Woman? he thought. Barely sixteen. A girl, yes, but a woman in many ways, too. Rico was too stunned to speak. The waves of lowriders before him seemed to undulate, an ocean of metal. He'd used rubbers most every time and thought he'd been careful, but now . . . What am I going to do? he asked himself. Your big macho prick has gotten this woman in trouble, and now what do you do?
"You sure?" he said finally. "I mean . . . how do you know?"
"I . . . didn't have my time. I, went to the clinic, and the doctor told me:"
"Couldn't he be wrong?" He was trying to think— When did I not use protection? When we were drinking wine that night, or when we were in a hurry . . . ?
"No," she said, the finality in her voice started a dull throbbing in the pit of his stomach.
"Does your mama know? She'll kill me. She hates my guts anyway. She said if I saw you again she was going to shoot me or call the cops___"
"She don' know," Merida said softly. "Nobody else knows." She made a little choking sound like a rabbit being strangled.
"Don't cry!" he said too loudly and too sharply, and then realized that she was already crying, her head bent and the tears rolling down her cheeks in large drops. He felt protective of her, more like a big brother than a lover. Do I love Merida? he asked himself; the question, so simply stated, baffled him. He wasn't sure he knew what love would feel like. Did it feel like good sex? Or was it like knowing somebody was there to talk easy to you? Or did it feel awesome and silent, like sitting in church?
"Please," Rico said as he stopped at a traffic light with a row of other lowriders. Feet punched accelerators, challenging him, but he paid no attention. "Don't cry, okay?" She stopped after another moment but didn't look at him, then fumbled in her purse for a tissue to blow her nose. Sixteen! Rico thought. She's just turned sixteen! And here he was like all the rest of the strutting, Saturday night boulevard crowd, dressed in his tight chinos and pale blue shirt, gold chains and a tiny coke spoon dangling from his neck like a macho stud, going to take his woman to get something to eat, hit a disco or two, and then return her to his bed for a quick sex session. Only now there was a very big difference—he had gotten Merida pregnant, filled up a child with a child, and now he felt weighed down with age and the serious concerns he'd never dreamed about even in his worst nightmares. He imagined that if he could see his face—lean and high-cheekboned and handsome in a dark, dangerous way because of a nose that had been broken twice and set badly both times—he would be able to see faint lines around his eyes and crinkling in his forehead. In that instant he wanted to be a little boy again, playing with red plastic cars on a cold wooden floor while his mother and father talked about Mr. Cabrillo running off with Mr. Hernandez's wife as his big sister sat spinning the dial of her new transistor radio back and forth. He wanted to be a child forever, without worries or weights around his neck. But his mother and father had been dead for almost six years now, killed in a fire that had started from a spark from bad electrical wiring; the fire had roared through the tenement building like a volcanic whirlwind, and three floors had collapsed before the first of the fire engines arrived. Rico had been running with a street gang called the Cripplers then, and was huddled under a stairway, drinking red wine with three buddies, when he'd heard the fire engines screaming; it was a noise that even now sometimes awakened him and made him break out in a cold sweat. His sister Deanne was a model up in San Francisco now, or so she said in her infrequent letters. She always wrote that she was about to do a shooting for some magazine or other, or that she'd met a man who was going to get her into commercials. Once she'd written that she was going to be the June Playmate, but of course the girl in that month's Playboy was blond
"You sure?" he said finally. "I mean . . . how do you know?"
"I . . . didn't have my time. I, went to the clinic, and the doctor told me:"
"Couldn't he be wrong?" He was trying to think— When did I not use protection? When we were drinking wine that night, or when we were in a hurry . . . ?
"No," she said, the finality in her voice started a dull throbbing in the pit of his stomach.
"Does your mama know? She'll kill me. She hates my guts anyway. She said if I saw you again she was going to shoot me or call the cops___"
"She don' know," Merida said softly. "Nobody else knows." She made a little choking sound like a rabbit being strangled.
"Don't cry!" he said too loudly and too sharply, and then realized that she was already crying, her head bent and the tears rolling down her cheeks in large drops. He felt protective of her, more like a big brother than a lover. Do I love Merida? he asked himself; the question, so simply stated, baffled him. He wasn't sure he knew what love would feel like. Did it feel like good sex? Or was it like knowing somebody was there to talk easy to you? Or did it feel awesome and silent, like sitting in church?
"Please," Rico said as he stopped at a traffic light with a row of other lowriders. Feet punched accelerators, challenging him, but he paid no attention. "Don't cry, okay?" She stopped after another moment but didn't look at him, then fumbled in her purse for a tissue to blow her nose. Sixteen! Rico thought. She's just turned sixteen! And here he was like all the rest of the strutting, Saturday night boulevard crowd, dressed in his tight chinos and pale blue shirt, gold chains and a tiny coke spoon dangling from his neck like a macho stud, going to take his woman to get something to eat, hit a disco or two, and then return her to his bed for a quick sex session. Only now there was a very big difference—he had gotten Merida pregnant, filled up a child with a child, and now he felt weighed down with age and the serious concerns he'd never dreamed about even in his worst nightmares. He imagined that if he could see his face—lean and high-cheekboned and handsome in a dark, dangerous way because of a nose that had been broken twice and set badly both times—he would be able to see faint lines around his eyes and crinkling in his forehead. In that instant he wanted to be a little boy again, playing with red plastic cars on a cold wooden floor while his mother and father talked about Mr. Cabrillo running off with Mr. Hernandez's wife as his big sister sat spinning the dial of her new transistor radio back and forth. He wanted to be a child forever, without worries or weights around his neck. But his mother and father had been dead for almost six years now, killed in a fire that had started from a spark from bad electrical wiring; the fire had roared through the tenement building like a volcanic whirlwind, and three floors had collapsed before the first of the fire engines arrived. Rico had been running with a street gang called the Cripplers then, and was huddled under a stairway, drinking red wine with three buddies, when he'd heard the fire engines screaming; it was a noise that even now sometimes awakened him and made him break out in a cold sweat. His sister Deanne was a model up in San Francisco now, or so she said in her infrequent letters. She always wrote that she was about to do a shooting for some magazine or other, or that she'd met a man who was going to get her into commercials. Once she'd written that she was going to be the June Playmate, but of course the girl in that month's Playboy was blond
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