As Rico edged towards their market stall, thoughts of Enzo burst like shellfire.
Enzo leaving their village and his parting shot at Rico, ‘Going to the city. Gonna get rich, not like you no-hope peasants.’
Enzo coming back on a visit three months later, looking like some big-shot gringo.
Enzo waving the quetzal bills under Delfina’s nose, knowing how much they needed money.
Enzo buying Delfina’s hand-made Mayan blouses for peanuts, so he could make a fat profit selling them in the city.
Enzo sneering at Rico’s native breeches that had once been his father’s. The father who had disappeared in the civil war, when Rico was small.
Enzo calling Rico, ‘Dumb Indian!’ then ducking away as Rico swung at him. Enzo treating Rico like a worm, even though he was only two years older – barely seventeen.
Fury surged through Rico’s veins. He couldn’t swan off to the city like Enzo. He had to dig the family fields, chop firewood, be the man of the house. He had to.
Suddenly there were raised voices. As Rico broke through the crowd, he heard Delfina shout, ‘No way. Not at that price.’
She was hugging the blue and purple blouses hard to her chest, and Rico flushed with pride. She might be only twelve, but she had a rare gift for weaving. It bought the medicine for their mother’s bad chest, the coffee, sugar, and other things they couldn’t grow in the village.
Rico fixed on Enzo’s city suit and charged. ‘Cheating us again, twister?’ He struck the tall boy hard in the back, shoving him into a trader’s chicken cages. The squawking birds burst free. Shoppers shrieked. Feathers flew. And suddenly Delfina was sweeping her wares into her gathered skirts.
‘Police!’ she hissed, diving under the plastic sheet behind the stall.
Rico spun round. Blue uniforms running down the alley. He snarled at Enzo, ‘Get you next time, twister.’ Then he ducked after Delfina and fled.