Saturday arrived in Mexicali enveloped in a Santa Ana wind that blew furiously from the desert dunes, carrying a fine, golden dust that seeped through the cracks in the windows and crunched under his teeth. Even though winter should barely be ending, the thermometer already read 38°C at midday, a warning that in the valley the cold is only a brief respite before the sun reclaims its throne.
Ángel stood before the mirror in his room, observing his reflection with a mixture of strangeness and a quiet pride he shared with no one. At thirteen years old, the biological growth spurt had hit him with the force of a well-executed takedown. His limbs had lengthened, giving him a height of 1.68 meters that already made him stand out among most of the boys in his neighborhood. But it wasn't just height; His shoulders, forged in thousands of repetitions of neck bridges and explosive push-ups on the mat, formed a V-shaped silhouette beneath his white cotton t-shirt. His face had lost the roundness of childhood, revealing a more defined jawline and a gaze that retained the intensity of an observer, but now with a spark of confidence gained in Tijuana.
"Are you going to the girl's, son?" Carla asked from the hallway.
She peeked out with a mischievous smile, holding a spool of red thread. She was coming from her small workshop; the rhythmic clatter of her sewing machine stopped for a moment, allowing the silence of the house to be filled with the question. Ángel immediately looked away from the mirror, feeling a slight warmth in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the city's extreme weather.
"Yes, Mom. Mónica invited me to her birthday party," he replied, trying to sound casual as he straightened his shirt collar. "Take these flowers to her and tell her parents we wish them a happy birthday," Carla said, handing him a simple but fresh bouquet she had bought at the market that morning. "And above all, behave yourself, just like your father and I raised you. Life isn't all about sweating on a mat or memorizing physics books, Ángel; sometimes you have to learn to get along with others, to listen to music, and to enjoy people." Ángel took the flowers with the same care a professional wrestler uses to protect his mask and walked the few blocks between his house and Mónica's. The walk was a typical Mexicali sensory feast: the smell of burning mesquite and carne asada—the unofficial weekend scent on the border—permeated the dry, heavy air. It was an aroma that, for Ángel, meant home, but also a reward after his efforts. Upon arriving, the blare of loudspeakers greeted him before the crowds. Monica's house was full of teenagers laughing, blasting reggaeton, and moving with a social ease he simply didn't possess. Crossing the threshold into the patio, Angel felt like an astronaut landing on a strange planet. He knew the geometry of pain on the mat, how to apply an armbar, and how to calculate 1970s inflation, but he didn't know the unwritten rules of a high school party.
Monica saw him arrive and, pushing past a group of whispering friends, made her way to him. She was wearing a light blue dress, and her dark hair sparkled under the strings of lights strung across the patio.
"You came!" she exclaimed, taking his arm with a confidence that completely disarmed him. "I thought you'd be locked away memorizing the periodic table or watching some Russian wrestling video on the computer." "I said I'd come," Ángel replied, handing over the flowers somewhat stiffly, as if he were delivering an official school report.
The party was a different kind of endurance test for him. He sat in a corner of the concrete planter, observing the world from his usual observer's position. He watched as the boys his age tried to impress the girls with loud jokes, and how the noise seemed to fill every empty space in the conversation. However, his presence didn't go unnoticed. The adults in the family, who guarded the grill as if it were a sacred altar, called him over to the fire.
"So you're the wrestling champion this girl keeps talking about?" Mónica's father asked. He was a robust man with large, calloused hands who handled the tongs with the dexterity of a surgeon over the steaming meat. "She says you're the smartest kid in school and that in Tijuana you threw a guy into the air."
"It was just a hip flick, sir." "I used its own weight," Ángel replied with genuine modesty, though his eyes gleamed at the memory of the impact.
"No modesty here, kid. In Mexicali, we respect hard work," he said the man, handing him a plate, said, "Here, have a good arrachera taco. You need protein for those muscles you're building. A wrestler doesn't live on books and air alone."
As he ate, surrounded by the smoke from the charcoal grill and the sound of laughter, Ángel understood something fundamental: although his interests were diametrically opposed to those of his contemporaries, the respect he had earned through sacrifice was a universal currency. He didn't need to be the funniest person at the party to be accepted; his discipline spoke for him.
Mónica approached and sat next to him on the planter, away from the main din of the music. The vanilla scent of her perfume mingled for a moment with the aroma of charcoal and grilled meat.
"Do you feel very out of place?" she asked, glancing at him with a curiosity that Ángel always found disarming.
"A little. The gym is quieter, even when there are shouts of training. There, I know exactly what to do." "There's no manual here," Ángel confessed, letting his guard down.
"You're different, Ángel González. But it's a difference I like," Mónica said, moving a little closer, breaking down that invisible barrier he used to put up with the rest of the world. "You're not like the others who only talk about video games or who got into a fight at recess. You have a purpose. You're going somewhere, and it shows even in the way you walk." Ángel looked at her, and for the first time, the silence between them wasn't about homework or takedown tactics. It was a silence charged with the static electricity of early adolescence, a tension more subtle but more powerful than any Greco-Roman wrestling hold. Mónica leaned quickly toward him.
"Good luck on your high school exam on Monday," she whispered, and before Ángel could react, he felt a quick, warm kiss on his cheek.
She jumped to her feet to attend to other guests, leaving him there, frozen. Ángel stayed in the flowerbed, his heart pounding against his ribs much harder than at any state final or tournament weigh-in.
That night, returning home under a heavy, starry sky, the week's physical exhaustion and the party's emotional turmoil melted into a single feeling of contentment. As he entered, he saw the light on in his mother's workshop and heard his father, Roberto, closing the office door.
"How did it go, son?" Roberto asked, peeking in with a glass of water.
"Good, Dad. Mónica's uncles gave me a lot of meat," Ángel replied with a small smile.
"That's great. Now it's time to rest. Tomorrow we'll review the last topics in physics and chemistry. Monday marks the end of an important chapter," Roberto said, giving him that pat on the shoulder that was his way of saying "I love you."
Ángel fell asleep thinking that perhaps freedom wasn't found only in athletic victory or academic excellence, but in those brief moments when the outside world recognized him not just as an athlete or a brilliant student, but simply as Ángel. In the silence of his room, with the echo of Mónica's music still in his ears and the taste of charcoal on his palate, he knew that on Monday he wasn't just taking an exam; he was validating the man he was becoming.