Mexicali is a city of extremes that knows nothing of gentle transitions. There's no golden autumn to prepare you; you go from the liquid hell of August to the biting wind of November in what seems like the blink of an eye. Winter in the desert is dry, icy, and treacherous. Mornings dawn with a blue so pale it seems crystalline, where the air chills you to the bone and burns your lungs with every breath. Yet the afternoons maintain a sun that, while no longer lethal, still tries to remind you who's in charge at this latitude.
For Ángel, who had just turned twelve, success on his first accreditation exams wasn't a sign to let his guard down. On the contrary, it was the permission he granted himself to delve deeper into his obsession. His body was changing in a way he barely understood, but which he accepted like a warrior receiving new armor. He was no longer that slumped-shouldered boy who got lost in the back row of the classroom. Now, as he walked through the halls of his high school, he felt a different kind of solidity in his steps; his feet found the ground with a firmness his classmates lacked.
While the other kids talked about the new video game console, who liked whom, or argued about the latest Marvel superhero movie, Ángel listened to those voices as if they came from another dimension. It wasn't arrogance; it was simply that his priorities had shifted. He was busy mentally calculating how much protein was in his lunch and how many pages of world history he still needed for the next comprehensive exam.
"González, back to that high school book again?" a classmate asked him during recess. The group was playing a quick game of soccer on the concrete court, under a winter sun that stung their skin but didn't warm the air.
"I have to take the proficiency exam next month," Ángel replied, sitting on a bench in the sparse shade of a salt-tolerant pine tree. The Chemistry I textbook rested on his knees, its margins covered in quick scribbles.
"You're crazy, dude. We haven't even finished the second year of high school and you already want to go to college," the boy laughed, kicked the ball hard, and went back to the game without waiting for a reply. Ángel wasn't offended; the comment slipped off his skin like sweat on a mat. He simply closed the book and looked at his hands. He had small, hardened calluses on his palms from constant use of the gym equipment and purple pressure marks on his wrists. That afternoon, after school, he didn't go straight home. He decided to walk toward the city center, a route where the signs of the shops in Chinatown mingled with the smell of grilled meat that was beginning to waft from the food carts on the corners. He stopped at a natural juice stand near the Cathedral, a place where the noise of the trucks and the bustle of the people formed the noisy heart of Mexicali.
"A carrot and orange juice, please," he ordered, counting out the exact coins his mother had given him that morning.
"Here you are, champ. You look like you're in a hurry, are you going to train?" asked the vendor, an older man with gnarled hands and skin weathered by decades of sun.
"Yes, we have a practice match today. The state championship is coming up and I don't want to show up out of shape."
"Well, give it your all, son. This place needs more athletes and fewer bums hanging around the corners," he winked as he handed him the plastic cup. That small interaction, the recognition from a stranger who saw in him someone with a purpose, gave Ángel a boost of energy that didn't come from the calories in the juice. He arrived at the Sports Complex just as the sun began to paint the sky a purplish-orange, that color which in Mexicali resembles the fire of the end of the world. The wrestling gym was already buzzing. The human heat, the collision of bodies, and the magnesium dust created a dense, electric microclimate. Víctor, the coach, was waiting for him at the entrance to the mat with his arms crossed and the stopwatch hanging around his neck like a sentence.
"You're two minutes late, González. Ten jump squats and five burpees before you step onto the mat. Punctuality is a wrestler's first line of defense; if you're late to life, you're late to the fight." Ángel did them without complaint, feeling the outside chill evaporate from his muscles. His lungs sucked in the heavy air as he watched his teammates. The gym was packed with young men, most of them older and heavier than him. Among them stood out "The Tank," a fifteen-year-old boy, robust and with a brute strength that intimidated the novices.
"Today you're with Rodri, Ángel," Víctor ordered with a curt gesture. "I want to see if those books you're studying will help you escape a real waist grab." The fight was brutal. Rodri was heavier and used every kilo of his advantage to his advantage he tried to crush Ángel against the mat. The heat trapped in the windowless building enveloped Ángel like a soaking wet wool blanket. He tasted the metal in his mouth; he'd bitten his lip as he fell after a hip takedown that left him breathless for a second. But instead of panicking, his mind began to work with analytical coolness.
He didn't try to outmuscle Rodri; it would be like trying to push a brick wall. He waited. He watched the rhythm of his opponent's breathing, feeling Rodri's sweat mingling with his own. The moment the bigger guy overextended his right arm for a neck grab, Ángel explosively lowered his center of gravity. He used Rodri's own momentum to pivot under his armpit, applying leverage that sent the bigger guy crashing to the floor. The sound of the impact was sharp and echoed off the ceiling beams.
The gym fell silent for a second. Víctor nodded slowly.
"Good!" That's technique, González. Weight only works if you know where to put it.
At the end of the session, Ángel was exhausted. While he was changing on the wooden benches, Rodri approached him. Ángel tensed up a little, expecting some complaint, but the boy simply handed him a bottle of cold water.
"Nice move, shorty. You almost knocked the wind out of me, seriously. I didn't know you moved so fast."
"Thanks," Ángel replied, surprised by the gesture.
"I heard you're going to skip a grade in school. My brother did that to go work. It's tough, but if anyone can handle that grind, I think it's you. You look like you hate to lose, even at marbles."
Ángel smiled for the first time that day. That night, when he got home, the aroma of freshly made tortillas and his mother's stew greeted him like the best reward. Before going into the kitchen, he passed by the small room that Carla had set up as her sewing workshop. The rhythmic hum of the sewing machine was the other soundtrack of the house. Carla was surrounded by fabrics, colorful threads, and dress patterns that the neighbors ordered for their quinceañera parties.
"I'm home, Mom," said Ángel, peeking in.
"Good, honey. Let me finish this sewing and I'll serve you. You look exhausted. Did you have a really tough day?" Carla asked without taking her eyes off the needle, but with that worried tone that only she possessed.
"The usual, Mom. But I won a couple of matches."
A little while later, they sat down at the table. Roberto was there, reading a technical report about work.
"How did it go today?" Roberto asked without fully looking up, but with an interest that Ángel could already recognize.
"I beat one of the big boys on the mat. And I finished the algebra section for next week's exam," said Ángel, helping himself to a generous portion of food. Roberto lowered the paper and stared at it. He saw his son's split lip, the marks on his arms, and that spark of determination in his eyes that mingled exhaustion with triumph. There were no lectures about the danger, nor any exaggerated celebration. Roberto understood that respect was shown through logistical support.
"I stopped by the office this morning and got you the official chemistry and physics textbooks for third year. They're three heavy books; I already left them on your desk," Roberto said, returning to his reading. "If you finish them before Christmas and pass the unit with a good grade, your mother and I will take you out for some good Chinese food to celebrate. The kind you like, with duck and noodles."
Carla smiled from the sink.
"And I'm going to fix that backpack of yours, Ángel; the threads are coming undone from all the books you put in it," she added affectionately. Ángel nodded, feeling the weight of the responsibility but also the unconditional warmth of his home. He was tired, his body ached, and his fingers were stained with ink and traces of chalk, but as he opened his chemistry book by the light of his lamp that night, he knew his life was no longer a leisurely pace. It was a race against time, a constant battle against the weather and exhaustion, and he was relishing every second of the challenge. Between the whir of his mother's sewing machine and his father's practical advice, Ángel González was building something that no exam and no rival on the mat could ever take away from him.