Читать книгу They Call Me Güero - David Bowles - Страница 16

BOTTLE ROCKET BATTLE

Like every other Fourth of July,

we gather to celebrate out on the ranch.

My father and uncles light the mesquite

as they sip on cervezas and talk about sports.

While our mothers prepare the feast,

my cousins and brother shoot BBs at birds.

But Teresa and me, we just huddle inside

and enjoy a new video, laughing at jokes.

Our abuela’s invited the new parish priest:

He flies back and forth like a black Chachalaca.

I guess it gets boring hearing confession,

so now he’s all busy, sharing the gossip!

When the carne asada is ready, we eat.

I stuff quesadillas with fajitas and beans,

guacamole as well. Then I grab a coke

from the ice. It’s apple, my favorite flavor.

The music is loud, lots of cumbias and salsa

streamed from our Tía Isabel’s phone,

mixing with laughter and shouts and singing

as the sleepy red sun slips its way from the sky.

Soon it gets dark. Since our bellies are full,

all us kids group together and open the fireworks.

The little huerquitos get bags of snapdragons.

Others light strings of black cats and laugh.

Now Grandpa Manuel, a Vietnam vet,

gives a moving speech about the U.S.,

the country he loves, the friends he lost,

and his dreams for us all. A moment of silence.

Then Isabel pulls up Grandpa’s favorite playlist,

and to the beat of patriotic songs,

Uncle Joe and Tío Mike

set off the bigger, brighter bangs!

The national anthem fades. Then sparklers slash

the dark in the hands of pingos, like Jedi

who face a horde of deadly Sith.

My cousin René gives a sinful grin.

“Are you ready for bottle rocket battle?”

he asks us older boys with a wave.

We all nod and follow as he leads us behind

his father’s stable. We gasp and cheer.

That René, he has taken plastic pipe,

electrician’s tape and bits of wood,

and made six weapons, one for each.

“These are bottle rocket rifles,” he says.

He shows us how to shoot them, to slide in the rocket,

wedge the fuse tight at the mouth of the pipe.

We flick our fathers’ lighters with glee,

quickly scattering to take deadly aim!

I dodge the missile that Joseph lets fly:

It explodes far away, flinging its sparks.

Timoteo, however, is struck in the chest

by Raúl’s perfect aim! WHOOSH! BAM!

It’s war! We rush through the brush with whoops,

a half dozen rockets shoved in back pockets.

HISS! René’s deadly dart whizzes right by,

singeing the back of my hair! OW!

Soon the battle invades the grown-ups’ domain.

All the men start grinning and egging us on,

though our mothers shout angry rebukes:

“¡Muchachos traviesos, se van a lastimar!”

But it’s not us who get hurt that night.

Clumsy me, I stumble as I lift my weapon:

With a screaming whistle, the rocket hits

the ground and hurtles toward Father García …

OH, NO! It strikes his foot and shoots up his pant leg,

exploding right above his knee. BOOM!

Oh, the squeal that he lets loose! YOWL!

The sound still echoes in my ears as I work my way

through the long list of chores my angry mother

has dreamed up for the rest of my summer.