Just as I feared, she didn’t believe me. Couldn’t believe me.
Desperate, I continued. “But I saw him, Mamá! First, down by the river when we were bathing, and then yesterday,” I pointed toward the window, “over there, I saw him looking in the window at Rosa and touching himself, before he fell!” I could see his face, his eyes glazed over, the slight upturned smile, his body jerking with each movement. As I turned back to Mamá, I was met again by a fierce crack across my cheek, this one much fiercer than before.
“Get out! Get out!” She screamed, spit flying in my face. “How dare you destroy the life I am making for myself. How dare you?”
I stumbled back against the wall. The boys were standing in the doorway with wide frightened eyes.
Mamá was breathing hard, tears streaming down her face. “Always complaining! You appreciate nothing! You just make my life harder and harder. Papá. School. Oaxaca. Well, you are a woman now! Let me see what kind of life you can make for yourself in this world! ¡Ahora! Go!” Throwing the blankets at my feet, she flew out the door, the boys scurrying after her. “You better not be here when I get back!” were the last words I heard her shout.
Sobbing, I slid to the floor and looked around the small dark room. Then I remembered Rosa. I had to get to Rosa! I took a deep breath, struggled to my feet, and set to work. I grabbed my backpack hanging on the wall and, hurrying about the room, I stuffed in anything I could find. Some clothes, my red rebozo, and last, my little wooden box of stars, a gift from Papá that contained a few prized possessions, but hidden under a fake bottom, a small amount of money—money Papá had given me to save for school, money that I had never told Mamá about even in the darkest times. How often had I cringed with guilt? But now I knew, this was what it was for.
Quickly I pulled on a pair of socks and my old brown shoes and hurried out the door. Outside I could hear the sounds of José crying and Mamá scolding up beyond the house in our garden. Up there she would be able to see me heading down the mountain. I stopped to fill a plastic bottle with water from the bucket, took one last look at the ugly stick house, and ran down the dirt path. No voice called me back. I imagined her tight-lipped, arms crossed, watching me slip and skid on the steep, twisting path until I was out of sight.
I had never walked down this mountain path by myself. Rosa and I had accompanied Tito down twice to go to the mercado in Zinacantán, and our whole family had gone once for a festival. Rosa and I had explored the mountain a bit on our own, but I had never been alone—alone with the snapping of twigs behind me or the sudden movement in bushes or trees. Every turn, I expected to find a snake, or jaguar, or worse, a man. These mountains could hide the shame of poverty or crime, not to mention ski-masked rebels or paramilitary soldiers. Though nothing of that sort had happened in the year we had lived here, there were always stories of other villages, of other mountain hideouts.
I ran as fast as I could, sticking with the flattened path that lame Tito must have taken. The side of my face that my mother had slapped throbbed. I could still hear her voice, “Get out! Get out!” Did she mean it? Was she crying now? Would she run after me, as I was running after Rosa? The disgust in her eyes, was it for me or was it for Tito?
I was halfway down when I heard a woman’s high-pitched plaintive voice to my far right. I couldn’t make out the words. I scrambled up a boulder and saw them, Tito and Rosa, beside a stream. His shoe was off, and he was hopping on one foot toward Rosa, who was backing away. I jumped down and made my way in their direction, climbing over rocks and pushing through thick brush. I slipped, catching myself as I fell and scraping both hands. By the time I was able to see them again, Tito was on the ground holding his ankle and moaning in pain. Rosa was leaning forward, her arm extended to help him up. I shouted, just as he grabbed her and pulled her down, but her own scream masked mine. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” she was saying. Absorbed in their struggle, neither heard me as I charged toward them.
Next thing I knew I was kicking Tito in his side with my thick brown shoes, as Rosa, wide-eyed, struggled underneath. Stunned, Tito turned and our eyes met just as I stomped my full weight onto his ankle. He let out a piercing scream, like that of a wild monkey. I stumbled and fell but rolled away just as he lunged at me. In that instant, a key flew out of his pocket at my feet. I snatched it up and shouted at Rosa, “Run, Rosa, run! Let’s go!”
She hesitated, her open mouth, as wide as her eyes, so I grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. I glanced back only once to see Tito fall as he tried to bear weight on his injured foot.
By the time we reached the truck, I had told Rosa what I saw the morning before and then what Mamá had said today.
“How can we leave her?” she kept saying. “And the boys?”
“How can we stay?” I answered sharply; then I reached out and gently
