“Hey,” I said back.
Redhead girl was now using a pencil to pick at the gum. “Shit! Any idea how to get rid of this stuff?” Her tone seemed friendly enough. She wobbled over, trying to keep the gum area of her shoe from touching the ground, and extended a hand. “Holly.”
Suddenly I didn’t like how she was staring at my outfit and backpack. “Happy first day,” she added. Was she being sarcastic? And how did she know I was new? My cheeks went hot. I didn’t know what to do, so I adjusted my backpack. Not that there were any real books in there yet, just notebooks and new pens and highlighters I’d bought over the weekend with Mom’s CVS ExtraCare bucks. I scanned this Holly person up and down—loose jeans, white T-shirt, baby-blue flannel tied around her waist—and walked away. Yeah. Totally mature. Not that I knew where I was going or anything. As I turned the corner, I could hear her say, and pretty loudly too, “Okaaay…”
Around the corner I slowed down. What was my problem? I’d just thrown this girl I didn’t even know some major shade. Nice. More and more sleepy-eyed kids began to fill the hallway. I needed to get my schedule at the main office, so I needed to backtrack, and risk bumping into the redhead girl again. Can you spell “awkward”?
5
I managed to get to the office without any red-haired-girl encounters. Phew! A lady wearing pastel everything—even pastel-pink frosted lipstick—looked up as I walked in. “Good morning, honey.” She eyed me up and down. “Where are you from?” I opened my mouth to answer (I was going to say Boston), but then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ah, you must be our new METCO student.”
I nodded, forcing my shoulders back.
Clearly ready for me, she held out a half sheet with my schedule, saying, “Oh, you’ll want to check in with Mr. Rivera. He’s the METCO faculty adviser, right down the hall. Oh, wait. He’s at a district meeting today. You can catch him later in the week; he’ll set you up with diagnostic exams and all that good stuff. But for now, you’re in a general schedule. Probably won’t change much.” She looked me up and down once more. “That about covers it. Have a good first day!”
Wow. She’d basically had an entire conversation without me saying a word. Jade would think that was funny. Jade—where was she right at this moment? Probably just leaving for school, and here I was, on another planet.
The bell rang. I had no idea where I was going, but I tried to look like I did, joining the flow of kids in the hall.
Eventually I found the right classroom. Geometry. To my surprise, not everyone was white—there were like three Asian kids. I sat down at an empty desk, and the teacher handed me a textbook. “Welcome,” he said after asking me my name. I flipped through the book—the answers to all the problems were in the back! In Boston the teachers ripped out those sections. Huh. And this math teacher’s breath didn’t stink. Okay. Class number one, not so bad.
At the bell I pushed through the hallway and found my next class. And the next. And the next, and then the principal made an announcement over the loudspeaker that there was a community meeting in the gym. I only knew where that was because everyone started walking in the same direction.
The gym—whoa—was total state-of-the-art. They even had a climbing wall. The basketball nets looked brand-new, probably were. Dad would have been so psyched. He loved basketball, was always saying if he were five inches taller, he’d have had a chance. He used to take me to the courts on the corner of Jackson and Centre, taught me how to dribble, control the ball with my hands. How to breathe before taking a shot. “All the little things add up, Liliana,” he’d say. He never cared that I missed half my shots, just kept showing me how to get better.
I shook my head hard. Stop. Thinking. About. Dad. I climbed into the bleachers and looked for a space to sit. Technically there weren’t any assigned seats, but you wouldn’t know it based on how kids bunched together almost instantly.
The only other time I’d been surrounded by this many white people, Dad had taken me with him on an errand, I think it was in Back Bay, and we stepped inside a building where everyone was white, even the security guard. I remember feeling like everyone was staring at us. Dad had knelt down beside me and whispered, “Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you don’t belong in the world. ¿Entiendes?”
Did I belong in this world? Which made me think—Dad. What world was he in? I nearly tripped. Focus! Find a place to sit. I searched for the METCO kids, which wasn’t difficult—they were the only other brown kids in the bleachers. I tried not to be obvious as I headed over to them. A couple of guys in puffy black jackets huddled over a phone while some girls with fake nails carefully pulled chips from crinkly bags, then deposited them into their lip-glossed mouths.
“Hey,” I said to a girl eating Doritos. She had black frizzy hair, and her eyebrows were penciled in real nice. She looked like maybe she was Puerto Rican. Maybe mixed. Definitely Latina. Whoever she was, she didn’t respond, just kept chewing.
I didn’t know whether that was an invitation to sit down or not, so I just stood there, feeling like an idiot.
“You lost, little girl?” one of the puffy-coat guys asked. Half of the row started laughing. I bit the inside of my cheek.
The girl with the Doritos crunched dramatically.
Now I thought I might actually throw up. No one would remember that or anything.
“Hey,” I said again, trying to recognize someone—anyone—from the bus ride. “Are you guys in METCO?”
“Who wants to know?” So Dorito Girl did speak, after all.
“I’m new.”
“Yeah, we know,” she said, a tiny smile surfacing.
Another girl made room for me, and I sat down. But then they all went back to talking, or not talking, or crunching or reapplying lip gloss. Not exactly the world’s most welcoming bleacher row. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Wow,” I said. “Y’all are mad friendly to the new girl. Whatsup with that?”
A guy in a red hoodie with a silver earring in his left ear laughed louder than I expected. “You’re funny.”
“I’m Liliana,” I said.
“Rayshawn.” He stuck out his hand. “And that’s Patrice, Jo-Jo, Alfonso, Shanice, Kayla, and this here”—he paused and pointed to Dorito Girl—“is Brianna.” Everyone either raised a chin or smiled.
“Hey,” I said.
Rayshawn took a gulp from a can of AriZona iced tea. You could have drinks during school here? Then he said, “So, it’s your first day, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ve been in METCO for, um… like three hours,” I said.
He laughed again. “Yo. You are funny.”
Then, I swear Dorito Girl started eyeballing me. Was there something weird with my clothes? We both had on jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies. My hair was curlier. Longer. Gelled to cement-level perfection. Caramel skin. Except mine was getting redder by the second. When was this stupid meeting going to start, anyway? Why did class always start on time but these kinds of things never did? Three teachers were fussing with the podium’s microphone. Maybe it was broken. And what was a community meeting anyway?
A lady went to the podium and introduced herself as a college counselor. Finally! For the next several minutes she talked about the importance of extracurricular activities on your college application and how after the meeting there would be sign-up sheets for various clubs and whatnot. I tried to listen. I mean, I was interested, but I was kinda shook by Dorito Girl. When the bell rang, no lie, I couldn’t leave fast enough. On my way out I sensed someone staring at me, a guy in an orange-and-black soccer jersey—number thirteen—and sweatpants, long dark bangs. He was cute. Like, ridiculously cute. For a white boy.
So, I smiled at this white boy.
He immediately looked away. My stomach dropped.
I WANTED TO DIE. I would pin this morning as one of the most embarrassing ones of my long-ass life.
* * *
Next on my schedule was lunch. Holy shit! The lunchroom was like a food court! An entire row o
f food stations lined the walls—a salad bar, an oatmeal bar, and a yogurt bar. And pizza. Even gluten-free. Crazy, right? My brothers would have gone nuts. Me? Uh-uh. Getting food meant having to sit somewhere, and, yeah, total cliché, but I had no one to eat with. No way was I going to go over to the METCO group again. Not today, anyway. I thought about eating my ham sandwich out at my locker; I had packed one real quick right before Mom gave me the ten bucks for lunch; I could use that money for something else. So instead I just roamed down the halls and took bites of my sandwich until the next bell rang. Problem solved.
* * *
It was past four o’clock when the bus dropped me home. First thing I did was knock on my bedroom window; I needed to talk to Jade. No response. I turned on lights in the kitchen and living room. Mom and my brothers would be back in an hour. Mom had signed them up for an after-school program at the YMCA, as I wouldn’t be able to pick them up anymore. I peered into the fridge. Nothing but hardened rice in a pot. Ugh. For the next hour I must have knocked on my window a dozen times. Nada. Jade wasn’t answering my texts, either.
I actually tried to do my homework, but to be honest, I didn’t have the energy to read through each teacher’s course intro packet (syllabus, expectations, rules, and procedures), never mind the actual assignments. So I left a note for Mom—they must have stopped at the store—and tucked myself under my comforter. I was wiped. Outside, the wind pushed hard against the window as I replayed the day in my mind, from the food to the fashion at Westburg. I was not going to think about the METCO kids’ dis. Instead I thought about how most girls wore Converse or Uggs, even if they dressed in skirts or leggings. Some had holes near the toes. For kids with so much money—well, kids whose parents had so much money—I wondered why they dressed so crummy. Super-faded jeans, wrinkled T-shirts, mismatched socks, and sweatshirts. It was totally the opposite at my old school, where, just saying, the first day after Christmas vacation everyone showed up like it was a fashion show, displaying their presents all over their bodies. Crisp new jeans, new sneakers—unlaced, of course—new puffy coats, new nails and jewelry and hair. Weaves especially. Then, after a week or so, everyone went back to dressing how they normally did, the crispness in the jeans having softened, the nails having chipped.
I yawned and glanced at my alarm clock. Only 6:12 p.m.? Man, getting up at five was brutal. I considered not setting the alarm. What would happen if I missed my bus? No way I could get to school. But Mom would flip. I yawned again. I could hardly keep my eyes open, but the image of the METCO kids clustered on the gymnasium bleachers crept in anyway. Dorito Girl and her nasty attitude. What was her issue? I yawned once more. I’d never gone to bed so early, but here I was, shutting off the bedside lamp, and at the last minute, yeah, I clicked the alarm on for the next morning. Maybe Dorito Girl was just having a bad day. Maybe the next day she’d be nicer. Maybe.
6
When the alarm buzzed at 5:10 a.m., I hit snooze so hard that I knocked the clock over, along with the stack of books on my bedside table. Ten more minutes. I needed ten more minutes. Even though I’d gone to sleep at an abuela’s bedtime, I was still mad tired. But when I finally hauled myself up, got ready, and went into the kitchen, I discovered something great—
Mom had gotten me a new phone! She had a free upgrade on her plan! And—wait for it—it was charged and everything. She’d left it with a note explaining that she wanted a reliable way to communicate with me throughout the day. Truth: I was gone for most of the day. And my old phone never charged properly after I’d cracked the screen, so. Yesss!
At school there was no redhead girl scraping gum off her sneaker in the lobby. But there was another girl. She was definitely Latina. Tall. Flaca but with some curves. Hard to tell because she was wearing a Westburg hoodie that maybe belonged to someone else—her boyfriend? It was huge. Her hair was pin-straight like she’d spent the last twenty-four hours getting every single hair to obey her command. She had a blue streak down the right side. I couldn’t decide if she looked cool or like a punk witch.
This girl headed straight for me, stuck out her hand like she was a teacher, not another teenager. “Good morning. I’m Genesis Peña.” Ah, my METCO buddy.
“Hi,” I said, hesitantly shaking her hand.
“You’re Liliana, right? From JP? Welcome to Westburg. About yesterday—sorry I wasn’t here. I had a college interview. Anyway, I’m from Roxbury. I spend Monday through Friday here in Westburg, though, with my host family cuz I have so many after-school activities. So I’m only ever on the bus on Monday mornings or Fridays after school, unless I stay after on Friday for theater club or prom prep.” She paused only long enough to take a breath, then barreled on. “Don’t look so scared. And yeah, I’m a fast talker. At least that’s what they say. Thing is, I’m kind of nervous. Not to talk to you! It’s just, I’m working on my Single-Choice application to Yale, and it’s got me kinda rattled.”
“Single-Choice?” I interrupted at last, wondering how she had so much energy so early in the morning.
“Single-Choice Early Action program. It’s like early decision.”
“Oh, right.” Say what? I was thinking.
“Anyway, I really hope I get in, because I don’t want to have to go through the whole general college application process, you know? I mean, I guess I already did. SATs, SAT IIs, the essay, interview, and don’t even get me started on how long it took me to put together my CV.”
“CV?” My throat went dry.
“Curriculum vitae. It’s another way of saying ‘résumé.’ ”
I’d never heard someone like me—Latina, I mean—talk like that, like she was white. But not completely. It’s hard to explain. I was barely following what she was saying. It was as if she was talking in English but in an alternate version. At least she wasn’t throwing me dirty looks like I was going to take away her Doritos or something. Genesis started moving down the hall, so I just trailed behind her as she pointed in different directions—the computer lab, dance studio (there was a dance studio?!), library, Writing Center. Hold up. A Writing Center? A whole room for writing? So I had to ask, “What kinds of things do they do in the Writing Center?”
“Liliana.” Genesis slowed down. “You for real?”
“I mean… besides the obvious.”
Now she nodded. “Well, you can also sign up to tutor other kids or help them with their English papers.”
“Oh.” I had imagined beanbags and dim lighting and gel pens in mugs.
“Don’t look so disappointed. It looks great on your CV.”
Genesis waved at every single teacher who passed us. One actually stopped to say, “Just to reiterate, I really urge you to apply to my alma mater. They’re well endowed, lots of financial aid,” and another asked, “Hey, Gen. How’s the Yale application coming?”
“It’s coming,” she replied.
“What did she call you? Gen?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
Genesis sure was a talker, kinda like my dad, actually, and she knew every corner of the school. She did ask me about myself for one second—like, literally. “So, tell me about yourself. What makes you you?” Is that what a college admissions officer sounded like? What was I supposed to say? I hate funerals. I am afraid of cats. After my class read Night by Elie Wiesel last year, I vowed never to get a tattoo. I could tell Gen how I love making buildings and houses and stuff out of cardboard—how I used Styrofoam peanuts for loaves of bread for the bakery—about the building that’s a Pentecostal church by night and a carpet store by day. But would Genesis really want to know any of this?
“I love writing,” is what I landed on.
Genesis raised an eyebrow. “Guess you should check out the Writing Center, then.”
When it seemed she’d shown me everything but the plumbing, she led me down some basement stairs to see “the best bathroom in the building.”
As soon as she pushed open the door, Genesis completely changed her script.
“Move, pe
ople!” she practically yelled. The girls who looked like freshmen immediately scrammed. The rest just shifted out of the way until she passed, then reclustered by the mirror. She shooed away two girls standing beneath a small window up by the ceiling. They rolled their eyes but stepped away as Genesis climbed on top of the heater and shoved the window open. Back down, she pulled a big purple bottle of hair spray and a JUUL from her backpack, then passed the JUUL to me with a “Hold this.” Whaaa? I slipped it up my sleeve fast in case a teacher walked in. Just what I needed, to be the girl who got kicked out of METCO on her first (okay, second) day. Mom would KILL me.
Genesis, pulling her skirt up at the waist, making it two inches shorter, shot me a look. “Don’t be so paranoid. Teachers never come in here. They have their own bathrooms.”
Who was this girl? One minute she was parading down the hall like the next class president, and now she was unzipping her hoodie and… oh. She wasn’t so flaca after all. Her black top was so tight, it had to be a kid’s size. Her waist was tiny. I looked at my own reflection in the mirror: magenta cardigan over a white V-neck and jeans. Sleepy face. My gold necklace that said Liliana sat crooked on my chest.
Genesis blasted the hair spray at a few stray hairs. “See ya, Gen,” a girl called out as she left the bathroom.
“Listen,” she said suddenly, voice low as she aimed the hair-spray nozzle at me.
I ducked. “Hey! Watch out.”
“Don’t make any friends here.”
I gaped at her. “What? That’s your welcoming advice?”
Genesis laughed. “You’re funny.”
“Thanks.” I straightened my necklace.
“It’s just—you seem smart.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“But for real, you know what I mean. Girls here will be nice to you to your face. You know, ‘Hi. Oh, you’re so lucky you speak Spanish. You must get straight As in that class’ or ‘Can you teach me how to put on eyeliner like that?’ But then behind your back they’ll be all, ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe she wore that’ and ‘Why does she even come to school here?’ ” She pressed hard on the aerosol button, and a cloud of grape-scented spray filled the space between us.
Don't Ask Me Where I'm From Page 4