketched that spaceship hundreds of times in your notebooks. You are eight years away from the new millennium and just can’t wait for its flying cars and spaceships.
Just as the episode ends, you hear the roar of a pickup truck outside the house.
The front door bursts open, and a whistle darts through the house.
It’s your dad.
You hear him cuss when he bumps into the small hallway table that by now has shaky legs. He’s a bucking bull inside a dollhouse.
When he reaches the kitchen, your dad says: “That’s no food for a man, Junior.”
He nicknames you Junior because he won over your mom and gave you his name. It’s the tradition. El abuelo Raymundo named your dad after himself and calls you Tito. Your mom wanted to name you after her father, el abuelo Rubén, who calls you Rayito because she hopes you will grow up to be giraffe-tall and squaredshouldered like both of them. Everybody else calls you Mundo and says you look like your dad. But all the Raymundos you know look a certain way: short and stocky with bushy mustaches and reading glasses as thick as bottle bottoms. Your dad looks like one. His dad looks like one. You don’t. You’re neither tall nor short, neither beefy nor scrawny. You can picture yourself as a million different things but not the Raymundo, Rayito, Tito, or Junior they say you are.
Your dad drops a plastic bag with takeout on the kitchen table. There are three Styrofoam plates covered in aluminum foil: one for him, one for you, and one for your mom when she gets home from work. Your dad’s a businessman. He doesn’t cook; he only barbecues.
You slurp the last drop of milk from your bowl, say: “I’m full.”
Your dad takes out one plate, rips the foil, and drops it in front of you. “Eat,” he says, then walks over to turn off the TV.
From the fridge, your dad grabs an ice-cold soda and slumps down next to you. With the house key, he pops the cap and chugs soda as if he’d been tied to a rock in the desert for days. He lets out a deep grunt when he sets the bottle on the table.
“Damn hot outside,” he says.
Your dad makes his money helping ranchers around Sabinas Hidalgo—the town in Northern Mexico where you live—sell beef cattle into the US. Lately, he has been so cranky with how poorly ranches are doing with the drought that the crease between his eyebrows has gotten even deeper. It looks like a rooster jump-kicked him on the forehead.
He chomps and chomps on the pork stew and red rice on his plate. When he’s done, your dad says he’s heading to your uncle’s ranch.
“Vamos?” he asks you.
Last time you went, you came home without your front teeth. The dirt road from the freeway to the cattle corral was long and bumpy. It made you dizzy. Your uncle kept telling dick jokes that made your dad throw his head back with laughter. They reminded you of the boys at school who called you names and chased you around the schoolyard. You wished you could disappear into the crannies between the seat cushions. At the ranch, you refused to stay close to the chute where your uncle was cutting triangle shapes into calves’ ears with a blade while they bellowed and bellowed. Your dad shook his head, clicking his tongue, and left you alone with the kiddy goats. Your dad drove on the way back. You crouched on the seat next to him, happy that your uncle was riding in the back. “Look,” your dad whispered, pointing at the road ahead. You looked up and saw a deer with antlers just poking out of its tiny head. It turned to look at you. Its trumpet-shaped ears twitched as you let out a soft sound of awe. It was the first wild deer you’d seen outside TV shows. A loud crack from the back of the truck, and the deer fell onto the ground, thrashing. Your dad hit the brakes to the jeers of your uncle, and your face met the dashboard. At home, your mom found you crying with your upper lip swollen and shining bright red, and the last of your milk teeth in the palm of your hand.
You shake your head when your dad asks you again if you want to join him to the ranch.
“Suit yourself.”
Your dad stands and walks towards you. He pats you hard on the back three times—as usual. This is his way of saying goodbye.
“‘Till tonight,” he walks into the hallway. He flings open the door and slams it shut. He’s not angry. This is his way of using doors.
After your dad leaves, you turn on the TV again and get to your homework. Before you’re done, you hear keys rattling at the front door.
It’s your mom.
She opens the door slowly and never fully because it gives out a sharp squeak three-quarters through.
“Mun-di-to?” she sing-songs and, when you greet her, she floods you with questions as she walks up to the kitchen: “Have you eaten yet? Did you finish your homework? Was your father here?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you say.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Mom.”
Your mom sits at the table with you, takes her takeout plate and eats slowly. Between spoonfuls of rice, she talks about her day: the rowdy boys she has for students; the polite girls who ace every test. She’s an elementary school teacher in a town two hours south of Sabinas. She’s worked there for ten years and has been teaching the fourth grade for the last three.
“Girls act so grown-up already,” she says. “But the boys! The boys are just wild.”
She looks at you, then asks: “Are you one of them?”
You shake your head.
She smiles: “I know you’re one of the good ones, mijo.”
When she’s done eating, your mom picks up after your dad, then some laundry, then mops the floors. She sighs along the hallway, and it echoes through the house.
By mid-afternoon, you’ve finished your homework and moved to the big bedroom, your parents’ room, where the nice TV is. The room is almost a perfect square, just bigger than the king-size bed in its center. The dresser on the side and the TV cabinet on the corner leave little extra room, especially after you bring the two pedestal fans in the house and aim them at the bed so you don’t melt mid-episode, like crayons left out on the sidewalk.
When your mom joins you in the big bedroom, she sits on the edge of the bed and asks for the remote. It is time for her telenovelas.
Together with your mom, you’ve gone through many telenovelas. You’ve seen women on TV cry, clean, get kissed, and get pushed down flights of stairs by other women jealous of the husband or fiancé. The men on TV fight, drink, kiss women, ride horses, and shoot guns, all with the top three buttons of their western shirts undone. Your mom, your tías, your abuelitas: they don’t care for the men in telenovelas—not even for the main character, the heartthrob who everyone knows will end up marrying the female lead. You’ve been in rooms with these women who’ve chased off coyotes to save the family pet, and you’ve seen them huddle around a TV screen and root for the leading lady. “You could be an Olympic swimmer,” your mom yells at the protagonist who’s shaped like a ball-headed pin with heels. “I’ll train you, comadre.” But it’s always the same: men and women are too different in the first hundred episodes, and in the final one, they marry, then kiss, then “The End” appears on screen.
In the evening, during the third telenovela in your mom’s binge session, your dad gets home. With a sigh of relief, he kicks off his cowboy boots, unbuckles his belt, and slumps onto the bed. He seizes the TV remote from your mom and changes the channel to the evening news. Your mom groans, irritated because she will again miss the last minutes of her favorite story.
“Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar has escaped from prison,” the anchorman says in his famously shrill voice. He’s thin, with big reading glasses, and a head shaped like a lightbulb topped with grey hair. He has a foreign last name that no one in Mexico seems able to pronounce correctly: Zabludovski. Your dad told you the anchorman came from Poland. “They all sound like that over there,” he said. You picture Poland as a place where everyone speaks as if they have old radios in their throats. You wonder if the anchorman misses hearing that sound around him.
After a commercial break, Mr Zabludovski appears back on the screen, holding a book. “Published in Mexico earlier this year,” he says, “it’s already a global sensation.”
The camera zooms in on the front cover. It reads: Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.
Mr Zabludovski welcomes a man in a dark suit, then says: “Tell our viewers about it, Doctor.”
The doctor starts in a chirpy English, and after a few seconds, the dubbing follows.
“In the book, I explore the differences between men and women. Why men do not understand women, for example—”
“Because we’re from different planets,” the anchorman says.
“Yes.” The doctor smiles. “We can say that our different natures are because we come from two different places: Mars and Venus.”
“Tell me something new, mister,” your mom says.
You sit up: “What?”
“That’s right, Junior,” your dad says. “Venusians only know how to demand things and complain. Your mom, your tías, your teacher: all the same. Nagging is the Venusian way of life.” He laughs.
“And what about you, Marciano?” your mom sniggers at your dad.
The doctor on TV continues: “That’s also why men and boys get along better with one another than with women or girls, and vice versa.”
“Birds of a feather,” the anchorman grins, and after a second, so does the doctor.
Your head bubbles.
“The gringo’s not wrong,” your dad says. “Who wants to be around Venusians?”
“Then go back to Mars,” your mom says.
“But who would cook me dinner, mamita hermosa?” your dad says, then winks at your mom.
Your mom groans, gets up and trudges to the kitchen.
At home, you fix yourself a bowl of cereal with milk and chocolate syrup, then switch on the little TV on the kitchen counter. The image is grainy, and every sound that comes out of the tiny speakers carries the buzz of static. The intro music for the cartoon show begins, and there’s Flash Gordon piloting a spaceship. You’ve sketched that spaceship hundreds of times in your notebooks. You are eight years away from the new millennium and just can’t wait for its flying cars and spaceships.
Just as the episode ends, you hear the roar of a pickup truck outside the house.
The front door bursts open, and a whistle darts through the house.
It’s your dad.
You hear him cuss when he bumps into the small hallway table that by now has shaky legs. He’s a bucking bull inside a dollhouse.
When he reaches the kitchen, your dad says: “That’s no food for a man, Junior.”
He nicknames you Junior because he won over your mom and gave you his name. It’s the tradition. El abuelo Raymundo named your dad after himself and calls you Tito. Your mom wanted to name you after her father, el abuelo Rubén, who calls you Rayito because she hopes you will grow up to be giraffe-tall and squaredshouldered like both of them. Everybody else calls you Mundo and says you look like your dad. But all the Raymundos you know look a certain way: short and stocky with bushy mustaches and reading glasses as thick as bottle bottoms. Your dad looks like one. His dad looks like one. You don’t. You’re neither tall nor short, neither beefy nor scrawny. You can picture yourself as a million different things but not the Raymundo, Rayito, Tito, or Junior they say you are.
Your dad drops a plastic bag with takeout on the kitchen table. There are three Styrofoam plates covered in aluminum foil: one for him, one for you, and one for your mom when she gets home from work. Your dad’s a businessman. He doesn’t cook; he only barbecues.
You slurp the last drop of milk from your bowl, say: “I’m full.”
Your dad takes out one plate, rips the foil, and drops it in front of you. “Eat,” he says, then walks over to turn off the TV.
From the fridge, your dad grabs an ice-cold soda and slumps down next to you. With the house key, he pops the cap and chugs soda as if he’d been tied to a rock in the desert for days. He lets out a deep grunt when he sets the bottle on the table.
“Damn hot outside,” he says.
Your dad makes his money helping ranchers around Sabinas Hidalgo—the town in Northern Mexico where you live—sell beef cattle into the US. Lately, he has been so cranky with how poorly ranches are doing with the drought that the crease between his eyebrows has gotten even deeper. It looks like a rooster jump-kicked him on the forehead.
He chomps and chomps on the pork stew and red rice on his plate. When he’s done, your dad says he’s heading to your uncle’s ranch.
“Vamos?” he asks you.
Last time you went, you came home without your front teeth. The dirt road from the freeway to the cattle corral was long and bumpy. It made you dizzy. Your uncle kept telling dick jokes that made your dad throw his head back with laughter. They reminded you of the boys at school who called you names and chased you around the schoolyard. You wished you could disappear into the crannies between the seat cushions. At the ranch, you refused to stay close to the chute where your uncle was cutting triangle shapes into calves’ ears with a blade while they bellowed and bellowed. Your dad shook his head, clicking his tongue, and left you alone with the kiddy goats. Your dad drove on the way back. You crouched on the seat next to him, happy that your uncle was riding in the back. “Look,” your dad whispered, pointing at the road ahead. You looked up and saw a deer with antlers just poking out of its tiny head. It turned to look at you. Its trumpet-shaped ears twitched as you let out a soft sound of awe. It was the first wild deer you’d seen outside TV shows. A loud crack from the back of the truck, and the deer fell onto the ground, thrashing. Your dad hit the brakes to the jeers of your uncle, and your face met the dashboard. At home, your mom found you crying with your upper lip swollen and shining bright red, and the last of your milk teeth in the palm of your hand.
You shake your head when your dad asks you again if you want to join him to the ranch.
“Suit yourself.”
Your dad stands and walks towards you. He pats you hard on the back three times—as usual. This is his way of saying goodbye.
“‘Till tonight,” he walks into the hallway. He flings open the door and slams it shut. He’s not angry. This is his way of using doors.
After your dad leaves, you turn on the TV again and get to your homework. Before you’re done, you hear keys rattling at the front door.
It’s your mom.
She opens the door slowly and never fully because it gives out a sharp squeak three-quarters through.
“Mun-di-to?” she sing-songs and, when you greet her, she floods you with questions as she walks up to the kitchen: “Have you eaten yet? Did you finish your homework? Was your father here?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you say.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Mom.”
Your mom sits at the table with you, takes her takeout plate and eats slowly. Between spoonfuls of rice, she talks about her day: the rowdy boys she has for students; the polite girls who ace every test. She’s an elementary school teacher in a town two hours south of Sabinas. She’s worked there for ten years and has been teaching the fourth grade for the last three.
“Girls act so grown-up already,” she says. “But the boys! The boys are just wild.”
She looks at you, then asks: “Are you one of them?”
You shake your head.
She smiles: “I know you’re one of the good ones, mijo.”
When she’s done eating, your mom picks up after your dad, then some laundry, then mops the floors. She sighs along the hallway, and it echoes through the house.
By mid-afternoon, you’ve finished your homework and moved to the big bedroom, your parents’ room, where the nice TV is. The room is almost a perfect square, just bigger than the king-size bed in its center. The dresser on the side and the TV cabinet on the corner leave little extra room, especially after you bring the two pedestal fans in the house and aim them at the bed so you don’t melt mid-episode, like crayons left out on the sidewalk.
When your mom joins you in the big bedroom, she sits on the edge of the bed and asks for the remote. It is time for her telenovelas.
Together with your mom, you’ve gone through many telenovelas. You’ve seen women on TV cry, clean, get kissed, and get pushed down flights of stairs by other women jealous of the husband or fiancé. The men on TV fight, drink, kiss women, ride horses, and shoot guns, all with the top three buttons of their western shirts undone. Your mom, your tías, your abuelitas: they don’t care for the men in telenovelas—not even for the main character, the heartthrob who everyone knows will end up marrying the female lead. You’ve been in rooms with these women who’ve chased off coyotes to save the family pet, and you’ve seen them huddle around a TV screen and root for the leading lady. “You could be an Olympic swimmer,” your mom yells at the protagonist who’s shaped like a ball-headed pin with heels. “I’ll train you, comadre.” But it’s always the same: men and women are too different in the first hundred episodes, and in the final one, they marry, then kiss, then “The End” appears on screen.
In the evening, during the third telenovela in your mom’s binge session, your dad gets home. With a sigh of relief, he kicks off his cowboy boots, unbuckles his belt, and slumps onto the bed. He seizes the TV remote from your mom and changes the channel to the evening news. Your mom groans, irritated because she will again miss the last minutes of her favorite story.
“Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar has escaped from prison,” the anchorman says in his famously shrill voice. He’s thin, with big reading glasses, and a head shaped like a lightbulb topped with grey hair. He has a foreign last name that no one in Mexico seems able to pronounce correctly: Zabludovski. Your dad told you the anchorman came from Poland. “They all sound like that over there,” he said. You picture Poland as a place where everyone speaks as if they have old radios in their throats. You wonder if the anchorman misses hearing that sound around him.
After a commercial break, Mr Zabludovski appears back on the screen, holding a book. “Published in Mexico earlier this year,” he says, “it’s already a global sensation.”
The camera zooms in on the front cover. It reads: Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.
Mr Zabludovski welcomes a man in a dark suit, then says: “Tell our viewers about it, Doctor.”
The doctor starts in a chirpy English, and after a few seconds, the dubbing follows.
“In the book, I explore the differences between men and women. Why men do not understand women, for example—”
“Because we’re from different planets,” the anchorman says.
“Yes.” The doctor smiles. “We can say that our different natures are because we come from two different places: Mars and Venus.”
“Tell me something new, mister,” your mom says.
You sit up: “What?”
“That’s right, Junior,” your dad says. “Venusians only know how to demand things and complain. Your mom, your tías, your teacher: all the same. Nagging is the Venusian way of life.” He laughs.
“And what about you, Marciano?” your mom sniggers at your dad.
The doctor on TV continues: “That’s also why men and boys get along better with one another than with women or girls, and vice versa.”
“Birds of a feather,” the anchorman grins, and after a second, so does the doctor.
Your head bubbles.
“The gringo’s not wrong,” your dad says. “Who wants to be around Venusians?”
“Then go back to Mars,” your mom says.
“But who would cook me dinner, mamita hermosa?” your dad says, then winks at your mom.
Your mom groans, gets up and trudges to the kitchen.
*
On your way home from school the next day, you stop at the stationery shop and ask for a lesson sheet about Mars and Venus.
The lady from behind the counter hands you one about the Solar System. “I only have this one,” she says.
The lesson sheet has five panels with illustrations: four of all the nine planets, one with the Moon and the Earth.
“Is it for your homework?” the lady asks. “Did your teacher say we had it? Students usually buy one of the Solar System. Are you sure she asked for one of Mars and Venus?”
You place a two-peso coin on the counter, say thank you and leave. The lady could ask questions until nightfall.
At home, you study the drawing of the Solar System. You look at the Earth, at the distances to Mars and Venus.
In a spaceship, you dash to Mars at interstellar speed. The moment you enter its atmosphere, the smell of sweat and dirt hits you. You descend with caution. As you near the surface, you see the figures of men in action: stampeding after footballs or playfighting until making the other one bruise. The streets are full of roaring pickup trucks and litter. With military-like unity, boys and men take aim and shoot at the stone statues of animals. You hover closer, searching for boys under the trees, but you only find the dead charcoals of barbecues past.
“Junior,” your dad summons you back to Earth. “Finish your food.”
There’s still more than half a pile of arroz con pollo on your plate.
“Dad,” you say. “Can someone go to another planet?”
Your dad snorts. “What silly show have you been watching?” he points at the TV with his chin.
“None,” you say, then add: “But could someone, though?”
“Look,” he says, “with enough dough, you can do whatever you want.”
“Would you?”
“If I had that kind of money, Junior, I’d use it for something else.”
“Why?”
“Because there are only Marcianos up there,” he chuckles, then coughs because his mouth is full.
When he’s done eating, your dad seesaws a napkin on his lips, stands up, pats you hard in the back—as usual. “Stop watching TV. It’ll fry your brains.”
Your dad leaves, and you speed towards Venus. The moment you enter its atmosphere, you turn on the camouflage shield of the spaceship. You do not want the women of Venus to spot you and start asking if you finished your homework. Through spotless windows, you see women getting ready. Millions of hairspray cans are being triggered, powder swirls up in the air as women pat and pat their cheekbones with puffs. As women spritz perfume bottles, the prickling scent of Venus invades your spaceship: cinnamon and oranges. Sidewalks and streets sparkle. Women in pretty shoes sway and walk, some singing like house sparrows. Girls in dresses and ponytails, playing with dolls and toy houses next to their mothers, who watch telenovelas and gesture excitedly at the screen. That, and only that, everywhere you look.
You look back at the Solar System lesson sheet. Mercury. It’s too close to the Sun. Jupiter and the rest are far too far for someone to fall to Earth by accident.
You focus on planet Earth, look right and left between Mars and Venus. In the space between, circling the Earth, you find the Moon.
“Mun-di-to?”
Your mom’s home.
After she joins you at the kitchen table, you ask: “What’s on the Moon?”
“On the Moon?” she says. “I don’t know. The Americans went up there—”
“Really?” you say almost shouting. “What did they find?”
“Why are you suddenly so interested in space?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because I want to know what’s there on the Moon.”
“Well, the Americans collected samples, planted their flag, and came back.”
“That’s it?”
Your mom nods.
“And no one has gone back?”
“Since the last time?” she says. “Only machines, I think.”
“Mom,” you say. “Did they see anyone on the Moon?”
She laughs, shakes her head, looking at you the way your aunt looked at your cousin when he wanted to clean a puddle of muddy water with detergent.
“It’s not like in cartoons, Mundo,” your mom says. “But, if there’s someone out there, we better not find each other.”
You sit back down on your chair as your mom says something about history.
“Now, eat,” your mom makes you finish the food on your plate because, she jokes, spacemen must be strong-built like el abuelo Rubén.
The next morning, while the teacher talk-yells the day’s lesson at the classroom, boys crumple scraps of paper and launch them as projectiles using the hollow barrels of their pens; girls pass notes to each other and giggle.
You stare at the lesson sheet of the Solar System, at the illustration of the Moon. On the back, it says you only see one side of the Moon. The other is always hidden from our view.
As you near the surface of the Moon, you scan the visible side. Once, then twice. Nothing. As you navigate the spaceship over to the hidden side, the alarms blare. You have been spotted and must evade incoming fire. You’re hit as you make it to the other side of the Moon. It’s dark and the searching lights malfunction. You activate radar and microphones, but you only catch the racket of Martians and Venusians shooting at you from Earth. You are hit again. Critical damage. You must turn around, make your way back to base, or the spaceship will break apart.
A spitball hits you in the neck again. You hear the muffled laughter of boys and girls. You turn and see them mouthing names at you.
The lady from behind the counter hands you one about the Solar System. “I only have this one,” she says.
The lesson sheet has five panels with illustrations: four of all the nine planets, one with the Moon and the Earth.
“Is it for your homework?” the lady asks. “Did your teacher say we had it? Students usually buy one of the Solar System. Are you sure she asked for one of Mars and Venus?”
You place a two-peso coin on the counter, say thank you and leave. The lady could ask questions until nightfall.
At home, you study the drawing of the Solar System. You look at the Earth, at the distances to Mars and Venus.
In a spaceship, you dash to Mars at interstellar speed. The moment you enter its atmosphere, the smell of sweat and dirt hits you. You descend with caution. As you near the surface, you see the figures of men in action: stampeding after footballs or playfighting until making the other one bruise. The streets are full of roaring pickup trucks and litter. With military-like unity, boys and men take aim and shoot at the stone statues of animals. You hover closer, searching for boys under the trees, but you only find the dead charcoals of barbecues past.
“Junior,” your dad summons you back to Earth. “Finish your food.”
There’s still more than half a pile of arroz con pollo on your plate.
“Dad,” you say. “Can someone go to another planet?”
Your dad snorts. “What silly show have you been watching?” he points at the TV with his chin.
“None,” you say, then add: “But could someone, though?”
“Look,” he says, “with enough dough, you can do whatever you want.”
“Would you?”
“If I had that kind of money, Junior, I’d use it for something else.”
“Why?”
“Because there are only Marcianos up there,” he chuckles, then coughs because his mouth is full.
When he’s done eating, your dad seesaws a napkin on his lips, stands up, pats you hard in the back—as usual. “Stop watching TV. It’ll fry your brains.”
Your dad leaves, and you speed towards Venus. The moment you enter its atmosphere, you turn on the camouflage shield of the spaceship. You do not want the women of Venus to spot you and start asking if you finished your homework. Through spotless windows, you see women getting ready. Millions of hairspray cans are being triggered, powder swirls up in the air as women pat and pat their cheekbones with puffs. As women spritz perfume bottles, the prickling scent of Venus invades your spaceship: cinnamon and oranges. Sidewalks and streets sparkle. Women in pretty shoes sway and walk, some singing like house sparrows. Girls in dresses and ponytails, playing with dolls and toy houses next to their mothers, who watch telenovelas and gesture excitedly at the screen. That, and only that, everywhere you look.
You look back at the Solar System lesson sheet. Mercury. It’s too close to the Sun. Jupiter and the rest are far too far for someone to fall to Earth by accident.
You focus on planet Earth, look right and left between Mars and Venus. In the space between, circling the Earth, you find the Moon.
“Mun-di-to?”
Your mom’s home.
After she joins you at the kitchen table, you ask: “What’s on the Moon?”
“On the Moon?” she says. “I don’t know. The Americans went up there—”
“Really?” you say almost shouting. “What did they find?”
“Why are you suddenly so interested in space?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because I want to know what’s there on the Moon.”
“Well, the Americans collected samples, planted their flag, and came back.”
“That’s it?”
Your mom nods.
“And no one has gone back?”
“Since the last time?” she says. “Only machines, I think.”
“Mom,” you say. “Did they see anyone on the Moon?”
She laughs, shakes her head, looking at you the way your aunt looked at your cousin when he wanted to clean a puddle of muddy water with detergent.
“It’s not like in cartoons, Mundo,” your mom says. “But, if there’s someone out there, we better not find each other.”
You sit back down on your chair as your mom says something about history.
“Now, eat,” your mom makes you finish the food on your plate because, she jokes, spacemen must be strong-built like el abuelo Rubén.
The next morning, while the teacher talk-yells the day’s lesson at the classroom, boys crumple scraps of paper and launch them as projectiles using the hollow barrels of their pens; girls pass notes to each other and giggle.
You stare at the lesson sheet of the Solar System, at the illustration of the Moon. On the back, it says you only see one side of the Moon. The other is always hidden from our view.
As you near the surface of the Moon, you scan the visible side. Once, then twice. Nothing. As you navigate the spaceship over to the hidden side, the alarms blare. You have been spotted and must evade incoming fire. You’re hit as you make it to the other side of the Moon. It’s dark and the searching lights malfunction. You activate radar and microphones, but you only catch the racket of Martians and Venusians shooting at you from Earth. You are hit again. Critical damage. You must turn around, make your way back to base, or the spaceship will break apart.
A spitball hits you in the neck again. You hear the muffled laughter of boys and girls. You turn and see them mouthing names at you.
*
Your dad waits outside while your mom coifs her hair. With the hissing of the hairspray going off for what seems like hours, the air in the house has become thick like syrup. Your mom is getting all dolled up because tonight everyone in Sabinas will be at the main square for the fiestas celebrating the town’s anniversary.
“Where are my shoes?” she’s looking for her strap-on sandals with the short heel.
Your mom rushes down the hallway with cylindrical bangs and her hair up in a hardened bun. She leaves a trail of hairspray and perfume in her wake.
She finds the shoes in your room.
“How did they get here?” You shrug.
“C’mon,” your dad shouts from the front door.
Out on the street, you catch the scent of damp earth. Your dad said that rain is coming and that better times are ahead.
“Finally,” your mom says about las fiestas not being postponed as you drive downtown.
When you arrive, you see it’s nothing like you remembered from las fiestas, back when they were held in the big, open field at the outskirts of town. No Ferris wheel, no bumper cars or carrousels—just food stands and music.
“This is much better,” your mom says.
On the square, you spot boys chasing each other around their fathers, all dressed in western shirts and pants and boots. You see girls showing off their dresses and polished shoes next to their mothers who show off their hairdos. You recognize some kids from school, but they rush by you as if you are part of the stone bench you’re sitting on.
Fireworks explode in the night sky, sparks travelling in all directions before fading. Music and singing and cheer fill the square.
The song blaring from the speakers ends, and everyone and everything seems to quiet down.
The hair on your arms rise like antennae.
When you look up, you see someone in a white dress and white gloves that go all the way to the elbows walking among the crowd as if in slow-motion. The click, click of the shiny, silver shoes is the only thing you hear. Her red lips part with a smile when, for a second, your eyes meet hers.
Your chest fizzes as if filled with soda.
You stand on the bench to get a better look, trying to get the lady’s attention when the loud boom of fireworks startles you.
You see the lady in white walk into the crowd on the square as the speakers blast music again.
“Wait,” you call out to her, but she doesn’t hear you.
Your heart thumps like a trapped rabbit.
You jump off the bench, start following her, but, before you can get close, you are pulled away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” your mom says.
You tug and tug, trying to get away.
“Stay here.”
You feel like your heart is coming out of your mouth “I—I saw someone.”
“A friend from school?”
“No,” you turn your head, search for the lady in the white dress, but you cannot see her anymore.
“Who then?”
You start towing your mom. She gives in a little at first, then hurries behind you. The crowd gets denser and denser. When you hit a wall of people, you let go of your mom’s hand, push your way forward between people’s legs.
“Mundo,” your mom calls after you. You turn and see your dad pushing through the crowd.
You can see a clearing on the other side.
You can see the lady in the white dress standing right there.
Something pulls you towards her. You know it with your body, by how it pulses with every heartbeat, pushing your chest forward, closer to her. You feel as if you know something about her, as if you two share something that goes as deep as the stardust that makes you.
“Look,” you yell at your parents. “A Moon Lady.”
The sound of glass shattering on the cobblestones breaks your attention. People scream and scatter around you.
The voice of a man towers over the hubbub. “It’s the hairdresser,” the man yells. “He’s in a dress again.”
Other Martians and Venusians start calling the Moon Lady names.
A man grips the lady by the arm. When she tries to get away, he yanks and rips the strap of her white dress.
“Leave her alone,” you shout.
The Moon Lady says something to the man, but you can’t make out what she says because the sky rumbles. Thunder splits the sky and makes everyone scramble for shelter.
Everyone but you.
Raindrops break on your skin. They fall and make a curtain between you and the Moon Lady. You see the silhouette of her white dress shining under the streetlights.
The moment she runs away, you ready yourself to follow, but before you gather speed, your dad stops you.
“No,” you say. “Wait!”
Your dad tries to hurl you over his shoulder, but he slips. Your mom rushes over, crouches and carries you away. You writhe and protest, but all you can do is look over your mom’s shoulder.
You cannot see where the Moon Lady goes.
Your mom shoves you in the truck, straps you in the middle seat.
As he dries his glasses with his damp shirt, your dad drives away at full speed.
“Que mugrero,” your mom says, wiping wet strands of hair from her face. Her bun droops below her nape. “What a mess.”
“I need to go back,” you plead, but they don’t hear you over the loud patter of the rain on the rooftop and windows.
“Move!” your dad punches the steering wheel to sound the horn at the car in front.
“Let’s go back,” you say loudly.
“We are not going back,” your mom says.
“Please,” you say. “The Moon Lady.”
“What?” your mom says.
“The lady in white,” you say. “She’s from the Moon.”
“What nonsense are you saying?” your dad says.
“She’s not like you,” you say. “Or like Mom.”
“You’re goddam right,” your dad says. “That puto’s nothing like us.”
“She’s not a puto,” you say. “She’s from the Moon. Like me.”
Your dad yells at you to shut up.
“But I am—”
He turns to you, closes his fist around your arm. “Don’t you ever say that,” he says. “You hear me?”
“Look out!” your mom cries out, and your dad swerves to avoid hitting someone crossing the street.
The truck comes to a halt.
Your dad rolls down the window to curse at the figure running in the rain, steam spewing from his mouth.
You turn to your mom, but she’s holding her face in her hands; her melted bangs wrapped around her fingers.
“Please,” you nudge her dress, and she looks up and away from you.
You still feel the grip of your dad’s fist on your arm. It feels warm. It stings you. It spreads over to your chest, up behind your neck, down to your legs and feet.
Your dad stomps on the gas pedal and speeds.
“Careful,” your mom braces with her hands on the dashboard.
As the truck hurtles faster and faster, you feel yourself sinking deeper into the seat. You stare at the windshield. Raindrops splatter against the glass, then slide sideways, catching the light of passing street lamps. You see two drops draw paths of light that seem to cross the night sky. You think of them as falling stars. You think of them as children like you, falling onto Earth, and wish for them to always remember the Moon—or that, at least, they land together.
“Where are my shoes?” she’s looking for her strap-on sandals with the short heel.
Your mom rushes down the hallway with cylindrical bangs and her hair up in a hardened bun. She leaves a trail of hairspray and perfume in her wake.
She finds the shoes in your room.
“How did they get here?” You shrug.
“C’mon,” your dad shouts from the front door.
Out on the street, you catch the scent of damp earth. Your dad said that rain is coming and that better times are ahead.
“Finally,” your mom says about las fiestas not being postponed as you drive downtown.
When you arrive, you see it’s nothing like you remembered from las fiestas, back when they were held in the big, open field at the outskirts of town. No Ferris wheel, no bumper cars or carrousels—just food stands and music.
“This is much better,” your mom says.
On the square, you spot boys chasing each other around their fathers, all dressed in western shirts and pants and boots. You see girls showing off their dresses and polished shoes next to their mothers who show off their hairdos. You recognize some kids from school, but they rush by you as if you are part of the stone bench you’re sitting on.
Fireworks explode in the night sky, sparks travelling in all directions before fading. Music and singing and cheer fill the square.
The song blaring from the speakers ends, and everyone and everything seems to quiet down.
The hair on your arms rise like antennae.
When you look up, you see someone in a white dress and white gloves that go all the way to the elbows walking among the crowd as if in slow-motion. The click, click of the shiny, silver shoes is the only thing you hear. Her red lips part with a smile when, for a second, your eyes meet hers.
Your chest fizzes as if filled with soda.
You stand on the bench to get a better look, trying to get the lady’s attention when the loud boom of fireworks startles you.
You see the lady in white walk into the crowd on the square as the speakers blast music again.
“Wait,” you call out to her, but she doesn’t hear you.
Your heart thumps like a trapped rabbit.
You jump off the bench, start following her, but, before you can get close, you are pulled away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” your mom says.
You tug and tug, trying to get away.
“Stay here.”
You feel like your heart is coming out of your mouth “I—I saw someone.”
“A friend from school?”
“No,” you turn your head, search for the lady in the white dress, but you cannot see her anymore.
“Who then?”
You start towing your mom. She gives in a little at first, then hurries behind you. The crowd gets denser and denser. When you hit a wall of people, you let go of your mom’s hand, push your way forward between people’s legs.
“Mundo,” your mom calls after you. You turn and see your dad pushing through the crowd.
You can see a clearing on the other side.
You can see the lady in the white dress standing right there.
Something pulls you towards her. You know it with your body, by how it pulses with every heartbeat, pushing your chest forward, closer to her. You feel as if you know something about her, as if you two share something that goes as deep as the stardust that makes you.
“Look,” you yell at your parents. “A Moon Lady.”
The sound of glass shattering on the cobblestones breaks your attention. People scream and scatter around you.
The voice of a man towers over the hubbub. “It’s the hairdresser,” the man yells. “He’s in a dress again.”
Other Martians and Venusians start calling the Moon Lady names.
A man grips the lady by the arm. When she tries to get away, he yanks and rips the strap of her white dress.
“Leave her alone,” you shout.
The Moon Lady says something to the man, but you can’t make out what she says because the sky rumbles. Thunder splits the sky and makes everyone scramble for shelter.
Everyone but you.
Raindrops break on your skin. They fall and make a curtain between you and the Moon Lady. You see the silhouette of her white dress shining under the streetlights.
The moment she runs away, you ready yourself to follow, but before you gather speed, your dad stops you.
“No,” you say. “Wait!”
Your dad tries to hurl you over his shoulder, but he slips. Your mom rushes over, crouches and carries you away. You writhe and protest, but all you can do is look over your mom’s shoulder.
You cannot see where the Moon Lady goes.
Your mom shoves you in the truck, straps you in the middle seat.
As he dries his glasses with his damp shirt, your dad drives away at full speed.
“Que mugrero,” your mom says, wiping wet strands of hair from her face. Her bun droops below her nape. “What a mess.”
“I need to go back,” you plead, but they don’t hear you over the loud patter of the rain on the rooftop and windows.
“Move!” your dad punches the steering wheel to sound the horn at the car in front.
“Let’s go back,” you say loudly.
“We are not going back,” your mom says.
“Please,” you say. “The Moon Lady.”
“What?” your mom says.
“The lady in white,” you say. “She’s from the Moon.”
“What nonsense are you saying?” your dad says.
“She’s not like you,” you say. “Or like Mom.”
“You’re goddam right,” your dad says. “That puto’s nothing like us.”
“She’s not a puto,” you say. “She’s from the Moon. Like me.”
Your dad yells at you to shut up.
“But I am—”
He turns to you, closes his fist around your arm. “Don’t you ever say that,” he says. “You hear me?”
“Look out!” your mom cries out, and your dad swerves to avoid hitting someone crossing the street.
The truck comes to a halt.
Your dad rolls down the window to curse at the figure running in the rain, steam spewing from his mouth.
You turn to your mom, but she’s holding her face in her hands; her melted bangs wrapped around her fingers.
“Please,” you nudge her dress, and she looks up and away from you.
You still feel the grip of your dad’s fist on your arm. It feels warm. It stings you. It spreads over to your chest, up behind your neck, down to your legs and feet.
Your dad stomps on the gas pedal and speeds.
“Careful,” your mom braces with her hands on the dashboard.
As the truck hurtles faster and faster, you feel yourself sinking deeper into the seat. You stare at the windshield. Raindrops splatter against the glass, then slide sideways, catching the light of passing street lamps. You see two drops draw paths of light that seem to cross the night sky. You think of them as falling stars. You think of them as children like you, falling onto Earth, and wish for them to always remember the Moon—or that, at least, they land together.