What was wrong? Raquel liked her new teacher. She felt more welcomed in her room than she ever did with any of her other teachers. And she spoke Spanish.
“La persona que sabe dos idiomas vale más. The person who knows two languages is worth more,” Ms. Martínez was fond of saying.
Another thing Raquel liked about her was that even though she was an English teacher, she stocked her shelves with lots of Spanish-language books. Raquel had borrowed a poetry book from her called Yo soy amigo del pueblo y me gusta la canción. Her teacher had recommended it. “I think you’ll like it. It’s one of my favorites.”
Raquel wasn’t into poetry, but she was enjoying this book. The poems in it made sense to her.
A disturbing thought, however, crossed her mind. If Ms. Martínez was so proud of her culture, why hadn’t she spoken up about the Alamo play? Surely she had to see how offensive it was. Was Ms. Martínez a sellout, too?
The thought made Raquel shiver.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Jesse Chisholm Coliseum, a dilapidated, domeshaped structure, sat on the outskirts of downtown. It had originally been built to host rodeo events. Later, it became a venue for country and western concerts. Hank Williams had performed there. Patsy Cline, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash, and Elvis Presley had all made appearances at the Jesse Chisholm Coliseum.
In recent years, however, it had become home for a small, independent, wrestling promotion called Star Spangled Wrestling.
It was also the site of the annual Golden Gloves Tournament. The coliseum had a seating capacity of almost 3,000. Tonight, it was sprinkled with about two hundred paying customers.
The old man led Marco Díaz up the ramp from the underground dressing rooms. Walking behind them was Angel Ramos, the owner of the East Grand Boxing Club. He would serve as Marco’s second in the ring.
Marco was dressed in blue-and-white trunks with a matching blue-and-white jersey. Red gloves, sporting the familiar EVERLAST logo, covered his hands.
His opponent was A.C. Townsend, a tall, sinewy, light-skinned, African-American kid with a shaved head. Marco had fought him on three different occasions, coming out on top twice. The last time they fought was when Marco scored the first knockout of his career.
Their rematch tonight was the eighth one scheduled on a card that featured twenty-two fights. Boxers of all ages, sizes, and weights were clustered near ringside. They represented various boxing clubs, all under the supervision of the Amateur Athletic Union.
“You beat Townsend one more time, and we’ll be back next month for the Texas state tournament,” the old man reminded Marco.
But Marco’s mind was not on tonight’s fight, much less the state tournament. He still couldn’t believe the argument he’d had with his girlfriend.
Girlfriend? Is that what Raquel was? His girlfriend? He’d never even kissed her, though he’d thought about it plenty of times. Marco had never had a girlfriend. There was Belinda Fuentes, a girl he had a crush on last year, but she moved away before anything happened between them.
He liked Raquel. He liked her a lot. But he didn’t know how she felt about him. Sure, they hugged on occasion, but Raquel hugged everybody.
He’d thought about asking her out, maybe go to the show or something. But after the argument they had, he didn’t know if she’d ever want to talk to him again.
You’re a sellout, Marco.
He wasn’t exactly sure what Raquel meant by that. But her words stung him nonetheless. He’d just wanted to be in the Alamo program. Playing Jim Bowie was fun. He was going to get to wear a costume and carry a knife and everything. He was even going to “die” onstage. Marco and Izzy had practiced how they’d fall down after they got shot.
You’re a sellout, Marco.
He stood in the gold corner and shadowboxed to loosen his arms.
“Remember, stick to body shots,” the old man advised. “Townsend’s a big kid, but he’s got a soft belly. That’s how you beat him the last time. Work his stomach.”
“I will, Grandpa,” Marco promised.
A.C. Townsend, representing the Palomino Boxing Club, climbed through the ropes with his trainers. He stood in the green corner. He wore black-and-silver trunks and a matching jersey.
Marco noticed that A.C.’s arms had grown considerably muscular since the last time they’d fought. A.C. had probably been lifting weights. That didn’t concern Marco too much. His grandfather didn’t believe in lifting weights as part of the training.
“Weightlifting makes you muscle-bound,” the old man had repeatedly cautioned. “It tightens your body, and you lose flexibility in your arms.”
The ring announcer introduced them, with both boxers receiving an equal amount of applause from the sparse, but enthusiastic crowd. The referee called them to the center of the ring, where he gave them their final instructions. Then they returned to their respective corners.
At the sound of the bell, A.C. rushed out. Before Marco could get set, he was driven back with a solid right punch to his cheek. A quick left to his eye followed. Marco covered up, but A.C. attacked him with a flurry of punching combinations, lifting the crowd to its feet.
“Go to the body! Go to the body!” the old man screamed from outside the ring, his fists balled up, flailing the air.
A.C. continued the assault throughout the round.
Jab! Jab! Punch! Jab! Jab! Punch!
Finally, with about thirty seconds left, Marco connected with some telling shots to the body. A.C. winced and yelped in pain.
When the bell rang, Marco tottered to his corner and slumped on his stool. Angel Ramos squirted water into Marco’s mouth and on his face.
“That was his round,” the old man said. “You gave ‘im a freebie. Next time, don’t let ‘im get the first jump. Remember, body shots. ¡A la panza, y con ganas!”
In round two, Marco tried to go to the body, but A.C. kept him at bay with stinging jabs, causing him to hesitate with his punches. Marco realized he was being out-pointed. He swung desperately with a wide left hook that missed. He paid for it when A.C. snuck in a strong right cross that busted Marco’s nose. Marco tasted his blood as it seeped into his mouth. The round came to an inglorious end with A.C. Townsend dancing in his corner.
Marco, sapped of energy and confidence, sank in his stool as Angel Ramos worked to stop the bleeding.
“You got ‘im going, Marco!” the old man said, trying to sound optimistic. “He’s getting tired. He’s ready to be taken.”
But Marco knew better. He was losing the fight. A.C. Townsend was too strong. Marco’s jaw throbbed. He thought he had a loose tooth.
“Work the body!” the old man shouted as the bell rang for the third and final round.
Marco stood in the middle of the ring and waited for A.C. to come to him. If he was going to win the fight, he had to stop A.C. now. Marco bit hard on his mouthpiece. He started with three quick jabs to A.C.’s face. As A.C. raised his arms to block a fourth one, Marco drove his fist into A.C.’s stomach. He landed another punch. Then another. And another.
“That’s it, Marco!” the old man shrieked. “Hit ‘im!”
A.C. doubled over, wrapping his arms around his stomach. This gave Marco the opening he needed. He whacked him on the head with rapid-fire rights and lefts.
The frenzied crowd rose to its feet, screaming and cheering.
“Finish him, Marco!” the old man yelled. “Finish him! He’s yours!”
A.C. grabbed Marco in a bear hug, preventing him from throwing any more punches. The referee pulled them apart. Then he warned A.C. about clinching.
A fast right hook by Marco caught A.C. on the jaw, but A.C. fired back with a steady stream of punches. They no longer had the effect they did in round one, but they were still accumulating points.
The final round ended with both fighters trading wild, out of control punches.
The appreciative audience gave them a loud, standing ovation.
“You did good out there, Marco,” the old
man said. “I told you Townsend had a soft belly.”
Marco was relieved that he had finally worked his grandfather’s strategy. But was it enough to win the fight? A.C. was tougher than he’d ever been in the past.
While the ring announcer collected the ballots from the judges at ringside, the referee stood in the center of the ring, holding Marco and A.C.’s arms.
“The winner by decision,” the announcer said in a deep voice,” … A.C. Townsennnd!”
The referee raised A.C.’s arm in victory. Applause rang out for both boxers.
A.C. turned and hugged Marco. “Good fight, man.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Marco stepped out of the ring, dejected.
His grandfather patted him on the back. “Don’t let it get you down, boy. You did the best you could. That’s all I asked for. You were busier in there than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.”
Marco faked a smile. His nose started to bleed again. It was probably broken. His jaw felt as if it had been hit with a brick. His right eye was beginning to shut.
That was it. Marco was through for the year. He wouldn’t return for the state tournament next month. All that training, all that hard work, all that advice, it was all for nothing.
He hung his head as he dragged himself back to the dressing room. In one day, he’d managed to lose his girlfriend, his boxing match, and, he was beginning to believe, his self-respect.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mrs. Frymire stood at the center of the stage. “Let me have your attention!”
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“Let me have your attention!”
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Mrs. Pruitt stood up. “If you kids don’t settle down, we’re going to put a stop to this right now and send everyone home! Do you understand?”
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
The auditorium fell silent.
“Raise your hand if you signed up to be a dancer,” Mrs. Frymire said.
A number of hands went up.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we will no longer have dancers in the show,” she told the group. Her voice sounded strained. “However, if you are still interested in being in the program, please see Mr. Gewertz and let him know that you will now be part of the choir.”
“What happened?” Norma Herrera asked. “Why aren’t we having the dances?”
Mrs. Frymire sighed. “Ms. Martínez is no longer involved with the show.”
“Why not?”
“It was her decision,” Mrs. Frymire said. She didn’t offer any more information. “All right, let’s go ahead and get started.” She opened her black binder.
“What do you mean, it washer decision?” Arlene Furr questioned. “Why did Ms. Martínez quit?”
Mrs. Pruitt stood up. “We need to get on with the rehearsal, or we’ll be here all night.”
Mrs. Frymire ignored Arlene’s question. She called Herb Williams to the stage, and she told Allen Gray to take his place at the top of the aisle. “When I give you the signal, Allen, run up to the stage and say your lines, okay? Go!”
Allen slowly trotted down the aisle.
“Faster!” Mrs. Frymire cried. “The way you’ve always done it.”
Allen picked up the pace, but it was still a lackluster run. “Colonel. Colonel Travis. They’re coming after us. Hurry.” Allen was unable to infuse the slightest bit of enthusiasm into his voice. In addition to having a small speaking part, he was also supposed to dance with Arlene in the “Cotton-Eyed Joe” number. He’d been looking forward to dancing with her. But now the dance was cut.
Herb: “Whoa there, son. Calm down. What’s the problem?”
Allen, in an unemotional voice: “The Mexican Army’s heading toward Texas. I’ve gotta warn Colonel Travis.”
Herb: “The Colonel already knows about that. In fact, we just finished a meeting to make plans on how we’re gonna fight ‘em.”
Allen: “We’re gonna fight Santa Anna’s army?”
“Say it with more feeling, Allen,” Mrs. Frymire urged.
But Allen didn’t feel like saying it with more feeling. He was wondering why Ms. Martínez was no longer teaching the dances. What happened?
Herb: “I don’t think we’ve got a choice.”
Allen: “But where are we gonna fight an army that big?”
Herb: “There’s only one logical place. The Alamo!”
Allen: “The Alamo.”
“No, Allen, you’re not making a statement,” Mrs. Frymire said. “You’re asking a question. Make your voice go higher.”
Allen repeated: “The Alamo.”
“Allen, you’ve done this a million times,” Mrs. Frymire said with exasperation in her voice. “Say it in the form of a question. Say, ‘The Alamo?’”
Allen: “The Alamo?”
“That’s it. Herb, finish it.”
Herb: “That’s right. The Alamo.”
“Good.”
Marco Díaz sat by himself in the back row of the auditorium. Throughout the day, he had avoided his classmates as much as possible. His jaw was swollen, his lip was cut, and a black welt had blossomed below his right eye.
He had wanted to stay home from school. His parents told him he could, but his grandfather talked him out of it.
“You can’t hide every time you lose, Marco. In life, like in boxing, you got your wins and your losses. Remember that. And as far as your bruises and cuts are concerned, they’re a badge of courage. It shows you got the guts to step in the ring and fight. You think Evander Holyfield hid his ear when Mike Tyson bit a chunk of it? ‘Course not. He showed it off! And you know why? ‘Cause it was his badge of courage. Now go to school, and don’t think about your face.”
Marco had expected Raquel to ask him about his bruises, to check if he was all right, but she’d been ignoring him all day.
Billy Ray, Luther, Andy, and Agatha took the stage.
Billy Ray: “Williams! Check the supply room. I want a full count of every weapon available.”
Luther: “Yes sir, Colonel Travis.”
There was a pause.
“Agatha?” Mrs. Frymire called.
“Oops, sorry.” She straightened her bangs. “You really believe they’re coming, don’t you?”
Billy Ray: “They’re coming, all right. I just got word that Santa Anna was seen crossing the Rio Grande. He’ll be here before we know it.”
Agatha: “Four or five thousand men?”
“No, Agatha,” Mrs. Frymire said. “That’s Andy’s line. You’re supposed to say, ‘How many soldiers do you figure he’ll bring with him, Colonel?’”
Agatha blushed. “Sorry. How many soldiers do you figure he’ll bring with him?’”
“Colonel.”
“Colonel.”
Billy Ray: “As mad as he is with us right now, I expect he’ll have around four or five thousand men.”
Andy: “Four or five thousand men? Colonel, we don’t have enough volunteers to fight an army that big!”
Another pause.
“Agatha?”
Agatha peered about, wild-eyed. She dug her nails into her palms.
“Agatha?”
“Can you please give me the first couple of words?”
Mrs. Frymire frowned. “I’ll tell you what. Let me work with another group. In the meantime, why don’t you sit in the back and read over your lines?”
Billy Ray scowled at Agatha. Then he leaned into her and whispered something in her ear that made her reel in shock.
Mrs. Frymire thumbed through the script. “Okay, let’s go over the next scene.” She called the performers onstage.
Marco trudged up to the stage and joined the others.
“We’ll play some music here, an interlude,” Mrs. Frymire explained, “to give everyone a chance to set up. As soon as the music is over, Marco will start.”
Marco lowered his head. He was embarrassed to have the stage lights shining on his face, expos
ing his bruises. But more than that, he was embarrassed to be onstage playing Jim Bowie.
“Marco? Are you ready?”
He shrugged. “Sure.” He faced Billy Ray, and in a slow, unemotional voice said, “The Alamo’s been secured, Travis. It’s about as ready as it’s gonna be.”
In past rehearsals, he had coughed after this line. But Marco didn’t feel like fake coughing anymore. He wanted to be done with the scene and get off the stage.
Billy Ray: “Have we heard anything from Colonel Fannin? I understand he’s got about a thousand men in Goliad.”
Herb: “Are you sure about that? I heard that Fannin had less than four hundred soldiers.”
Billy Ray: “Well, we aren’t gonna tell the men that. As far as they’re concerned, we’ve got a thousand reinforcements coming.”
Marco: “I guess it doesn’t matter how many men we’ve got. Santa Anna’s still coming. That’s the one thing we can be sure of. El Presidente’s on his way.”
“Good,” Mrs. Frymire said. “All right, let’s skip to Scene Eleven.”
As the boys stepped down from the stage, Mrs. Frymire stopped Marco. “Would you read Izzy’s part for now? I’m still trying to find someone to take his place.”
Myra Coonrod’s hand shot up in the air. “Mrs. Frymire! Mrs. Frymire! I can take Izzy’s place.”
The teacher ignored her.
Marco took the script and read: “De time has come. We weel make plans to attack de Alamo for de las’ time.” The words made him cringe. He was almost glad he and Raquel had had that argument. At least she wasn’t sitting in the auditorium listening to him.
Orlando: “Pardon me, bot wooden eet be better to wait onteel Gómez arrives weeth de beeg cannons?”
Marco: “Why wait? Messanchers go een an’ out of de Alamo like flies. Jesterday, teddy-two solchers from Gonzales arrived. Chall we wait onteel dey get stronger? No.”
“Keep going, Marco.”
“Eet ees time to en’ dees rebellion. We chall attack een de morning.”
“Excellent!” Mrs. Frymire said. “All right, let’s get ready for the battle scene.”
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