At thirteen, Ángel González had become a paragon of discipline, a figure his neighbors saw pass by with the regularity of a Swiss watch. The proficiency exam system, that bureaucratic labyrinth of the Ministry of Education, was a test only someone with an iron will and infinite patience could navigate without losing their mind. To graduate from high school in record time, Ángel imposed a brutal schedule on himself: seven comprehensive exams in a mere three months.
Each of those exams represented years of knowledge compressed into a single four-hour afternoon under fluorescent lights that buzzed like flies. This meant that while other kids his age lined up at Plaza Cachanilla to see the summer premiere, went to birthday parties with blasting music, or simply loitered at the mall looking for a girl's attention, Ángel was immersed in a parallel universe. His mind was a file where the political geography of Mexico, the laws of thermodynamics, and the helical structure of DNA were stored with the same precision with which he kept his gripping techniques.
Yet Ángel didn't feel like a martyr or a freak. He didn't suffer for what he was missing, because he was too busy enjoying what he was gaining. There was something deeply satisfying, almost addictive, about seeing the official certificates arrive at his house in the mail. Opening those envelopes with the official seal and validating that his brain was as capable an engine as his muscles was his true celebration. His relationship with the neighborhood had also mutated. He was no longer the kid who went to the butcher shop on a casual errand; now he was an athlete with strategic needs. Don Beto, the butcher on the corner, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetually stained apron who seemed to have been carved from a single block of granite, already knew his routine by heart.
"Here's your half kilo of chicken breast and the eggs, Ángel." "I see you getting taller every week, kid," Don Beto said one Tuesday morning, wrapping the meat with surgical precision. "How's training going for the state competition in Tijuana?"
"Good, Don Beto. We leave in two weeks. I've been training twice a day so I don't get out of shape," Ángel replied, calmly counting the money.
"Ugh, those guys from Tijuana are tough, I won't lie to you. They think they're so great because they have the sea and the humidity, but we guys from Mexicali have this sun that forges character in pure Celsius heat. Bring home a medal, or I won't sell you any more of the good meat!" Don Beto retorted, letting out a loud laugh that echoed through the refrigerated display cases.
That feeling of community, of being "Roberto's son" who used to run at five in the morning under the yellowish light of the streetlights before the sun claimed the city, was what kept Ángel grounded. He didn't have a close group of friends to play street soccer with or trade cards with, but the whole block respected his effort. They knew that this lanky kid who always carried a backpack that seemed to weigh more than he did was searching for something beyond the horizon of Mexicali. One Thursday, after a particularly grueling training session where Coach Victor had made them practice the chest-to-chest suplex to exhaustion, Ángel sat on the sidewalk at the Sports Complex. The suplex was a beautiful and terrifying move; it required absolute confidence in the strength of one's back and an arc of the body that defied the spine. Ángel felt his neck muscles stiffen and a lingering heat in his chest, but he was strangely calm. The Mexicali sky was tinged with a deep, dirty, vibrant pink, the kind of color only desert dust and border haze can create when the sun dips behind La Rumorosa. Just then, a girl from his high school, named Mónica, stopped in front of him. Monica was one of the few people who, from time to time, dared to try and pull him out of his bubble of study and sweat.
"Are you going to live here or what?" she asked with a teasing smile, dropping her canvas backpack to the side as she sat down a meter away on the hot concrete bench.
"Almost," Angel replied, returning a tired smile. His eyes still held that focused gleam from training.
"My parents say you're going to finish high school with just one exam next month. Is that true? Or is it just another urban legend they make up at school to scare us?" Monica asked, looking at him with genuine curiosity.
"I hope so. If I pass the history and civics exam tomorrow, you won't see me in the classroom next semester. I'm going straight to the high school preparatory courses on my own." Monica looked at him with a mixture of surprise and something akin to admiration, though he wouldn't admit it, filled his eyes. He smoothed his hair, shielding it from the gusty wind that was beginning to blow from the north, heralding a change in the weather.
"Sometimes you seem like an adult trapped in a high school body, Angel," she said, softening her tone. "Don't you miss... I don't know, being normal? Going to school parties with everyone? They're always asking why the 'wrestling prodigy' never goes to them." Angel gazed toward the horizon, where the lights of Calexico, California, were beginning to flicker shyly on the other side of the border wall. For a second, he imagined himself at one of those parties, with the music thumping and the scent of cheap perfume.
"Sometimes I think about it, Monica. But when I'm on the mat and I land a perfect takedown, or when I solve a physics problem that seemed impossible... that feels better than any party." It's not that I don't enjoy my life. It's just that my idea of fun is different. I like feeling like I'm progressing, that each day I'm a little stronger or a little smarter than yesterday.
Mónica watched him silently. There was an intensity in Ángel's voice that left her speechless.
"Well, at least you're not boring. You're like one of those superhero comics my brother reads. We live in the same area, so don't think you're going to get rid of my questions that easily. Good luck in Tijuana, 'Champ.'"
He stood up, winked at her playfully, and walked toward the bus stop. When Roberto's car arrived minutes later, Ángel got in, feeling strangely light. The conversation had reminded him that the world kept turning outside the four walls of the gym, but that he had chosen his own axis on which to rotate, and that axis was solid.
"Everything alright?" Roberto asked as he started the car. Roberto, as always, noticed his son's mood swings without needing to interrogate him.
"Everything's fine, Dad. I think I'm ready for the state exam. And for the history exam tomorrow," Ángel replied, leaning back in the cloth seat.
"Your mother left you some dinner before she went to the workshop to finish a wedding dress," Roberto commented as he drove down Justo Sierra Avenue. "She asked me to tell you not to stay up late studying, that rest is also part of training." Roberto turned on the radio. An old ballad from the '80s filled the space between them. Ángel closed his eyes and allowed himself, for a few minutes, to simply be a thirteen-year-old boy returning home under his father's protection. In his mind, however, the map of his next battle and the structure of his next academic essay were already taking shape.
Upon arriving home, he was greeted by the rhythmic hum of Carla's sewing machine. It was a familiar sound, a sign that everyone in that family was working on something, building something with their own hands. Ángel ate dinner in silence, enjoying Don Beto's chicken and the warmth of the kitchen. He knew the road to Tijuana and to high school would be tough, but as long as he had that drive, the heat of Mexicali would never be able to melt his goals.
He opened his history book one last time that night. He didn't read about ancient battles with boredom; he read them as strategies for victory. In the silence of his room, Ángel González knew he was forging his own steel, and that the state competition in Tijuana would only be the first time the world saw what he was made of.