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At the time it seemed normal. Later I learned that most grandmas don’t teach their granddaughters to fight, especially when their granddaughters are only in first grade.
But there she was, holding her clenched fists in a fighter’s stance in front of me. “Si alguien te pega ¿qué vas a hacer?”
So—what would I do if someone punched me? “Punch them back?”
“No empieces nada, pero no te dejes, ¿eh?”
“Okay, Ita. I won’t start anything, but I won’t let myself get pushed around either.”
“Y más vale que ganes, ¿eh? Porque si no, cuando llegues a la casa te voy a poner otra chinga.”
I stared at Ita, letting her words sink in. I really don’t think she would have given me a chinga if I lost a fight, but just in case, I was definitely not going to lose.
Ita sat on the edge of the worn brown paisley couch, so I was her height. We’d moved the green marble Formica coffee table out of the way for more room. The gold cross she always wore lay shiny on her chest. It rose and fell with her breath. She wasn’t saying anything. I stared at her face, waiting. She stared back, sin sonrisa, her arched brows squished to the center. I squished my eyebrows and lips to match hers.
She took up a boxer’s stance again, but this time she opened her palms toward me. I stood ready, left foot in front, right foot back like she’d told me…
“No. Mira, Prieta.”
I glanced at my feet and then back at Ita as she stood up. She placed her feet the same as mine but bent her knees a little. “Porque así—” Mine were locked. She reached over and shoved me. I lost my balance.
“Tienes que plantarte bien para que no te tumben.”
I put my feet back where they’d been, this time with my knees bent like hers.
She shoved me again. I stayed put.