The Crash

It was loud, cold, and utterly tiring. My prudish seven-year-old self had not been enjoying the sea world´s many boring attractions, and I didn't like big rides or getting wet or loud places. SeaWorld seemed like hell, but I hid it behind a graceful, grateful face. The day had been relatively calm, with a breeze, thick clouds, and sunlight that radiated calm to all. Meals had been rough, as the few foods I ate were bland and with small portions,  attractions terrifying, because my uncles dragged me into the splash zone, and rides awaited me like a dog in the pound, but I didn't like trying new things. Our day would end by moving to the kids´ area, with calmer rides and a Sesame Street-themed jungle gym, then the gift shop. The kid's area was packed,obviously, although not comparable to Disney it could still feel like an eternity to a child in a line, even if it was their only ride that day. 

After an agonizing twenty minutes me my nana and I went on a swing-esque ride themed after jellyfish, which cured my resentment and boredom instantaneously. My family, not wanting lines, made their way to the jungle gym. As you can infer, I stayed on ground level and played with some of the older kids there and my dear cousin in the punching bag area. The punching bags were striped and an intoxicating, radioactive neon green. As we ran around inside, chasing each other through what felt like a trippy maze, my cousin ran into each other, pushing me into a punching bag close by.

My cousin, unharmed, was very helpful after my fall, picking me up and pointing out my fallen teeth. With their bloody exterior, they matched the scrapes on my knees and the red in my cheeks as we called for the adults nearby. My extended family was able to find an infirmary close, providing ample care for my cuts.  While getting scolded and consoled (by both family and Sesame Street characters), I didn't reflect on my actions, instead finding reason to blame the park. 

After all, it wasn't my fault the food was so expensive for a lackluster flavor, i wasn't at fault either when i sat in my splash zone and got wet because i couldn't find any signs, and most of all, how would i have known that running in a jungle gym was a bad idea when nobody stopped me?

By Kaylie Pacheco Cruz 

“Why won’t you go get it? You are a girl, aren’t you?” 

I didn’t personally know the girl. Angelica’s friends never liked me to begin with. With their long hair, flashy backpacks, and pink shoes. This girl specifically didn’t like that I was able to visit the fourth-grade classrooms, though we were in second grade. She didn’t like my affiliation with Maximilliano Lopez either. Though I’ve never known her name, or maybe I have forgotten through the years, I shall use a placeholder for her. Beautiful girls deserve beautiful names, like Lavender or Biloba. She’ll be Biloba today.

You see, during this time in my life, I had been living in a two-bedroom apartment with eight other people. Add that to the stress of slowly losing my father, and my mother fighting our family on my behalf constantly, and you get a pretty delicate eight-year-old. I had just been itching for an excuse to explode, and Biloba had just become my outlet. Recess, just two hours into the day, Biloba had been asking Angelica (my only friend in my grade at the time) about why I had cut my hair short for a second time that year. 

“She’s trying too hard to blend in with the boys.” I lifted my head, like a meerkat hopping from the dirt.

“Who are we talking about?” I stood to stretch my back, my arms straining high above my head, shoving off the multitude of bug bites, scars, and scabs trailing up my skin.

“You. Why is your hair so short?” Angelica had left by then, our attention spans as short as we were.

“You weren’t talking about me. You said ‘she.’” I was quite confused, and frankly, a little too used to my family at home calling me whatever I told them to. I blinked slowly, leaning slightly forward above where she sat on the four-square courts.
“I was talking about you, you say ‘she’ when you talk about a girl.”
“Then you weren’t talking about me. Because I’m not a girl.”
“Yes, you are. You look like a girl, you play the games girls do, and Miss Carnicero put you on the girls team for basketball. So you are a girl.” 

Biloba was standing up now, her face uncomfortably close to mine. I loved her hair, it was really the only thing I could think about in the moment. Her hair, kept down and long, yet still short enough to keep clean without a hassle. I swear I didn’t notice the way my hand reached up. And touched the hair that lay on her shoulder ever so briefly.

“Don’t touch me!” 

Her hands came into contact with my own shoulders, shoving me to the concrete and recoiling back to her hair. I watched from my seat on the ground as she combed through her hair, making sure there were no knots or gunk in it I could’ve transferred from my hands. My wrists were strained from catching my fall, my legs from so suddenly buckling. All I could do was watch, watch her stumble, chasing her tail like a dog, trying to find where I burned her. My eyes stung as my hands did, as they were scraped against the dirt/gravel combo that sat between the grassy field and the concrete.

I lunged.

Biloba's gorgeous black hair in each hand. Her back against the four square courts where she sat just seconds ago. My head hit hers, but better that than the way hers hit the rock floor. Her and Angelica's friends swarmed in to pull me from her, my arms flailing, hands grabbing at anything they could find. I don't remember much, but Ms. Johnson, the principal at the time, told me I had scratched Biloba's cheek, nice and close to her eye. I do remember the way Angelica leapt between us, facing me, stopping me, not to keep me from getting in trouble. But to keep me away from her friend. A title she never cared enough to give me. I smacked her that day, when her friends finally let go of me, right across the face. Ms. Johnson told me she almost lost her eye. -

By Nature Castillo