Mr. Steinman picked up the lesson where he'd left off, almost as if we hadn't been gone for the past thirty minutes. His attitude worked, honestly: There was a lot of energy when we all came into the classroom, with kids still finishing their lunchtime conversations, yet Mr. Steinman resumed his lesson with such aplomb that it only took a few moments before everyone had quieted down. Of course, he didn't have much to say. In fact, a portion of the second half of class was just a YouTube video covering some bit of English grammar. First day back and he was already off-loading his teaching to the internet. Great.
I was seated at the back of the room--curse of a last name that starts with an S--trying to decide if I wanted to catch Pauline's eye or not. After all, she hadn't stuck around after paying for my lunch. Did that mean she didn't want to be thanked? It was all very confusing, distracting me from paying much attention at all. That and the fact the video may have come from YouTube but must have been recorded in the late eighties. When the bell rang and everyone started their zip up ritual, I tried to get up fast enough to catch Pauline. If nothing else, she deserved some thanks. Maybe it wasn't a big deal to her, but it meant a lot to me. She should know that, even if she didn't want to talk to me again that school year. (In retrospect, that sort of extreme thinking should have been a clue to me that I wasn't thinking straight. Why would she never want to talk to me again? We had three classes together so far, which meant that we'd definitely be interacting. That's one of the problems of a pubescent mind, I suppose.) Unfortunately, my plans hit a snag; or, more accurately, my shoelace hit a snag on the wire basket beneath my desk. Caught for a moment--I didn't fall this time, I'm happy to report--I had to disentangle myself before I could go, and by the time I'd done so, Pauline was gone. I walked toward the door, flustered and frustrated--though I still managed to thank Mr. Steinman for the class. He gave me a blank stare. Apparently, students didn't thank him very often. I can't really say that I blame them. Sixth period: Math. Easily my best subject. In fact, I had tested so highly on the math placement exam for the school that I was in the honors geometry class with a handful of ninth graders. Whatever hopes I had of slipping into the room and going through this class unobserved flitted away when Ms. Bree saw me enter. "Tel! I'm so glad to see you!" I gave her a mild smile. She pointed toward a seat near the front. "You're here for now. Everyone?" A moment of panic flitted through me at the tone in her voice. "You may notice that we have a new student. His name is Tel Salvos and he is in the seventh grade." Most of the students in the class either didn't care or were politely interested. So, at least they didn't start teasing me immediately. "Now, I know that you're excited to be here. We've been through a lot together. Haven't we, Triss?" Ms. Bree shot a girl--presumably Triss--a knowing look. Triss giggled and melted into her chair, her eyes sparkling with some shared joke. I tried not to feel like an outsider. The rest of geometry went well enough, even if it was--like most classes that day--discussing grading policies and homework schedules. I didn't tune out Ms. Bree the way I did Mr. Steinman, though she didn't speak nearly as well as Miss Sendler. The bell dismissed us fifty minutes later, and I was off to my last class: Art. As good as I am at math, I'm the complete opposite when it comes to art. I don't know what it is about the pencil and paper together, but if it isn't numbers or letters, my hand simply gives up. I can never transmit what's in my head onto the page, almost as if there's a short circuit in the wiring between brain and fingers. Angelica was always a major art fiend, though, so sometimes she and I would pass time with me imagining stories and histories for the different creatures she drew. Thinking of Angelica made me hurt with a pang akin to homesickness. What was I doing here? I had not had the best first day of all time--my shoes, sorry to say, were still damp, even--and I had left my best friend in my old school. With so many things happening, I hadn't really noticed that I was missing her until I sat on a hard metal stool next to a black-topped art desk and listened to the seventh version of "This is my class, this is our routine." I found myself thinking about Angelica instead of focusing on what was going on, which meant that when a student walked in late and took the only remaining seat--the one next to me--I was surprised when it was none other than Andre. He glowered at me as he lowered himself onto the chair. I didn't respond; my tongue had dried against the roof of my mouth. I kept my eyes fixed on the teacher--a squat, rotund man with a dollop of hair on the top of his head and a silvery halo of it around the sides--and tried to tune in on what was being said. I couldn't, though, for one simple reason: Andre smelled. Now, noting that a middle school student stinks is hardly the sharpest observation in the world. But it wasn't one of the two nasal extremes that I had already come to identify with Gabriel García Márquez Middle School students--body odor or too much AXE Body Spray. Instead, it was something murkier. Damp. Dank. Being one of the westernmost cities in south Florida, the Everglades were not far from where we lived. And, like most Floridians, I had gone into the sawgrass river once or twice (usually when family came from out of town) to see some alligators and see the hammocks from which my municipality gained its name. That green smell--the one of moisture and rot and too much humidity--was what came off of him. I don't know how I missed it when he stopped by my table at lunch. But it was rank. I shifted a bit to try to get a better position--one with less offense to the nostril--only to fail. No matter which way I shifted, Andre's stench wafted over me. I assumed that he'd come from PE and hadn't showered; but, no, because we hadn't exercised today. It was the first day; no dressing down. I tried to breathe through my mouth, for all the good it did. I couldn't focus on Mr. Gentry's presentation--everything he talked about sounded stupidly insignificant. Who cared where the paintbrushes would be stored after a thorough washing? I was going to gag or die or both and I couldn't see why no one else was tossing offended glances our way. In fact, no one else at our table seemed disturbed at all. Much like with his voice, it seemed that I was the only one who noticed that something was wrong. And that made me suspicious. Before I could dwell on it too much, however, the bell mercifully rang and I was the first one out the door. Outside, I took in deep lungfuls of the humid afternoon air. The electricity of a thousand teenagers simultaneously being freed from their classrooms crackled around me. All I could think about was purging that stink from my nose. Drifting away from the art wing, I headed toward my locker. I hadn't gone to it yet, since I hadn't yet received any textbooks up until now. A couple of days ago, I had mapped out where my classes were, their location relative to my locker, and the probability of needing to visit it after any given period. At this point, I didn't have anything specific to do at my locker, it just felt good to incorporate visiting it as part of my future habits. Also, I wanted to make sure that I remembered how to open the thing. I'd tried it a number of times when I'd been there with Mami, each time failing to get it to work right. Some low-pressure practice would help me out, I figured. I arrived at the locker--painted the same bright red as the colors of the school--and started spinning the dial. Right, left, right…or was it left, right, left? Grimacing, I tried it both ways, hoping that I would get it right if only through the process of elimination. Then again, maybe I was doing the whole thing wrong, remembering the numbers incorrectly, making new mistakes each time. Sucking in a deep breath, I tried it one more time, sliding the black dial beneath the notch, faded numbers and tally marks spinning under my fingers. I landed on the first number, then twisted it carefully back to the second. Then the third… So focused was I on the process that when someone slammed their locker off to my right--not maliciously, I think, just closing it loudly--I jumped in surprise. I shot them a furtive glower, but they didn't seem to care: The group of friends laughed at something and walked away. I looked at my locker again. No good. When I jumped, I had bumped the dial. Now I didn't know if it would work for me. Gritting my teeth, I started over again. Though I was just as careful as the last time, when I pulled up on the ridged lever, it resisted with a tinny click. I sighed. Maybe it would be better to wait until tomorrow. Try again another day. Why that might help eluded me. I looked to my right. Almost instantly, I felt my heart trip up toward the back of my throat. A nervous kind of sweat prickled over me as Pauline met my startled stare. She froze, then cast about as if looking for a way to escape. We were standing at the northeastern side of the quad, fairly far from the exit. There were a handful of people drifting about, though most students didn't make it a habit to stay after school unless they had to. For the most part, we were alone. "Um," I said, unsure of what to do next. "Hey, uh…" she said at the same time, clearly as uncertain of what to do as I. "Look, I…" "Thank you." "Huh?" "For what you did. Today. You didn't have to pay for my lunch." I cleared my throat. "Or help me up, for that matter." "Oh, well. I, uh." She looked immensely embarrassed, enough that I (perhaps stupidly) commented on it. "Oh, well…in my family we usually don't like to talk about the nice things we do." She started to blush and she ducked her eyes. "I'm not saying that to, like, brag or anything." "No," I said, "I get it." At least, I thought I got it. "You don't want to look like you're bragging." "Right. Exactly." "But you did help me out." "Yeah." "So thanks for that." "Yeah." She smiled. "Of course. You're welcome." I nodded and made as if to go. "I'm sorry, too." I paused. "What do you mean?" "For what I said. Earlier, I mean." "Earlier…like…when, exactly?" "First period. Miss Sendler's class. I didn't mean to sound ignorant." I opened my mouth to protest ignorance, only to have her off-hand comment return to my mind. "Oh, yeah. The alien stuff." "Yeah." We stared at each other, the awkward stretch of silence growing with each heartbeat. "I mean, it's fine if you're an immigrant. I wasn't trying to say…" A flash of irritation trickled through me. One thing I had learned during my time on this planet is that people don't know how to talk about race. Growing up in Miami meant seeing a lot of people who looked like me and my foster parents. It was comforting, but it wasn't a paradise. There were plenty of bigots in the Sunshine State, many of whom were content to keep that bigotry channeled into thoughtless comments, blatant assumptions, or snide asides. One of those ways that I had experienced racism was in the presumption that I was an immigrant. "I was born here," I said with more heat in my voice than I meant to use. I took a quick breath. "My foster parents are legal, if that's what--" "Oh, no, I'm sorry." Her embarrassment stretched to her hairline now. "I just…I wasn't saying anything about you, it's just…" I waited for her to try to dig her way out of the verbal pit she'd fallen into. "I'm sorry. That's all I wanted to say. I wasn't thinking when I said it and I'm sorry." "Yeah." I nodded my head. "I got it." "And I know I didn't say it to you, necessarily." "It was to Andre." "Yeah. Anyway, I guess I was being insensitive and so that's why I wanted to help out during lunch. If that makes sense." "I guess." "So…I guess we're square, then, right?" "Yeah." I nodded again. "Apology accepted." "Okay. Cool." "I'll, uh…see you tomorrow?" I asked by way of farewell. "Um, yeah. Yeah, of course. Tomorrow." "Cool." "Cool." She hugged her textbook--looked like it was for biology--flashed me a quick smile, and headed toward the exit. I watched her leave, all the while wondering what had just happened. I've never been particularly good at making friends or knowing how to interact with other people--it's definitely one of the things I'm learning to do better--so having that conversation put me in a bit of a tailspin. A lot had happened over the course of just the first day of school: I'd been bullied, knocked down, entranced, disgusted, and more. Yet here I was, wandering off the campus and then northward, thinking that, all in all, it had been a pretty good start to my seventh grade year. That's when it started to rain. The other half of my morning schedule went well. Pauline was in my science class during second, while I saw Andre again in my music class during third. Fourth period was PE, which made me nervous. Fortunately, we weren't dressing down (I hadn't brought my gym clothes, which was part of my worry) so that class passed problem-free. Fifth period was split in two, with lunch coming twenty-five minutes into learning. This was English class, and both Pauline and Andre were in it. I note this for the simple reason that, at the time, they were the only two kids that I knew in the school at all. I wasn't too worried; making friends wasn't like in movies, where a brief interaction and being in the same class leads to a deep relationship. At least, it never was for me. Still, though I didn't much care for either student--Andre kind of scared me and Pauline came from a different world than I--there was a sense of familiarity in having a couple of the same kids in multiple classes.
Mr. Steinman taught our English curriculum, and he was clearly not interested in doing more than the bare minimum. This didn't bother me--I knew English better than he did anyway--but it was clear that his apathy was going to make the whole experience less enjoyable. To my surprise, Andre demonstrated the same animosity toward Mr. Steinman that he had to Miss Sendler. Now I had watched him during third period, to see if he would do the same thing to the music teacher as he had to his history teacher. Nothing. He'd barely done more than sit, the single sheet disclosure document slipping off his lap, his eyes focused on a space far away. I had assumed, then, that his behavior to Miss Sendler was perhaps misogyny or another quirk. But Mr. Steinman got the same sort of attitude, of a passive anger, that Miss Sendler had. It was confusing, to say the least. It also confused me as, after only half the class period had elapsed, to have to stand up, leave our backpacks where they were, and proceed to the lunchroom. Some of the kids bent down to tug out their lunch bags. I did the same, pulling out the pouch with some dollar bills, though this time it was to try to do as I'd done with Miss Sendler: I wanted to see if he said the same cryptic comment to Mr. Steinman. My plan worked, inasmuch as I was the last one out. Andre, however, hadn't even glanced at Mr. Steinman when he passed him. Shoving my fistful of money into my pocket, I scooted toward the door. Mr. Steinman watched me leave, his brown eyes following my steps. I felt my skin curdle beneath the stare. I glanced up at him, his precisely trimmed moustache twitching over his thin lips. A large mole on his cheek drew my attention, but I pulled it away and slid out the door before he noticed my stare. I followed the flow of students across the quad toward the cafeteria. I was hungry, and the smells coming from the kitchen area, while nothing gourmet, made my stomach utter a rousing speech. I snagged a tray from and fell in line, sliding the plastic across the metal countertop. Behind the glass, the kitchen crew--hands begloved and hair benetted--served up portions of different offerings in hard plastic bowls. I grabbed a serving of pudding, some corn, a hot dog, and a carton of chocolate milk. The cashier rang me up, taking my twenty dollar bill and adding the difference to my account. Only after I stepped away from the register that I realized I had gone through one of the most difficult parts of a seventh grader's first day without any difficulties. The thought buoyed me and I found myself smiling. Then I found myself falling when I tripped over someone's foot. The tray flew, its food tipping and crashing with a wet splat against the linoleum floor. My knee banged the ground, electrifying me with a shock of pain, which was quickly eclipsed as my injured elbow met the same fate. Against my will, tears sprang to my eyes as the clatter of my fallen tray faded and the predictable roar of teenage cruelty spread throughout the cafeteria. Kids who were eating outside craned their necks to see what had happened, and those closest to me pointed and laughed. Teenagers can be selfish and egotistical humans, it is true; but no one person is entirely like another, even in the homogeneity of middle school. Sometimes anonymity gives a false sense of distance, thus allowing heartless behavior that wouldn't happen otherwise. No one knew me in the school. I was a new face in a crowd of new faces, a replaceable cog within the education machine. That I was hurting and embarrassed, my food road-killed in front of me in harsh splatters didn't matter to most of the students. I was the punchline to a funny story that happened to them one time in middle school. The tears I'd kept tucked away when Matt had shoved me now unburdened themselves from my eyes. Hot and sticky, they pattered down my cheeks like rain on a window. Misery began to cover me in its coarse blanket. I dragged myself up, first to my knees--favoring the right one--and then to my butt. It hurt too much to move quite yet. I comforted my leg and squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to see the expressions on everyone's faces. "Are you okay?" All told, it had probably been only a few seconds between when I created my improvised food-art on the floor and when the voice broke through my self-pitying sobs, yet it felt as though I'd been wallowing in the embarrassment for hours. I looked up. The world swam through my aquarium-glass eyes. I blinked. It was Pauline. She stood over me, her face pinched in what I could only assume was worry. Her brown, side-parted hair was tucked over one shoulder as she leaned down and started to pick up the tray. "No," I started to say. "It's okay. At least your milk didn't break." She scooped some of the corn toward the tray with her fingers, pointing at the still-sealed carton that had skittered an arm-length from where I sat. "How much did you spend on this?" I shrugged. "A few dollars." She snorted. "Too much if you ask me. Tell you what, I'll get this cleaned up, and you go get back in the line." I glanced around. A couple of kids watched, their faces masked with curiosity, but for the most part, we were already forgotten. Someone had come to take care of the problem, so there was nothing else to see. Sniffing, I nodded. She extended a hand--the one not covered in greasy corn kernels--and helped me to my feet. "You're…Tel, right?" "Yeah." "Nice to meet you. I'm Pauline." "I know." My voice sounded tinny to my ears. "Go back to the line. I'll take care of this." "Are you sure?" She gave me a braces-lined half-smile on her tipped head. A ghost of a dimple appeared there. "Yeah. Something like this happened to me once. It sucks. I want to help." "Okay." I bobbed my head, then limped toward the back of the line. I picked up another tray, went through the same ritual, and stepped up to the register. When I tried to offer my account, however, the cashier shook her head. "Already paid for." "What?" I asked. Then I understood. "Oh, no, I tripped and fell…" The woman--an older white lady with additional space about the middle--shook her head. "Nah, I mean it's already paid for." She jerked her silver-streaked head back toward the lunchroom. "She did it." "What?" "Come on, kid. There are more that need to pay." Head whirling, elbow and knee aching, I scanned the lunchroom. The low-level buzz of too much teenager energy all confined into one place--even with a large swath of students feasting on the lawn, against the trees, at the picnic tables--threatened to overload me. I couldn't see Pauline anywhere. She had dissolved into the mass of other kids wearing blank baseball jersey tee-shirts and jean shorts. Feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and guilt, I headed toward a recently vacated table. It was close to the large-doored exit that emptied into the quad, and like most of the school's outward-facing walls, it had floor-to-roof windows. I've always appreciated natural light--something that Florida tends to have in abundance--and so I settled down to eat. My appetite had diminished--pain and public humiliation tend to do that--but I was determined to eat it. Pauline had taken care of the food, the mess…it was really surprising, honestly. I had assumed that she was a privileged white girl who didn't know what hardship was like. After all, she was kind of pretty--not that I was attracted to her or anything. Most seventh graders can tell who's beautiful, of course, but there just wasn't any feeling of attraction in me at that time. I wasn't even thirteen yet. But I'd had a couple of crushes--I even crushed on Angelica once in the second grade, before we became friends--and knew that I could think a girl was pretty without wanting to kiss her or anything. No, I just knew that pretty girls tended to be popular and, if the movies were anything to go by, disdainful of idiot kids who trip in the middle of the cafeteria. Besides, she'd sounded pretty insensitive during Miss Sendler's class this morning. It's fair to say that I had already passed her off as one of the ditzy girls that are one of many flavors that populate a middle school classroom. I popped open the carton of milk and sipped it while a Black man with a mop and bucket approached the area of my disaster. I ducked my head, not wanting to accidentally catch his eye. There were enough witness to testify against me if he asked, but I didn't have to make it any easier for him. Entertained by my thoughts that maybe my bad luck for the day was now at an end, I didn't notice his approach until he was standing next to me. "Hey, kid." I bounced in surprise, dropping my forkful of corn onto the table, where it clattered and, for the second time, created a piece of abstract art. "Andre…" I caught myself--it would look weird if I remembered him after having only been in a couple of classes--and slid an additional "Right?" into my response. "It's rude to listen in on other people." My stomach, with its half-eaten hot dog and three mouthfuls of chocolate pudding, shimmied a bit. I didn't know what to say. His voice, his presence…both made me wish I weren't there. I kept my eyes straight ahead, as if avoiding his gaze would render me invisible. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't fooled. "Next time I catch you watching me, I'm going to redecorate your throat with your teeth. You get me?" The knot of partially chewed food caught in my throat. For a moment, I thought I would choke; the moment passed, I swallowed, and a quick nod jiggled my head. "Yeah," I said softly. "Good." I thought for a moment he would do something humiliating like taking the chocolate milk and pouring it over my head, or shoving the remnants of my pudding onto my muddy shirt. He did none of those things. He merely turned and stalked off, edging about the perimeter of the quad and sticking to the shadows. That was when I noticed that, at some point during the day, he'd pulled on a black hooded sweatshirt. Despite the fact that it was easily over ninety degrees outside, he didn't seem to be sweating. I finished what I could of my lunch in thoughtful silence. Right after we got the news that I could skip sixth grade, Mami had insisted that we go to Gabriel García Márquez Middle School on foot. It wasn't done because she thought I would get lost--she knows me better than that--but because it made her feel better. I didn't tell her then that it helped me, too. Sometimes we learn to speak the truth only after it's too late.
I crossed SW 88th Street without any problems, the panther-growl of traffic waiting for me to cross before roaring on their hurried way. I had to cross both southward and eastward, but it was all done at the traffic light--per Mami's request. I had enough danger in my life; there was no reason to run extra risks. A couple of lengthy, Miami-sized blocks later, and I was at the entrance. The overall bustle of children overwhelmed me. Buses slid smoothly in from their routes, disgorging their metal bellies of their cargo amid the chitters of conversations and the bubbles of laughter. Clumps of summer-lost friends congealed around the low-slung signage of Gabriel García Márquez Middle School or some palm trees or the flagpole or one of the many pillars holding up the overhang leading into the main entry. Some leaned on the chain-link fence. Most flowed toward the school itself. A discreet glance at my calculator watch (a gift from Papi) showed that there were about five minutes until school started. Adjusting my backpack straps on my shoulders (and wincing when I brushed my elbow), I joined the teenage swarm. My shoes still squelched with every step, though there wasn't water jetting out of them anymore, and I started to become aware of confused or disdainful glances tossed my way. I ignored them--and the stinging in my eyes--and hurried through the atrium to the quad behind it. I didn't need to look at my schedule--it was probably water-rippled anyway--since I had memorized it the previous week. Besides, Mami and I had walked all the way through my schedule, which was all I really needed to remember it. Lunch tables, thermoplastic sheaths cast in the red-and-white colors of the school, dotted the quad's expansive lawn. Other students crowded the outdoor hallways, their variegated colors--skin, hair, clothes--swirling around with the unexpected boisterousness of nervous excitement and calculated disdain for being back in school. Room 117, the southeastern-most classroom, awaited, ajar and allowing the tide of students to enter. A bell chimed as I approached, an ascending tri-tone, letting me know that there was one minute to go. In their predictably Pavlovian way, the teeming throng shuddered with even greater activity and the quad rapidly emptied. I stepped into the classroom, the familiar drop in temperature from the muggy outside to the climate-controlled building making me shiver. The room was laid out as almost every classroom in America--perhaps, even, the majority of Earth--is arranged: A whiteboard ate up the far wall, in front of which sat the teacher's desk. A parade ground of desks, arranged in unimaginative rows, marched from the back to the front, with a large bank of windows letting in diffused light from the blind-blocked sun. Students fiddled in their seats, casting clandestine glances at their friends as the teacher, Miss Sendler, fussed with her laptop computer at her desk. There was only one seat left: Front row, right in front of the teacher. I fought against a groan. The students looked at me quizzically, though I didn't sense much hostility. I shuffled my way down one column, sidestepping backpacks stashed next to seats, then did my best to take the final desk as obliquely as possible. I was a sixth grader in a seventh grader's classroom; there was nothing I could do to be oblique. The bell trilled through the loudspeaker and the class, already sedate, chilled. We watched Miss Sendler tap a couple of keys on her keyboard, then look up at us. She was easily the most plain woman I'd ever seen. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Brown. Skin: White. Nose: Small. Body: Thin. I would go on, but there wasn't a single exciting or unusual aspect about her at all. Completely forgettable. Until she spoke. I've long loved the languages of this world. The human voice is capable of so many possible combinations, from purrs and rolls, clicks and growls, from swishes to hisses and grunts and squawks, human languages are a thing to behold. It fascinates me how some words simply don't exist in another tongue, as if reality is dependent on being able to express it. There's such danger and pain that can stem from words, but such beauty and hope. Truly, if humanity can claim any worthwhile achievement that pertains to all peoples in all lands in all times, it would be through the unparalleled creation of language. Miss Sendler took that beauty and amplified it. No, it wasn't that she was particularly poetical when she spoke; after all, these were seventh graders. Polysyllabic words didn't really help her teach her class. No, it was her voice. If it had been a color, it would have been opalescent, like topaz. It glittered, with crispness in her alveolar consonants that made my skin tingle and perfectly regulated fricatives caused my hair to stand on end. Had I then the words to express it, I would have said I was in love. But that is mere childishness. I wasn't in anyway equipped to be in love, and I think it's fair to say that many a child has mistaken the appreciation they have for their teachers and mentors to mean that there feel deeper and more abundant emotions than truly exist. I sat, enthralled, as she read off the roll. Every student's name she read without hesitation or error--at least, if she did make an error, no one corrected her--and when she got to mine, it was one of the few moments of unadulterated joy I had experienced my entire life. "Telemer Salvos." I raised my hand. "Here." She dropped her eyes back to her screen, then paused. "Do you go by a nickname or abbreviation?" Lost in the swirl of the sounds rolling from her mouth, I almost forgot to answer. "Uh, yes." She waited a moment. "And?" The class giggled in that nervous way that's more of a response to discomfort than actually finding anything humorous about the situation. I felt myself blush. "Tel." "As in, William Tell?" "But only one L." "A lonely l, then." She smiled. I smiled back. There was only one student left. "Andre Valoroy?" From the back of my row came an ear-grindingly grotesque, "Here." Some people can't handle the shriek of a knife against porcelain plates; others' skins pebble when worn-out brakes pierce through traffic's rumble. Whatever your personal aural peeve might be, imagine that--and make it worse. It wasn't just that Andre's voice was so grating, though that was definitely a part of it. It was the contrast. To go from the crystalline beauties of Miss Sendler's voice to the discordant clash of Andre's was enough to send my heart into shock. Against my better judgment, I swiveled my head around to stare, aghast, at who could possibly make such a cretinous sound. Andre was paper white, with letter-black hair written in gentle curls across his forehead. His eyes were dark, too, couched in acres of eyelashes that splashed out across the pale canvas of his face. He wore a black tee-shirt with The Used posing on the front. He'd painted his fingernails black--I could see them splayed on the edge of his desk. From that angle, I couldn't see what he wore, though I'd seen enough emo kids to guess that his jeans were as dark as the rest of his clothes and tight enough to outline his knees. I glanced around at the rest of the class. They didn't seem quite as distressed as I was to hear him talk. In fact, no one seemed really entranced by Miss Sendler, either, as she rose from behind her desk and began her Welcome To School speech. I was confused. Did no one else notice the honey in her voice? Had no one else caught the distortion in his? An unreasonable fear rushed through me. Was there something wrong with me? Had something happened that made me attuned to-- "Tel. Why don't you start?" I blinked. I felt a spark of heat begin at my chin and begin a lethargic crawl up my cheeks. "Um…what?" The class tittered again. Miss Sendler gave me a smile that didn't seem quite as kind as the one when she'd asked me preference about my name. "Tell us a bit about you: Two truths and a lie." "Oh…" "We'll try to guess which one is which." I swallowed. I wished I'd paid better attention to what she'd said rather than how she'd said it. "Right. Um…" My mind scrabbled for purchase. I tossed out the first three thoughts I had. "M-my family comes from Peru. I'm adopted. And, um…I don't have any parents." The class stared at me. The girl to my immediate right giggled into her hand, then spun about in her chair to whisper something to her friend, who was on the next row over. A couple of other pockets of whispered conversation began to percolate throughout the room. "The lie is that you don't have any parents," said one boy two seats back. I shook my head. "I'm not actually adopted. I'm still in foster care." Titters of laughter broke out. "So, you mean that you've never met your parents," Miss Sendler said, clearly trying to give me an opening to save face. In one of my few instances of wise decisions, I bobbed my head up and down eagerly. "Right. Yeah, that's what I meant." "Very good. Pauline?" The girl behind me launched into her three facts, with the class easily catching her lie about being fluent in three languages (the other two facts were that she'd toured Europe this past summer and her best day ever was when she met George Clooney at the Hard Rock Café in Beachside). It passed to another student, then another. Then it was Andre's turn. "I'm really good at hunting," he said. The class giggled at that, though I wasn't sure why. "I haven't been here long. And I'm an illegal alien." The class noticeably chilled. There were enough Latinos filling the seats for that statement to be the quickest way to defeat the possibility of Andre making any friends. Many of the kids in the class had parents or grandparents who weren't in the United States legally. Some of them were probably naturally-born citizens, born after their parents came from Cuba, Guatemala, Chile, or Venezuela. Others likely had come with their parents to visit other family in Miami, then overstayed their visas. It was a common enough story. Papi's partner was one of those. It was a bit of a taboo topic, though, so having Andre broach it in such a cavalier way made plenty of students nervous. Pauline said, "Wait, you aren't even brown. How could you be an illegal alien?" The class burst into a cacophony of fury at that. The word racist and idiot started flying through the room like bullets on a battlefield. Miss Sendler stepped in almost immediately, quelling the students, explaining to Pauline where she'd made a mistake (though, judging from the expression on her face, she didn't think she had made a mistake), then pushed on with the rest of the "ice breaker". Though there were occasional barbs tossed toward Pauline--and one in Andre's direction--the students seemed to settle down. By the time the bell rang, it felt almost normal. I stood--along with almost everyone else--and picked up my backpack, revealing a damp puddle where it had been resting. I grimaced. Being in the air conditioned room had helped me dry out a little, though my underwear still chafed and my toes felt gritty in the shoes. Still, it was better in here than out there; Miami heat was great at making things wet and sticky but rather lacked on helping things dry. I tugged free a couple of tissues from the box on Miss Sendler's desk and bent down to wipe up my mess. The teacher was by the exit, bidding farewell to the students as they left, trying to remember their names while they shuffled out. Andre was the last in line. To this day I don't know if he knew that I was still in the room, bent over my inadvertent mess, when he spoke to Miss Sendler. I have to believe that he didn't…but it's not a belief I hold easily. "I know who you are," he said, his voice replete with the disgusting undertones I'd heard before. My scalp contracted in revulsion. "Excuse me?" Miss Sendler sounded confused. I peeked over the edge of the desk. I couldn't see her expression, though I could see Andre's. There was a coldness in his dark eyes that I felt even from across the room. His body was tight, like he was doing all he could to contain his anger. "I know what you are. I just have to prove it." "Andre, I don't appreciate your tone--" He didn't say anything else, stomping out the door and into the Floridian sunshine. I made it a point to rustle my backpack loudly as I stood up, making it a point to be facing away from Miss Sendler as I did so. I turned, then started. "Whoa. Everyone's gone." I gave her a chagrined grin and scuttled toward the door. "Thanks, Miss Sendler," I said as I passed her. She flashed a smile as empty as my own, her brow furrowed in what I took--at the time--for confusion and frustration. Now I understand it as fear. The Wanderers Chapter 1
I was born on the eleventh of September, 2001. To say that very few people noticed my arrival is a bit of an understatement. That's not a criticism. It's quite understandable. There were other things happening that day, other ways to spend time. Growing up without parents--arriving in the foster care system right around the time I hit kindergarten--was its own unique challenge, too. Nothing compared to a national trauma, of course, but still difficult. I survived, adapted. Eventually I landed in a bustling suburb in Florida with the Salvos family. I look enough like them to pass as a Latino, so that helped through those elementary years, baffling as they were. It seemed like all of the students around me just sort of…knew what to do, how to interact with others. For me, I always felt a bit of a pariah (not that I would've known that word back then). I tried to blend in, which sort of worked. I tried to make friends; I had a bit more success with that. However you want to parse it, elementary school was rough. So as I laid down the night before starting middle school, the air conditioner grumbling to itself outside my window, the toenails of Grover clicking on the tile floor in the hallway, I found myself rather excited. Skipping one year meant that I would also skip over the top-of-the-pile sixth grade year at John Brown Elementary. Not only did I not have to worry about a couple of choice kids from my fifth grade class bugging me, it meant that I could go to Gabriel García Márquez Middle School as a fresh face, a new human, someone that didn't have anything strange hanging about him. I rolled over, the thin cotton sheet rustling against my mostly-bare legs. I hadn't felt this level of excitement in…well, it had been a long time, let's just say that. I knew that I was getting a great chance to learn, to grow, to improve my understanding of the world around me, but it was more than that. A grin crept over my face as I said to the darkness, "I can hardly wait." *** I awoke with to the sound of Grover whining for breakfast outside my parents' room. Like most of the kids at school, we lived in a small apartment--a couple of bedrooms and bathrooms, a kitchen and a common area--that was on the ground floor. We were lucky in that--Angelica lived on the fifth floor of her apartment complex, and the elevator was out of order more often than it wasn't. Thinking of my one good friend, my happy, excited feelings drifted away. Skipping a grade also meant skipping out on Angelica, leaving her to the mercy of the Lopez twins and their cronies. Fortunately, Angelica had usually only received their ire because she hung out with me. With any luck, they'd find new targets to torment and let her alone. Still, it was a definite downside to the new start. I started to dress in my new clothes--Mami and Papi worked hard in a landscaping business, which meant that there was always food to eat and clothes to wear, but never a lot of extra. "Finances are like a sheet," Mami told me one day when I was in fourth grade. She demonstrated with my bed as she spoke, pointing at the areas where I was to help her get the fitted sheet into place. "If you are careful, they will stretch just far enough to cover everything." She had smiled, her one missing tooth like a dark window on the façade of her face. I grinned back, nodding. That was good advice. I pulled the tee-shirt free of the drawer (it had the five heroes from my favorite cartoon show, Teen Titans) and tugged it over my head before swapping out underwear and tugging on a fresh pair of basketball shorts. Next were my white socks, followed by the careful folding of my pajamas and returning them to their proper drawer. I tidied up my bed before stepping out into the short hallway. Grover, disappointed by Mami and Papi's failure to wake up, turned to me and gave me the vacant dog-smile that was really just feigned interest: He wasn't happy to see me, he just wanted some food. Ignoring him, I slid into my bathroom where I took care of morning business. Grover stood sentinel by the door until I was finished. "Morning, Grover," I said. He drooled. I padded into the kitchen, Grover and his Labrador tail anemically wagging behind him, and tugged out the bag of dried food pellets before scooping out a serving. Grover's tail increased its furor as he began his inhalation of breakfast. Dusting my hands off, I turned to the refrigerator and began my assembly of breakfast. I was partway through my soggy Cheerios when Mami wandered in, tugging a thin bathrobe about her slender middle. "Morning, mijo," she said. I smiled. Even though they hadn't been able to afford officially adopting me, they acted as though I were family. Thinking back on their kindness fills me with a bit of longing, even now, especially considering how it ended for them… Scooping another bite into my mouth as Mami clicked on the coffee maker, I watched her yawn and scratch her way into her morning. Feeble sunlight trickled in through the common room window, pouring through the blinds in thick orange slices and bouncing off the glass of our coffee table. The toaster grated closed around Mami's breakfast, the smell of burning crumbs mingling with the scent of the brewing coffee. Grover, finished with my contribution, snuffled over to Mami and nosed about her legs in a not-so-subtle bid for a second helping. "No, Grover," she said, sending him away with a gentle knee-nudge. Grover accepted defeat with the morose dignity unique to aged dogs and returned to his fur-covered bed in the corner near the window. He wouldn't stir again until Papi came out, when he would hit up the last possibility of gritty food. The toast sprang up with a solid chunk and Mami continued her daily ritual, smearing a delicate helping of butter on the brown-to-black gradient of her bread, the knife chuckling across the crumbs. She set both slices onto a small plate, then set about preparing her coffee. A minute or two later, she joined me at the table. "New school today," she said after giving the coffee a chance to work its way into her system. "Yeah," I said. I stirred the sparse survivors of my cereal with the tip of my spoon. "I guess so." "Are you excited?" she asked, her faint Peruvian accent hidden to my ears by familiarity. "Well, yeah." I sighed. "I'm more nervous, now that it's almost here." "You'll do fine. We've already toured the school, you know where all of your classes are." She tousled my hair. "You'll be fine." I shrugged and worked out another smile, one less genuine than the first that I gave her. "I hope so." "I know so." She shared another smile with me. "But I don't want you to be late." I glanced at the digital clock on the face of the microwave. "It's only a ten minute walk," I said. "I still have time." "No, I want you there early. It'll keep you from being stressed out." As there wasn't any point in arguing with her--mothers, I've noticed, tend to have firm ways of making their desires known--I acquiesced and hurried to make myself ready. Grover raised his head, no doubt driven by curiosity if I were to take him on a walk or not, and put it back on his front paws as I walked out the door. The heat of a mid-August morning in Miami greeted me with a familiar wet slap. The distinct difference between our air conditioned apartment and the world outside was enough to make my skin prickle. The sun, low still in the sky, seemed to punch through the moist air and stab at me with thin, insistent fingers. I squinted until my eyes adjusted, then began the walk toward the street, my tennis shoes slapping the blacktop with their well-known rhythm. The fence surrounding the complex's pool stood sentinel over the cerulean puddle. It would be nice to say that having a swimming pool was a nice amenity, but it was poorly kept and, to be honest, most everyone in south Florida has a swimming pool of their own anyway. The faint whiff of chlorine floated through the air, along with the lingering smell of gas fumes as a white pickup truck lurched over the parking lot's speed bumps. It was like any other day, yet how much changed because of it. I made it to the tree-lined sidewalk, grateful for the reprieve of the lush branches' shade. I turned right, heading south, toward Gabriel García Márquez Middle School, taking care to avoid any puddles that stretched across the pitted concrete. It had rained some time during the night--and would again by the mid-afternoon, I assumed--and the street bore witness to the weather. As I didn't want to get my shoes wet, I carefully hopped over first one, then another. It was that juvenile preoccupation that kept me from noticing who was also walking down the sidewalk, though in the opposite direction. Perhaps it's better to say that my preoccupation with the puddles distracted me until I noticed who was coming the other way, as I crashed into none other than Matt Lopez, who was standing and waiting for the school bus. The collision wasn't particularly large. He didn't fly backwards, nor did I bounce off him (despite the fact that he was at least a head taller and maybe fifty pounds more than I) and land in a sprawl. No, it was a bump, really, an accidental nudge, nothing more. The thing was, Matt was talking to his brother, Luis, just as I bumped into him. And even that wasn't enough to really constitute an explanation for his response--in all fairness to him, I doubt he would have responded the way he did had it not been for the bottle of juice he had partially raised to his lips when I struck him. He stumbled forward one large step, the grape juice sluicing out of the wide-mouthed bottle and spilling all over his brand new white polo. "Oh, man!" I said, or something close to it. I think I included a reflexive "Sorry!" that probably fizzled as I put all the pieces together of my enormous error. Matt was less circumspect, with every other word punctuated by a common fricative-led obscenity. He spun around, his dark eyes glaring beneath his black eyebrows. His fingers slowly curled into fists. Though he, too, was born in 2001, he already had definitive growth on his upper lip, and I mean aside from the grape juice that meandered down it. The silver chain he wore about his neck flashed through some of the mottled sunlight that punctured the canopy. "Oh, you're dead, Telly." I swallowed against a lump in my throat. Not only was I resolved not to cry (my instinct for the moment), but I wasn't going to let him tease me about my name. Not today. Today was supposed to be a new start. "My name's Tel, not Telly." "What'd you say?" he demanded, stepping closer, looming over me. His twin--fraternal, as Luis was smaller and less intimidating than his brother--had an equally murderous look on his face. My stomach tried to flutter out of my mouth and the curious cocktail of fear, panic, and a desire to flee ran amok through my veins. On second thought, I could begin my new start later. It didn't have to be now. "Sorry," I said--or, to be more accurate, I squeaked. "Not yet, you ain't." He shoved me. I was expecting more than that, I have to admit. A fist first, probably in the solar plexus. (I'd seen him do that to others on more than one occasion to some kids on the playground last year.) Maybe a follow-up of a cross-cut, his knuckles hitting my cheek and popping into my eyeball for good measure. Maybe a straight shot on my nose. Any of those I expected and even, to a certain extent, braced myself for. I mean, it's not really easy to prepare for a punch to the gut, but when one's expecting it and gets pushed over instead, it does come as a surprise. I fell backward hard, landing in the puddle that (albeit in a roundabout way) put me in the situation in the first place. The force of it sent a small wave of brackish water out from behind me, soaking my underwear, shorts, and Teen Titans tee-shirt with its slurry. My elbow tore open on the rough sidewalk, fireworking a searing pain up my arm. I clutched at my hurt as Matt pulled back one leg. I was pretty certain he was about to punt me like he did the soccer balls spread over the field during recess. The timely arrival of the bus, honking its horn (probably because the driver saw what was happening…at least, I'd like to think that's what it was) made Matt hesitate. He dropped his legs and straightened, tightening the straps on his backpack as the yellow school bus grunted to a stop. The door opened with its accompanying hiss and barrage of rusty squeaks. "Whachu boys doin'?" The bus driver--Miss Danika, who had driven me to school every day for the past five years--glared at the surly expression on Matt's face. Luis, for his part, watched with mute anger. But that was Luis' way: He was always there to back up his brother, but he rarely instigated or got involved if he didn't have to. "Just help up our friend," said Matt, looking down at me. I felt slime starting to creep down my crack. "Right, Telly?" "Y-yeah," I said. I swallowed hard and nodded. "He tripped. Didn't ya, Salvos?" I nodded again. Miss Danika leaned one large, black arm against the steering wheel. She didn't have to say she didn't believe them; we could tell just by the look she gave them. Luis broke the staring match by brushing past his brother and mounting the steps of the bus. Matt started to follow suit. "Nyuh-uh," said Miss Danika. "Y'all said ya were helpin' him up." "Yeah? So?" "So. Help him." Matt sighed and rolled his eyes. He extend a hand, but I knew better: Giving Matt access to any part of my body meant giving him a chance to leave a bruise. Instead worked my way to my feet on my own. "I'm okay, Miss Danika." "You sure?" I nodded. Her eyes clicked to Matt's. She jerked her head; he slouched onto the bus, taking his spot near the back. As he traversed the narrow aisle, he glared at me through the reflective glass, his lips curled with disdain and obvious threats. "You comin', hun?" asked Miss Danika. I swallowed and looked at her, then shook my head. "I wanna…get cleaned up." I gestured homeward with a shoulder. "Mami will take me today." "Your choice, hun," said Miss Danika. She popped the lever and the door accordioned shut. With a choke of diesel graying the air, the bus groaned its way from the shoulder of the road and headed southward to continue the route. I grimaced and took stock of myself. Shirt? Likely ruined. Shoes? Muddy but passable. Shorts? Caked in the stuff, making me look like I'd pooped my pants. Backpack? Also soggy. Elbow? Bleeding, a bright red patch against my otherwise brown color. A couple of tiny curls of skin dangled from the borders of where the abrasion stopped. Touching it made my eyes water. But that was a good sign. I wasn't crying, and though it hurt and I was embarrassed and scared, I hadn't cried. I was getting used to this body after all these years. That, at least, was a good thing. Trying to keep my childish instincts from overwhelming me, I set out again toward the middle school. The altercation had used up some of my extra time, and Mami's desire that I arrive early seemed prescient. Grimacing against the pain that would ambush me from my elbow, I approached the traffic light that would get me across SW 88th Street. So perhaps the day had had a hiccup. That didn't mean the rest of the day had to be that way. I could still turn this into a good day. I was wrong. |
FYI:I'm a five-time "winner" of NaNoWriMo. This year, I am trying to write while also helping my wife defeat breast cancer. Updates will be less frequent than in years past. |