The situation between Boy and La Borrada was wanga. It had been that way for a long time. And both of them had had enough of it.
After a bad patch in the middle of 2nd grade, they became close friends. She went through a tomboy period where she only wore pants and hung out only with the boys. The fact that she was taller and more wiry allowed her to be the head of the pack. But by the 6th grade, when her body began to fill out like all the other girls and the boys began to catch up with her in size, she went back to being a girl and hanging out mostly with girls.
The bond she built with Boy at the end of 2nd grade held throughout elementary school. But when they entered middle school, that bond turned into drama. Boy approached her as he always had, but somehow more and more he would say the wrong things or say the right things wrong.
“Why’d you tell me that? You think I don’t know already?” La Borrada once snapped at him when Boy told her about the winter solstice.
“Just saying it’s a special time,” Boy said.
“To you, not to me,” she said real gatcho and walked away.
One thing they both still liked to do together that proved drama free was dance. They started practicing at weddings in elementary school. Their families thought it was cute. And they danced to everything—polkas, cumbias, rancheras, country western.
By the ninth grade, their relationship had gotten so wanga that they didn’t interact except to dance. Once dancing, they smiled and touched their heads. The hands that touched felt familiar, from the past, comforting. They both felt their embrace was a refuge— an escape from the whirlwind of youth.
But the wind kept growing.
One winter weekend, both of their families traveled from the Southside to OJ to attend a 50th anniversary dance for mutual relatives. The dance hall was crowded with kin of all ages. And the music was tropical, cumbias and mambos mostly.
Boy kept out of sight most of the night, but he could see she wasn’t dancing. Then on the last tanda, he walked up and asked her out. La Borrada looked over at her parents, who nodded in approval, but she hesitated. After a long pause, she rose, and they went onto the dance floor.
Things didn’t seem to be right even from the first steps.
“You’re dancing all wango,” she complained.
“I’m not wango, you are,” Boy responded.
They suffered through one song then mutually agreed to sit down.
Boy accompanied her to her table then turned and walked away without looking back. Their friendship was no longer wanga. It was over.
