8: New Friend
Beneath the Weight of Water | 1980s Mexican American Women’s Fiction
Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Lucia
Sometimes she wished life came with instructions, preferably with pictures.
As soon as Lucia walked through the front door, Abuela noticed the change. “You look so nice. How much did you spend?
“You… really like it, Abuelita?” She reached for the warm feeling, even as a part of her braced that it would be taken back. “Not much.”
“Yes, you still look like a good girl. Not like those girls with their clown faces. Just don’t let it get to your head.”
“Hey, carnala.” Johnny’s whistle cut through her disappointment. “Looking good!”
His praise landed gently, a pocket of safety she needed. With cheeks burning, she sat beside him at the dinner table. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
The kitchen smelled of roasted poblano peppers and cheese. The air was rich and warm. Johnny launched into another of his funny stories and surprised her by asking about her classes. For a heartbeat, she basked in it. She wished they expressed more interest in that part of her life. Then, Abuela looked toward the kitchen, and his smile faltered. If he had already lost interest, she must have said nothing worth listening to. Lucia cut her answer short, the chile relleno cooling on her plate. No point in boring them to death. She pushed the sting aside. There was no room to dwell. Not when the days rushed in, demanding more of her.
Between classes, work, and chores, she sometimes caught her reflection. She liked this polished version, although it still felt borrowed. Each lingering glance asked a question she wasn’t ready to answer. A classmate squinted while looking at her, the tortillería clerk hesitated before sliding her order across the counter, and sometimes, Matteo’s gaze lingered until something in her chest went still.
“No one cares how you look,” she told her coffee, but the words barely rippled.
“I don’t care about your homework. Or work at the bookstore. Doña Cuca needs help making tamales for Paco’s birthday. Family comes first,” Abuela said, always a command, never a request. Her best friend wasn’t family. As though reading her mind, Abuela quickly added, “She’s like family.”
Doña Cuca’s house smelled of pork and chiles. The steady slap of masa against corn husks kept time with the music on the radio. Her daughters-in-law bent over the table, their hands moving fast even as gossip and laughter flowed.
It felt like stepping into her father’s family home: warm, loud, and full of motion. Their easy affection tugged at her, but guilt rose faster, reminding her she wasn’t supposed to love his family. Asking Abuela to see them always led to a fight that she and Johnny lost. Their pleas collapsed under the weight of the same words: “Your father killed my daughter.”
“Mijita, come, come, sit.” Doña Cuca gave her a quick hug and led her to the table. “Here. Eat. You’re too skinny.”
“Thank you.” Who could resist a warm hug and a concha? Affection wrapped in sugar, sweeter than anything at home.
“Girl! You straight up firme.” Smiley’s wide smile made the compliment clear.
“Damn, baby girl, you cleaned up nice.” Tiny winked at her.
Smiling shyly, Lucia shook her head. “You’re the ones who look amazing.” Being acknowledged by the women gave her a thrill she wasn’t used to.
She and Smiley spread the masa, spatulas gliding clean across the husks, while Tiny plopped in the filling. Next to them, she was an unfinished sketch beside a mural. These women didn’t apologize for their power. Flannel shirts and baggy Dickies with spotless white sneakers that dared the dust to touch them. Oversized hoop earrings flashing in the sun, hair teased-up or slicked back tight. Makeup fierce: sharply lined eyebrows, heavy eyeliner, and dark lipstick.
“We’d call you Shy Girl if we rolled up to Logan Heights,” Tiny said. They were kind, but gang life clung to them like stale cigarette smoke. “The way you lookin’, you’d snag a homeboy quick.”
“No homeboys.” Doña Cuca’s voice was firm, eyes hard, bristling with disapproval.
The gang had already taken her two oldest. She left Logan Heights so Alex, her youngest son, wouldn’t be the third. She didn’t need to worry. Lucia was building a life where her future children would never know about turf wars or worry about drive-bys.
“Ay, suegrita.” Tiny kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek. “Don’t be actin’ all grumpy.”
“Mi beba needs a good man.” Abuela set a second bowl of filling on the table.
Lucia bit into the sweet bread, but the old recipe had a new ingredient: a good Mexican man. She swallowed hard and set it down. Agreeing, obeying, staying small were the rules that had kept her safe, but she had no plans to live her future that way.
“Alex can handle that.” Smiley giggled, winking at Alex as he walked into his mother’s house.
Damn, he was handsome. Strong jaw, sun-browned skin, face roughened by hard work and weather. Mud caked his work boots and grime streaked his flame-resistant overalls. Abuelo would’ve approved. Abuela always said men like him were the real prize, not another diploma.
“Who’s gonna be down for him showin’ up like that?” Tiny teased with a grin.
“What you troublemakers up to?” He tugged off his hard hat, swiping sweat from his brow, already smiling.
Smiley shot Lucia a conspiratorial grin. “You should take out Shy Girl, homie. Abuela would back that.”
Lucia’s cheeks burned. If he thought she wanted this, the barrio would tilt in the wrong direction. She studied the old tablecloth, stomach pulled tight. Alex was Penelope’s boyfriend. She glanced at Smiley, willing her to drop it.
“Hey.” His eyebrows lifted, curious and a little bemused, before he looked away. Maybe it was the makeup. Maybe the braid. Warmth softened his sharp edges before he looked away. “Jefita, we had a job nearby, so I came home for lunch.”
Tiny leaned back in her chair, waiting until Alex and the older women were in the kitchen. “She’s straight-up a little shot-caller, for real. If you’re feelin’ him, I say go for it. His jefita ain’t feelin’ his girl.”
Doña Cuca never hid her dislike of Penelope’s short skirts and her loud best friend. She wanted her son to marry a good Catholic girl, modest and obedient, who would stay home with her grandchildren. Sure, Alex was great. You just had to ignore the fine print: Doña Cuca as live-in mother-in-law.
“I have too much going on to add a guy to my life.” She exhaled, reached for another husk, and let her hands do the talking. Keeping her life from collapsing took all her energy. There was nothing left for a guy who would demand everything from her.
Just as she caught her breath, Smiley nudged her. “For real, huh? A vato ain’t no vato unless he’s blooded his sword.”
“What? A man wasn’t a man unless he what now?” A knot tightened in her stomach. This was her life, always a step behind everyone else.
Alex appeared in the doorway, stopped short, and slipped back into the kitchen.
Tiny disagreed with a roll of her eyes. “A vato ain’t real ‘til he gets his red wings.”
“What does that mean?” Both women burst into laughter.
“Ey, mami, you still a virgencita?” Smiley smirked, delighted by how fast Lucia had flushed. “He blooded his sword is when…” Doña Cuca and Abuela rushed in before Smiley could finish.
“Alex is going to walk you home.” Abuela snatched the husk from her hand and pulled her upright. “You need to do your homework.”
Lucia froze, confused. Whether Abuela meant to protect her or scold her didn’t matter; either way, Lucia knew she was being warned not to step over the line. Alex nodded as if her grandmother made perfect sense.
“Don’t you need my help?”
“Don’t talk to the girl about those things.” Doña Cuca’s stern look broke into amused affection.
“Go to work!” Abuela snapped, brow furrowed, face tight with anger.
“Okay, okay.” Lucia stumbled upright. Alex took her by the arm and guided her out. When she looked back, Smiley and Tiny’s eyes were down, but their smiles had only grown wider. Those two were enjoying watching her squirm.
Still reeling, she turned to Alex when they reached the sidewalk. “What was that all about?”
He dragged a hand over his face, half-disbelief, half amused. “You really don’t know?”
Lucia said nothing. Sometimes she wished life came with instructions, preferably with pictures. After a breath, she guessed. “Sex stuff?”
Biting his lip to hide a smile, he shook his head. “Makes me glad you ditched Ellie.”
“Ellie ditched me when she started college.” Ellie? What did she have to do with this?
“You always just… say what you’re thinking, huh?” His dark black eyes fixed on hers, and she took a step back.
Was he curious or just being smug? If he read her wrong, he’d think she had opened a door she had no intention of walking through. Time ran out.
They stopped in front of her house before she could decide. He lifted her chin, making her meet his eyes. “Don’t come over to my house when the girls are there! They’re a little crazy.”
The rough feel of his calloused fingers startled her. With a tiny flinch, her breath hitched. Unwanted touch always set her nerves on edge.
“I’d better get started on my homework.”
“You should,” he murmured, his hand still under her chin. Maybe he could tell it was an excuse. “I like your hair in a braid.”
Hearing his praise only reminded her how often her barrio peers said she wasn’t right in their eyes. Something in the way he was looking at her shifted. She backed away, no smile on her face. Without realizing it, she reached for the quiet steadiness Matteo offered.
“Thanks for walking me home.”
He nodded, his eyes steady. “I’ll see you at the party.”
Right. The party. His brother’s birthday. The reason for the tamales.
At parties, the women missed nothing. Every move was judged, every whisper fed the endless cycle of neighborhood gossip. Someone always demanded that she sing. She nodded under the weight of expectation. But she already had plans for Saturday, with Matteo.
Thank you for reading
Beneath the Weight of Water.
When does being noticed stop feeling like confidence and start feeling like a trap?
Previous Chapter
Next Chapter
Chapter 9: Between the Shore and the Sea
June 6, 2026
If Lucia’s new confidence has you wondering what the barrio will demand from her next, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.
Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne
For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.