Emilia

“It’s good that it’s Friday and the posadas are starting in the barrio,” Ramiro tells me as we walk together through the park that smells like freshly cut grass, on our way back from school.

“Yes, let’s see how they get on with Doña Jandita and today with Doña María,” I reply.

We arrive in the barrio and he says, “See you later.” Outside my house, some kids are chatting.

“Come and play, Martin, we’re just waiting for you,” Juan says.

“I’ll drop off my backpack and be right back,” I say.

I go into the house drop off my backpack, change my school shirt, and my mamá asks me, “How was school?”

“Good mamá it was the last day of school because Christmas holiday. I’m going to hang out with the guys.”

“Be careful, mijo,” she says.

Outside, “Come on, we’ve already started the game. You’re playing on my team,” Juan tells me.

I think I am bad at playing soccer, but I like it.

I hardly touch the ball, but I’ve still scored goals.

I get a pass, see an opportunity, and shoot as best I can. Goal! My teammates shout.

Wow! The goalkeeper wasn’t expecting that shot.

“Car!” shouts someone from the other team. Someone grabs the ball, and we all step up on the sidewalk to let a white truck pass.

As it passes in front of me, I see Emilia through the open window, waving at me as she goes by. Emilia is a white girl with blonde hair, honey-colored eyes and a pretty face, she’s Doña Jandita’s granddaughter.

The truck parks, and we go back to the game.

It was already dark. Aurelio stumbled over a pothole, staggered, and seemed to fall in slow motion.

When he finally hit the ground, we all burst out laughing.

I look and there is Emilia sitting on the curb in her flowery dress and white shoes, laughing.

She looks at me and asks if I’m going to Doña María’s posada. I say, “I don’t know.” Aurelio says that the game is over. Emilia asks me to sit next to her.

I sit down and she touches my hand and says, “I didn’t know you played soccer.” I reply, “Me neither,” and we both laugh. Looking into her eyes so closely makes me feel butterflies in my stomach. We talk and forget about Doña María’s posada, even though we can hear the prayers, neither of us wants to break the conversation.

“Emilia,” her brother calling her. “I have to go, see you tomorrow,” she says goodbye, kissing me on the cheek.

“Yes, see you tomorrow.”

Mario, my older brother, who saw the kiss, says to me,

“She’s a pretty girl, a little older than you. Be careful, she belongs to a different social class. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but how could I not feel anything? She’s beautiful.”

“I’m just telling you to be careful.”

“I’ll try.”

My mamá has dinner ready. Everyone, well, almost everyone, is at the table; my sisters help my mamá serve delicious, refried beans with cheese and hot chocolate to drink. Yummy.

My father is quiet as always. Mario tells jokes and everyone laughs, while I just think about Emilia’s honey-colored eyes.

When it’s time to go to bed, I think about what Mario told me.

The following days at Doña Jandita’s posadas, Emilia and I get together. We pray together, sing together, light candles together, and share the sweets and fruit they give us. I really enjoy being with her.

At the posada on December 23, I tell her “Tomorrow it’s my family turn to host the posada. Will you come to our house?”

“I don’t know, I need to see what my family’s plans are, but if I can, I’ll see you there.”

We continue with the prayers and when we finish they hang a colorful five-pointed piñata.

It’s Emilia’s turn. They blindfold her, put a stick in her hand, and spin her around to disorient her. Then we all start clapping and shouting, “Go! Go!” Some give her directions: “Right, left, up, down.”

They tap her arm to let her know her time is up.

She only hit the piñata twice, which is more than some people can manage.

“Well done!” I say to her.

“Not really, I didn’t break it,” she says.

“But you were close,”

Finally, someone breaks the piñata, and I throw myself on the floor to collect candy. I get up with my hands full of candy.

“Look, take whatever you want,” I say.

“Oh, thank you,”

She opens the bag and puts a few pieces inside.

We go outside and sit on the curb to eat candy and fruit.

We talk, and when it’s time to say goodbye, she takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek.

“Thanks for the candy,” she says, looking at me with those beautiful eyes.

My heart beats fast.

Today is Christmas Eve, tonight is the posada at my house, and I hope to see Emilia.

My mamá says, “Mijo, go to the market and bring back four kilos of peanuts, please.”

“Yes, mamá,” I say, grabbing a bag and some money.

When I get to the market, I see the guy we call ‘el búho’ arranging fruit at a stall.

“Hey,” he says when I approach him.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” I say.

“I started two days ago. My mamá got me the job. She told me to do something productive during these holidays, even though for me they’re not really holidays anymore,” he says with a laugh as he wipes his hands with a rag he pulls out of his dirty apron.

The market looks very Christmassy. Some stalls, in addition to fruit, vegetables, and chicken, have baubles, lights, gift wrapping paper, and other items for sale.

“I’ll see you tonight at my house for the posada.”

“Yes, see you there. Did you invite your girlfriend?” he asks me with a mocking tone. 

“Yes, I invited her, but she’s not ‘my girlfriend.’ I wish she were, but she comes from a wealthy family and I’m poor. She’s white and I’m dark-skinned. What’s more, I don’t even know where she lives. I only see her when she comes to visit her grandmother.”

“Come on, come on, it’s not that big a deal. If she likes you, you’ll find a way. Let me get back to work.”

“See you tonight,” I say goodbye. I buy the peanuts. When I get to the barrio, I look to see if I can see her, but no, she’s not outside.

I go into the house and my sisters help my mamá with the details for the posada.

I help them clean the figures of Mary and Joseph and the three wise men.

It’s time to take a bath to get ready, I have my best shirt and shine my shoes.

Our neighbors start to arrive.

Now my mamá says we’re going to start with the rosary. 

I look at the door. Nothing. She doesn’t show up. 

Now a little group of neighbors from outside the door  José and María ask for shelter singing. 

The godmother takes the doll that represents the baby Jesus, cleans it, and puts on the new dress she knitted herself, then places it on a large plate surrounded by candy eggs and passes it around while we sing. You have to kiss the baby and take a piece of candy. 

I look at the door again and nothing, she doesn’t come in.

The posada ends and my mamá offers tamales and atole to the neighbors who attended.

I go out to look for Emilia and there she is outside her grandmother’s house talking to a girl.

I walk towards her and wave my hand in greeting. She sees me and does the same.

A white well-dress boy of about 16 years old comes out of his grandmother’s house, approaches her, says something to her, kisses her, then takes her by the arm. She looks at me sadly and waves goodbye. I stand there, my heart stops, and it hurts so much. So much.

I knew we were from two different worlds and that this could happen, but my heart is so stupid that I had hopes that a miracle would happen, and it didn’t.

I go into my house, my mamá serves me some tamales and atole, I walk among the neighbors and sit on the stairs that lead to the bedrooms.

I sit down, I think. It hurts, a lot.

My brother Mario comes up to me and says, “Are you sad about Emilia?”

I nod my head.

“I told you to be careful, there’s a lot to learn, don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” he says.

It’s time to sleep, but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about her clear eyes, her beautiful face, and her soft lips.