Amadeo remembers when Angel was younger; he looked forward to the weekends when she’d come from Espa?ola to stay with him and his mom, enjoyed taking her out for the day, showing her off to his friends. He felt like a good influence, teaching her how to check the oil and eat ribs and not to listen to Boyz II Men. She was sweet then, eager to please, riding in the truck, fiddling with the radio, asking him at each song, “Is this good?” When he’d nod, she’d settle back and try to sing along, listening intently, each word coming a little too late. Sometimes Amadeo would sing, too, his voice filling the cab, and Angel would look up at him, delighted.
She still resembles that child—cheeks full and pink—but there’s something frightening about her. It’s as though she’s a full contributor to the world, proud to be a member in good standing. Now she regales Amadeo with facts she’s learned from her parenting class, about fluids and brain stems and genitals. “Like, did you know he had his toes before he even got his little dick?”
Amadeo looks at her, surprised, then back at the TV. “Why you have to tell me that?”
Angel faces him enthusiastically, grinning around her big white teeth, one foot tucked under her belly. “Weird, huh, that there’s a dick floating around in me? Do you ever think about that? How Gramma is the first girl you had your dick in?”
“—The fuck. That’s disgusting.”
“Jesus, too,” she says, singsong. “Jesus had his stuff in Mary.” She laughs. “Couple of virgins. There’s something for your research.” She settles back into the couch, pleased.
Angel has seemed only mildly interested in Holy Week, which is a relief to Amadeo, and an irritation. “So it’s like a play?” she asks.
“It’s not a play—it’s real.” He doesn’t know how to explain it to her. As real as taking communion, Tío Tíve said that day at Dandy’s Burgers when he offered Amadeo the part. Tío Tíve said, looking at him severely, “You got a chance to feel a little of what Christ felt. You can thank him, to hurt with him just a little.”
Angel asks, “They’re going to whip you and stuff? Like, actually hard?”
He’s proud, can’t keep the smile from creeping in. “Yeah.”
“My friend Lizette cuts, but she just does it for attention.”
“It’s not like that. It’s like a way to pray.”
Angel whistles low. “Crazy.” She seems to be thinking about this, turns a pink cushion slowly in her hands.
Amadeo waits, exposed.
“So it’s gonna hurt.”
He tries to formulate the words to explain to Angel that the point is to hurt, to see what Christ went through for us, but he’s as shy as he’d be if he were explaining it to his old high school friends. And he isn’t even sure he’s got it all right.
When he was a kid, singing at family parties, watching Yolanda smile at him across the room, he’d been sure something dazzling was coming his way—and he kept waiting for it. For a long time he didn’t realize it wasn’t just about being chosen, but about recognizing his opportunity, and when he saw it, he’d better throw himself at it as though it were the single open boxcar in the last train out of here. And here it is: his chance to prove to them all—and not just them—God, too—everything he’s capable of. “But it’s a secret, right? You can’t go tell nobody back in Espa?ola.”
“Who’m I gonna tell?” she says bitterly. “Anyways, why?”
“Tío Tíve wants us to keep it on the DL. You just can’t say nothing.”
“Can I see it? The morada?”
He’d like her to see what he’s the center of. “Tío Tíve don’t let women go in there. You can go to Mass at the church. You can be in the procession.”