La Trenza

“Si alguien te pega ¿qué vas hacer?” Ita asked. If someone hits you, what are you going to do?

“Hit them back,” I said.

“No empieces nada, pero no te dejes, ¿eh?” Don’t start anything, but don’t take anything from anyone, okay?

“Ok, Ita.” I nodded, looking up.

“Y vale más que ganes ¿eh? Porque si no, cuando llegues a la casa te voy a poner otra chinga.” And you better win, because if you don’t, when you get home I’m going to give you another ass kicking.

Earlier that day at school, Eric had pulled my braid. He’d pulled so hard the bolita at the top of my head snapped. I came home, my hair disheveled and loose, a deflated bag drooping to the base of my skull. In class I’d kept my face down, my braid pulled to the right side of my face so I wouldn’t have to see Eric, wouldn’t have to see anyone. Mrs. John, my teacher, asked me what had happened when I came in from recess. I told her my bolita had broken. I stared up into her crinkled blue eyes when she asked me again, but I told her the same thing, and this time I looked down.

Every morning, Ita brushed and braided my hair. My hair was long, and it fell past my waist, thick black wires pointing in every direction. She brushed my hair with a metal bristle brush, tiny metal soldiers standing at attention, ready for battle. She brushed and brushed until every tangle was out, pulled my wiry black hair into a tight ponytail, smooth and perfect at the crown of my head, then braided it into a thick three-strand rope. Sometimes my eyes watered from my hair being pulled, so tight I felt Chinese, my eyelids pulled at an angle from my temples; I braced against the pulls, holding my head stiff to make the process easier. I knew she wouldn’t be happy when I got home with my hair free, unraveled, with only the last bit of it still braided.

There I was, braid repaired, in front of Ita on the couch, nodding, my eyes wide, while Estela Casas from the 6 o’clock news spoke loudly to the background. I stood to the side of Ita while she sat on the edge of the worn brown paisley couch. We’d moved the coffee table out of the way for more room. The gold cross she always wore lay shiny on her chest moving as it rose and fell with her breath. She wasn’t saying anything, so I stared at her face, waiting. Ita stared back, her brown eyes unwavering, unsmiling, her arched brows squished to the center, so I tried to squish my eyebrows, and my lips, too.

Without saying anything she held her hands out, pink palms facing me, braced in front of her chest. I stood ready, left foot in front, right foot back like she’d told me.

“No, mira, Prieta.” No, look.

Ita stood and showed me how to place my feet, “Porque así—” Because like that—She reached over, shoved me, and I lost my balance.

“Tienes que plantarte bien para que no te tumben.” Plant your feet so they don’t knock you over.

I put my feet back but this time bent my knees like hers. She tried to shove me again, but this time I stayed put.

“¡Eso!” She smiled and sat back down on the couch. Sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I was her height. I focused on her flowered tank top and blue polyester shorts.

“A ver, las manos como le enseñé.” Okay, your hands the way I showed you.

She made two fists, her fingers curled into her palm, her thumb wrapped around her bent fingers. The green center vein on her right hand bubbled when she clenched her fist into a tight knot. A nurse had popped her vein trying to put an IV in, and it had been that way ever since. I wanted to push on the...