It wasn’t so much that I needed to belong to the group: apart from the stories that formed a bond between Guillermo and myself, I didn’t feel particularly attracted to that gang. But I needed a break. School had always been an oasis of normality, a refuge from the conflicts at home—the arguments between my father and Mariana, Teresa’s dark mood after reading some article in the newspaper that sparked off fresh bouts of domestic tension. One of the unforeseen and most unpleasant consequences of her departure was that the separation between school and home had dissolved: their conflicts were now related, as if two worlds had suddenly collided, causing devastation in both.
At midday on Saturday my father drove me to Guillermo’s house. On the way, I persuaded him to stop to choose a gift. After a few minutes of pleading I managed to talk him into buying the latest Super Nintendo cartridge. Teresa had never allowed us to have video games, but it was an open secret that when I went to visit Guillermo I’d spend three or four hours in front of the screen losing every game—with my friend alternating between glee and despair at being able to humiliate me for a whole afternoon—while their domestic employee fed us sandwiches, cookies, and the sort of junk food I’d never seen for sale in any store in my neighborhood.
A Super Nintendo game was a gift of such generosity that it bordered on the absurd: kids usually gave action figures or throwaway toys that would be broken by the end of the party. But none of that was enough for me: I had to purchase Guillermo’s friendship, purchase my access to that group of popular boys, buy their silence about and forgiveness of my guerrillera mother.
Guillermo’s house was much larger than ours and was located in a gated community. I’d slept over on a number of occasions during the past two years but still found its pomp imposing. My father’s gold Tsuru was like an intruder in those streets, which were accustomed to much more luxurious vehicles. He must have realized this: he drove more slowly than usual, negotiating the speed bumps with extreme care, as if he were afraid of breaking them and being charged for the damage. Anyone watching us from the sidewalk might have thought that the car itself was aware of its shortcomings.
Guillermo’s mother received me with a degree of warmth that felt suspicious. My father, intimidated by the financial superiority of the hosts, accepted a glass of water, which he drank standing up, visibly uncomfortable, before explaining that he had things to do and making a speedy exit. Guillermo’s mother gave me a soda and said I could leave my gift on the table with the others, but I managed to sneak it with me into the garden, where some of the guests were already running around noisily. My idea was for Guillermo to open the present in front of all the boys and—won over by my largesse—immediately ask me to join in the general fun.
As I approached the group of five children playing in the garden, far from the protective eyes of Guillermo’s mom, I knew that I’d made a mistake. My gift, enveloped in paper with a clown design, suddenly seemed ridiculous, and I began to wish that I’d left it on the table, as everyone else had done. Guillermo looked surprised to see me; perhaps he’d assumed that, in spite of the phone call, my common sense would prevail and I’d finally decide not to show my face. But after a momentary hesitation, he seemed to become aware of the possibilities my appearance offered in terms of his legitimation as a leader.
“What are you doing out here? Didn’t Mom tell you that the girls are staying inside?” His words hurt me, but they also seemed senseless: there were no girls at the party.
His greeting made clear that it wasn’t going to be an easy day.
My former friend grabbed the present from my hands and effortlessly tore open the clown gift wrapping. The other four or five boys looked on with expressions of malicious anticipation. I was indignant to find that among them were some of the dumb but popular boys Guillermo and I used to openly mock before that fatal summer vacation. His transformation was more complete than I’d supposed: not only had he turned his back on me, but also on the boy he’d been just a few months earlier.
Guillermo sneered, said he already had that game, and threw it into the undergrowth. That part of the garden had been let run wild, with huge banana plants and coffee bushes that created a jungle effect. “Beat it,” he said, and then pushed me with both hands, causing me to momentarily lose my balance. “Or are you going to tell your whore of a mother to come and kill us?”
That new barb was more deeply hurtful than any of the earlier ones, not because of the insinuation that Teresa was a whore—an insult that had become hackneyed due to its ubiquitous use at school and in the neighborhood—but for the implication that she was a murderer; on Guillermo’s lips, that accusation felt for the first time seriously beyond the pale.
I’d never, until that moment, considered the possibility that Teresa had killed anyone. Even if she’d joined the rebels in balaclavas, even if it turned out that she was living in a camp in the middle of a war zone, I was incapable of imagining her firing a gun or throwing a grenade. Her violence was of a different variety: it consisted of looking you in the eyes and coolly saying things that hurt: “I’m disappointed in you.” Accusing my mom of being a killer
