"He's a papacito, Dalila! You should date him."
"I'm not looking for a papacito," I tell her.
"What if you're alone the rest of your life? Yuck." She laughs, a giddy sound that often echoes through the halls at La Joya de Sandoval, the estate where I was born and which I will always consider home.
Lola, our housekeeper since I was five, comes bursting into my room. Her cheery smile always brightens my day, especially when she sings songs while she works. I swear she makes them up. Sometimes they're in Spanish and sometimes in English. She knows both languages because she was born in the tourist town of Puerto Vallarta. Papa went to a university in New York on a scholarship when he was younger. He insists we speak English as much as possible in case we need to be bilingual for any job we might have in the future. He even sent me to a private school in Texas for middle school.
"!Hola, ninas! Su mama quiere que bajen en cinco minutos. La familia Cruz estara aqui para la cena," Lola announces.
"They'll be here in five minutes? !Dios mio! I've got to get ready." Margarita practically skips out of my room, those curls of hers bouncing with each step.
"She's got enough energy for five people," Lola says as she pulls off my dirty bedsheets and grimaces as another song blasts from my speaker. "Turn that musica down before your mama starts complaining. You know she doesn't like that crazy yelling disguised as a song."
"That's because she doesn't listen to the words."
Lola cocks a brow. "Words? Is that what they're calling it these days? Sounds more like nonsense to me."
"You're old fashioned," I tell her. "You still expect men to pay for everything and open doors for females and--"
"There's nothing wrong with a man showing respect for a senorita, Dalila," she replies with utter conviction. "One day you'll understand."
Sure, it's nice when a guy opens a door for me, but I'm not about to park myself in front of a door and wait until a man opens it when I can easily do it on my own.
"Lola, does it look like I'm about to go hunting?" I ask as I check my reflection in the mirror. My hair is secured in a long ponytail so it won't fall into my face the entire night. I've put a little eyeliner and mascara on, but it's so hot outside I don't dare put on more for fear it will start melting and make me look like a clown.
Lola shifts her head to the side, contemplating my question. "You're the daughter of one of the most important men in Mexico," she says, abandoning her task as she walks across my room and stands in front of my closet. "Jeans and a tank top aren't appropriate for greeting guests."
"I don't want to show off."
"It's not showing off, Dalila. It's representing yourself with dignity." She pulls out a short yellow dress that Mama bought for me when she traveled to Italy last year. "?Que tal este?"
It still has the tag on it. "That's for special occasions, Lola."
"Reuniting with Don Cruz's son might be a special occasion."
With a hefty sigh, I take the dress from her and rip off the tag. "Why do I get the feeling like everyone in mi familia wants to parade me around like some kind of attraction?"
Lola bundles my bedsheets in her arms and starts walking out of my room. "They want to see you happy."
"I can be happy without a boy in my life," I call after her.
"Of course, senorita. But being in love softens a woman."
Softens me? !Que asco! Yuck!
I don't need to be soft. And I don't need a boy to make me happy. I have mi familia and my studies . . . and La Joya de Sandoval. My entire life is planned out and it doesn't include time for a serious boyfriend. At least not until I'm almost done with medical school in nine years.
I gaze out the window at the colorful gardens below. Mi mama works hard to make sure they're well maintained to show off the vibrant colors of the flowers native to Mexico. I think it reminds her of her abuela, who used to sell flowers in the markets in Sonora to put food on their table. She's especially proud of her cempasuchil, the colorful orange marigolds that we use in traditional celebrations and holidays.
Mama makes all of us aware that we live a privileged life now, one that many people in my country only dream about having.
After slipping into the dress Lola picked out for me, I walk down our winding stone staircase with colorful pieces of ceramic artwork cemented into each step. Every detail of La Joya de Sandoval was designed by my parents to create a sanctuary for our family.
As I pass my father's study, I hear him in a heated discussion with Don Cruz.
"I already took him on as a client," I hear Papa telling Don Cruz in a brisk tone. "I won't betray him."
"You need to give us the information we need, Oscar," Don Cruz replies as I peek into the room through the slightly open door. "Show your loyalty to an old friend."
"We're not discussing this," Papa states sternly as he crosses his arms on his chest. "You're like a brother to me, Francisco. Don't force my hand ever again."
His stern expression softens quickly when he sees me in the hallway watching their interaction. "Ah, you finally made it, carino," Papa calls as he walks out of his office and leads me to the courtyard with Don Cruz in tow.
"What were you and Don Cruz talking about?" I ask.
"Nada, Dalila," he says. "Just boring business stuff."
I want to pry, but we're joined by everyone else when we reach the courtyard.
"Every year you grow even more beautiful than the last, young lady," Dona Cruz declares.
All three of our guests sit in cushioned chairs around our open courtyard while Mama serves them some kind of amber-colored brandy. Don Cruz has his signature full mustache and is wearing a gray suit with a red handkerchief that screams of wealth peeking out of his front pocket. Dona Cruz looks like she's been at the salon all day just to attend this small dinner party. Her hair is in an intricate updo and her dress has sequins sewn in it that sparkle in our courtyard lights.
Their son, Rico, definitely changed this past year. He's obviously been working out and taking care of his body. Instead of wearing casual clothes like most nineteen-year-old boys I know, he's wearing a tailored suit designed for his slim physique. He's got short hair that makes him look confident and tough. It's a dangerous combination.
Rico acknowledges me with an appreciative nod. "Remember when we knocked over one of your mother's flowerpots playing hide-and-seek when we were kids?" he asks. "You were so into those flowers, but I guess your interests have changed. My father tells me you're going to the university next year to study medicine."
"Yes. I'm going to be a heart surgeon," I tell them.
"Wow," Dona Cruz says, clearly impressed. "Ambitious."
Mama pastes a warm smile on her face. "We're proud of Dalila."
I know she's thinking of my older brother, Lucas. If it weren't for his heart murmur he would still be alive today. Even though he's been gone three years, I think of him every day and wish he were here. I know she does, too.
Don Cruz turns to Papa. "It's a good thing I don't have daughters. I wouldn't let them go to university or even out of the house without a bodyguard."
"My sisters and I are more than capable of taking care of ourselves," I retort back.
"I'm sure it's easy to take care of yourselves when you live in Panche," Rico chimes in with a cocky grin. "But Panche isn't the real world."
I raise a brow. "Are you saying my life is fake, senor?"
"I'm saying there's an entire world out there that you don't know exists."
I'm about to challenge him when Mama puts a hand on my knee signaling me to keep quiet.
Lola appears and announces that dinner is ready and I breathe a sigh of relief. Hopefully the topic of conversation will change as soon as we start eating. Before I can follow everyone else to the dining room, Rico steps into my path. "I didn't mean to insult you, senorita."
"You didn't insult me," I tell him. "I just don't like being seen as weak."
Rico holds his arm out for me to take. Obviousl
y he hasn't gotten the hint that I'm not looking for special treatment. "My father tells me to treat women like delicate flowers."
I try to hold back the chuckle that escapes from my mouth, but I'm painfully unsuccessful. "En serio. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I'm not a flower and I'm not sheltered. I'm a tough chica who can kick butt if I need to."
"Really?" He gives me a once-over. "You think you're tough?"
I nod. "Por supuesto que si."
He crosses his arms on his chest. "Okay, Dona Sandoval. Why don't you show me how you can defend yourself from a guy like me."
"Here?"
"Sure."
"Not here," I tell him. I'm all for proving myself, but not when it will embarrass my parents.
"I belong to a boxing gym down in Sevilla," Rico says. "How about I take you there and you can show me that you're not a flower. I can even give you boxing pointers. Do you like boxing?"
"Boxing is like a religion in my house." I was brought up watching fights with Papa and Lucas.
Rico holds his head high and puffs out his chest. "I'm a semipro about to move up in the ranks."
Now it's time for me to give him the once-over. "You, a semipro? Aren't you the boy who cried when he got a paper cut making a paper airplane?"
"That doesn't count. I was five."
"Even so, you could never convince my papa to allow me to go to a boxing gym." I'd love to get out, even if it's with Rico, a guy who stupidly thinks women are delicate flowers. I'll show him I'm not as weak as he thinks I am.
"No hay problema," Rico says assuredly. "By the end of this dinner your papa will agree to let you go. He thinks of my father as family. Trust me."
During dinner, Rico talks to Papa about taking me to the gym.
With a raised brow, Papa eyes me curiously. "You want to box, Dalila?"
"Si," I tell him. "I want to show Rico that I'm not some delicate flower."
I'm a tough chica who can hold my own.
Three
Ryan
Lone Star Boxing Club in Loveland, Texas, reminds me of the gym I trained at in Chicago. They're both gyms where dedicated boxers train in the hopes of going pro one day. Most guys who come here daily are like me, trying to get in as much training as possible.
"Where the hell have you been, Hess?" steroid-addicted Larry calls out from behind Lone Star Boxing Club's front desk as I walk in the door. "Usually you get here at the butt crack of dawn."
"Life happened," I tell him.
"I hear ya, bro."
He tosses me a white corner towel that's been washed so many times the logo is peeling off. I catch it in one hand and head for the small locker room on the other side of the gym. After that talk with Paul earlier today, I definitely need to be here. It's the only place where I belong, where I'm in control of my destiny. Boxing used to be my escape, but now it's part of my life. I don't mind the sweat, and I ignore the pain. When I'm fighting my mind is at peace and I can focus without being distracted or inhibited by anything or anyone.
After changing, I find an available punching bag. Most guys here aren't into chatting, which is just fine with me. I don't usually talk unless I got something to say.
"Lookie here! It's our resident delinquent, Ryan Hess, in the flesh," my friend Pablo calls out. He's oblivious to the unwritten no-chatting rule. He works out here a couple days a week and goes to Loveland High with me. "Thought you'd be at the funeral," he says.
I hit the bag and start to warm up. "I was."
"Why'd you duck out early?"
I stop punching. "I didn't duck out, Pablo. I was there. I left. End of story."
He grins, his chipped front tooth a sign that he doesn't always play it safe. "You know what you need?"
"I'm sure you're gonna tell me, whether I want to hear it or not." I would ignore him, but I left my headphones in my duffel so I can't zone out.
"You need to work on your social skills."
Whatever. "Maybe I don't want to be social."
I punch the bag again.
And again.
Pablo says, "You need a crew because you can't fight the world on your own, Hess. You're not an island."
What the fuck is he blabbing about? An island? "You've been readin' too many self-help books, Pablo. Why don't we go in that ring and spar?"
He chuckles, the sound echoing throughout the gym. "You ain't gonna find me in the ring with you, Hess. Rumor has it you knocked out Roach last week," he says. "And Benito the week before that."
"They lost focus."
His mouth twitches in amusement. "They're two of the best damn fighters in this place, pendejo. At least they were until you came along. You fight like you've been throwin' punches your whole life."
Little does he know I used to be the resident wimp when I was younger. In elementary and middle school in the western suburbs of Chicago, I got beat up a lot. I didn't talk much and my clothes came off the rack at Goodwill. I was an outcast, a kid who didn't fit in. Hell, I still don't fit in. And I still don't talk much. But I learned pretty early on that getting beat up sucks.
One day in seventh grade Willie Rayburn was chasing me after school like he always did. With the bully hot on my trail, I wasn't paying attention when I ran right into this high schooler named Felix. He lived in the trailer next to ours.
He asked me why I was scared of Willie. I shrugged.
He asked me if I wanted to learn how to fight. I nodded.
After that, I'd meet Felix on the small patch of grass behind our trailer park every once in a while and he'd teach me how to box. He said his father was a boxer and told me if I learned how to throw a punch like a pro, guys like Willie Rayburn would leave me alone.
I remember the first time I fought Rayburn. It was glorious.
It went down in the school cafeteria. I'd been talking to a pretty girl named Bianca. Willie came up and told Bianca that I was trailer trash whose mom was an alcoholic whore. I hated when people found out I lived in the old dirty trailer park on the edge of town. My mom had a history of bringing random guys to the trailer, but she wasn't a whore. She was hoping one of them would stick around long enough to take care of her. All they ended up doing was giving her black eyes and aiding her alcohol addiction.
I hated my life, my absent dad, my mom, and Willie Rayburn.
That day everything I'd been holding inside me burst like a volcano. I wasn't gonna feel sorry for myself and play the victim anymore.
Before he could punch me or push me to the ground, I whacked Willie with a solid left hook. Willie fell and I was immediately on top of him, punching him repeatedly as frustrated tears streamed down my face. My fists kept flying until three lunch supervisors hauled me away.
I didn't care that I'd broken his nose and was suspended a week from school. After I came back the kids wouldn't even look at me for fear I would do to them what I'd done to Willie. Instead of upsetting me, it was empowering. I liked that people didn't mess with me and thought I was tough.
Even if I was still an outcast.
The gym is suddenly quiet as Todd Projansky, the owner of the gym, walks in with four guys who look like they're seasoned fighters.
"Who are those guys with Projansky?" I ask Pablo.
"The guy in the middle is a fringe contender named Mateo Rodriguez," he answers in a low voice. "Supposedly he trains at a gym in Mexico where Camacho gives pointers to a couple of guys. I've seen him fight. He's good."
Wait. My brain has a hard time processing what I think I just heard. "Back up. The dude knows Camacho? Are you talkin' about Juan Camacho, the boxing legend?"
"The one and only." Pablo shrugs. "At least that's the latest rumor."
Damn. Juan Camacho is a world-famous Mexican boxer who was the heavyweight boxing champ in the seventies. He didn't only win it once. He dominated for years. And then he disappeared without a trace. He's got to be in his sixties by now. He was an old-school fighter who used to train like a beast.
When I started bo
xing I'd watch videos of him and mimic his moves. Hell, I'd act out entire matches of his, copying his quick jabs and the way he moves around the ring. If this Rodriguez guy knows him . . . "I'm gonna see if it's true."
"Don't." Pablo grabs my shoulder and holds me back. "You don't just walk up to a guy like Rodriguez."
"You might not, but I do." I make my way across the gym with one goal on my mind. Finding out if the rumor is reality.
Mateo Rodriguez has black hair and he's wearing a plain white tank and shorts as if he's ready to fight. He's not crazy muscular and doesn't look intimidating, but then again I learned a long time ago you don't assess anyone's skill unless you see them in the ring. He's watching two guys spar with his arms crossed on his chest like he's analyzing cattle. When I stand in front of him, he raises a brow.
"I heard you know Juan Camacho," I say without any hesitation. "Is it true?"
He doesn't answer right away and instead eyes me curiously. "Who is this gringo?" he asks Projansky.
"Ryan Hess. He's a new fighter from Chicago," Projansky explains. "Moved up here last year when his ma married Sheriff Blackburn."
His jaw twitches as he turns back to me. "Look, kid, Camacho doesn't sign autographs."
"I don't want an autograph," I tell him. "I want to meet him and see if he'll train me. What club is he affiliated with?"
"Train you?" Rodriguez lets out a low chuckle, then stares me down. "Camacho isn't affiliated with anyone. And he sure as hell doesn't have time to screw around with young pendejos who don't know shit about boxing yet think they can throw down in the big leagues."
The problem Rodriguez is that he made the mistake of judging my skill before seeing me in a bout.
"Go three rounds with me," I challenge. "If I win, you introduce me to Camacho."
"Are you challenging me?"
"Yes."
The side of his mouth quirks up in amusement. "And if I win?"
I look him straight in the eye. "You won't."
"You're a cocky motherfucker, aren't you?" I can feel all eyes on us. Guys like Rodriguez won't back down from a challenge, because their masculinity is at stake. Some guys'll risk everything to save their precious egos, inside the ring and out. "Tell you what, Hess. I'll make it easy on you." He winks at his friends. "We go thirty seconds. If you land one solid punch, I'll take you to Camacho."
One punch in thirty? "What's the catch?"
Crossing the Line Page 2