I coughed.
“Trust me. Don’t trust anyone.” She lowered her voice even more. “Especially the white boys.”
Wow. Okay. Immediately I thought of the guy in the auditorium, the one wearing the soccer jersey. White. Boy. I switched the conversation to METCO, fast.
“So, we have meetings? With someone named Mr. Rivera? What’s he like?”
“Yeah, he’s the METCO faculty adviser. He’s all right. And yeah, you missed our first meeting, probably our only meeting. He’s one of two teachers of color at the whole school, so he’s pulled in a million directions.”
“Oh.”
“Here’s the deal. Just stick with the METCO kids,” Genesis said, her gaze back on her own reflection.
“About that… Well—” I coughed again. Man, that hair spray was lethal! “Anyway. Yesterday I tried to sit with them, but they froze me out.”
Genesis frowned. “How?”
“I mean they were nasty. The guys made fun of me and the girls just stared me up and down. It was… embarrassing.”
“Oh, come on. They’re just testing you.” She patted down an invisible hair.
“I mean, except for this one guy named Rayshawn. And testing me? You for real?”
“Trust me, they’re cool. Listen, we have to stick together. I’m telling you.”
Someone in the far stall flushed the toilet.
“Okay,” I said. “Well, I’d better get to class.”
“Wait.” Genesis held out her palm.
“Oh. Right.” I handed her the JUUL. “See you at lunch?” I hoped I didn’t sound desperate.
Genesis gave her hair one final blast. “Oh… sorry. I won’t be there. Theater club. We skip lunch to rehearse.”
“Oh.” Great. Another day of feeling like an outsider to the outsiders.
“Don’t worry. Like I said, just stick with the METCO kids. You said that Rayshawn was nice. He’s cool. Just sit near him.” Genesis tore her eyes from the mirror. “Okay, you can go now because I have to pee, and I can’t pee while anyone else is in the bathroom. It’s a thing.”
* * *
With teachers, I tried my best—I really did—to answer their constant questions and comments. How are you adjusting so far? You do know where the tutoring centers are located, right? You’ll probably find the work more challenging here than in Boston. That’s where you’re from, right? Where are you from? Man, they made me feel mad dumb. Weren’t teachers supposed to do the opposite? And not for nothing, but was this really the school my parents wanted for me? Dad had always talked about how we should be proud to be Latinos and all that, so why had he and Mom signed me up for this school full of white kids? Where the teachers practically held my hand.
I had to take these stupid diagnostic exams first thing—even though I’d already been placed in the college-prep classes. The English one required a writing sample, and when the bell rang I wasn’t quite done, which had nothing to do with the fact that I might miss lunch. So I asked my new English teacher if I could finish up my essay during lunch, and get this: She simply told me to leave it on her desk when I was through. No questions. No pass. Nada. My teachers back in Boston would have wondered what I was up to. They would have taken their purses with them even if just to the vending machines down the hall. And especially their laptops, hello. But here? I mean, students didn’t even have locks on their lockers. Here, the teacher just vanished, leaving me to write and write, and no one cared how long I took.
Unfortunately, lunch wasn’t over by the time I was done, so I had to go to the cafeteria after all. Dorito Girl gave me a look like she wanted to chew me alive. So I walked right past that table. (It wasn’t like anyone was making room for me to sit down or anything anyway.)
But—ugh—now I had to walk by the cute guy from the day before, who was sitting with his friends. Talking with their mouths full of food. One of them copying the other’s homework. I willed myself not to look up, especially if that guy was also looking up. But that thing happened where your body does the exact opposite thing than your brain is telling it to do, and so I did. I looked up. And sure enough, the guy, still wearing a number thirteen jersey but in a different color, was downing a carton of chocolate milk into his mouth as he watched me from the corner of his eye. I watched him right back, thinking about what Genesis had said about staying away from the white boys. No white boys, and nowhere to sit.
I’d just taken a bite of my sandwich—ham again—walking the halls again, when I heard “Liliana? Liliana Cruz?”
I swallowed quickly. “That’s me,” I said, turning.
A man in a navy-blue suit and a tie with clouds on it rushed over, hand extended. “Hello! I’m Mr. Rivera, the METCO director.” With his salt-and-pepper hair, he kind of reminded me of a much younger Don Francisco, the old guy from the variety show Sábado Gigante who Mom and Dad watched every Saturday night. “I was hoping to run into you, set up a time to talk. How’s it going? I know it can be an adjustment. Did you get a school tour yet? Finding your classes okay? Meet your buddy yet?”
Wow, I didn’t know which question to answer first. “I’m good,” I said. If I said anything more, he’d probably fire off a dozen more questions.
“Great. Listen. Stop by my office—it’s next to Guidance. You can’t miss it. It’s by the sneaker in the lobby. You know, the one worn by Larry Bird—”
I stared at him. Who?
“You know, Bird, one of the greatest Celtics players of all time. He visited the school once—”
“Oh yeah,” I said. So that’s why there was a random sneaker all propped up in a glass box like it was a Viking helmet or something.
“So swing by. We can chat.” Mr. Rivera’s walkie-talkie made a static sound. “I have to run to an appointment. But listen, definitely check out the student lounge in the METCO office.” His walkie-talkie fizz-fizzed again. “See you there!” And he was off.
I sent Jade a text: legit eating lunch by myself. In hall.
She replied: 4real? Lol. Taking test. Call u later?
I finished my sandwich, then headed for the shoe shrine. I wanted to know where it was, you know, in case I actually went to a meeting. It couldn’t be worse than eating lunch alone in the hall, right?
* * *
At home, because I was supposed to be doing homework, I decided to organize my closet. No lie—it always makes me feel productive. So I took out all my summer clothes and put them in trash bags, which I stuffed underneath my bed. I found an old sweatshirt I hadn’t worn in like a minute. It had my name spray-painted in hot pink letters across the front. Mad cheesy. I used to love that sweatshirt. I held it out, the pre-Westburg-me sweatshirt. I tried it on. Nope. Barely fit over my chest. I gave a laugh. Genesis might wear it! Then I was thinking about how people called her “Gen.” Had she called herself that first? Liliana. Liliana Cruz. Maybe I needed to change things up. New school… new name? Not change-change it, like when you get married or have to go into hiding under some witness-protection program or something, but change, like revise. Like, to Lili. Yeah. Lili. It was technically part of “Liliana.” I said it a few times: “Lili Cruz, Lili Cruz. Hi. I’m Lili Cruz.” Not bad! Truth, I sort of felt like I was getting a makeover, or at least a significant haircut. Like, a fresh start. And no way was I cutting my hair. So Lili it was. Welcome to Westburg, Lili.
* * *
Doing proofs in geometry is not the most exciting thing in the world, in case you didn’t know. I couldn’t stop daydreaming—I saw number thirteen get off the bus this morning, same time as me, and, yeah, he gave me another look. It was the kind of look that stayed on my skin, if you get what I mean. That was, until he’d looked away.
My teacher was in the zone, writing and labeling and talking. I had to get a grip. I grabbed my pencil and started copying the proofs. How much longer? I glanced at the clock over the door, and that’s when—insane!—I saw him, soccer jersey guy, walking right past the doorway. Suddenly I felt wide awake. Electric awake. Like,
I had to get into that hallway. Maybe he would still be out there. Maybe I would have the guts to actually talk to him. I raised my hand.
“Yes?” my teacher asked, looking annoyed.
“May I have the bathroom pass?”
He lifted his Expo marker in the air, a gesture I took as “yes.” So I hopped up, my heart thumping fast-fast-fast, and proceeded to walk out of the room.
“Miss Cruz?” the teacher called after me.
“Yes?”
“The pass?”
“Oh. Right.” I took the wooden block from his hand.
Turns out I didn’t even need it because just then the fire alarm went off and everyone, even the kid taking a nice siesta in the back row, bolted from their seats and into the hall, talking and laughing and saying “Thank you, God” while teachers standing by the red Exit sign ushered us all outside. Normally a fire drill in the middle of class is dope, but dang, I had missed my chance to, you know, see soccer jersey guy. Definitely needed to learn his name.
Kids clustered on the grass, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized, so I closed my eyes and lifted my face toward the sun—warm enough that I felt like I was being recharged, like a cell phone or something. I was standing there, my face all upward, when I heard someone clearing their throat. Then, “Hey. Hi.”
A guy.
I opened my eyes, and there, not two feet away, was soccer jersey guy. He stood directly in front of the sun so I could hardly see him, but by the way he shifted from one foot to the other, it seemed… maybe he was as nervous as I suddenly was, even though he had come up to me.
“Hey,” I said back, thunder in my chest.
“You’re new here, right?”
“Yeah.” Say something else, I willed myself. Tell him you moved here from Boston. Tell him you’re lit about the fire drill because you were in math. Don’t tell him you love his face.
“Where are you from?” he asked before I could get any of the above pried out of my brain and into my mouth.
“Jamaica Plain,” I said.
He cocked his head.
“Boston,” I quickly added, pulling at my necklace.
“Cool.”
He stared at his feet, then mine, then me. I tried to see what he saw: tight jeans, black sweatshirt zipped halfway, a purple tank top, a fake gold necklace that said Liliana sitting on my chest. I could see him see me, and it was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.
“Dustin,” he said.
“What?”
“My name. I know, it’s confusing. My parents were really into Dustin Hoffman back in the day. Sad, but true.”
Say something! Anything!
“You know. Dustin Hoffman. As in, the actor?” he went on.
“Oh yeah.” I smiled. I had no idea who he was talking about.
Thankfully, another guy approached us. He snatched Dustin’s phone from his back pocket and proceeded to shove it into his own boxers, yelling, “Hey, loser!”
Dustin’s eyes widened in an I can’t believe you just did that way. “Give me my phone, you shit!” Then he lunged at the guy, but it was awkward because of where he had, you know, stuck it.
The guy finally reached into his boxers and pulled out the phone. “Hey, take a joke!”
“Dude!”
“Who are you?” the guy now asked me, a hint of irritation in his voice.
“Liliana. I mean, Lili.”
This guy definitely wasn’t subtle in checking me out. He stared right at my boobs and didn’t stop until I zipped my sweatshirt practically up to my chin.
He kinda smirked at that. “Steve,” he said, reaching out his hand, which I did NOT shake. Ew.
“Hey,” I said instead.
“What are you?” he asked.
I narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”
He rephrased his question. “Where are you from?”
“Boston.” I answered quickly this time.
“No, I mean where are you from-from?”
“What?” Did he ask everyone this, or just METCO kids? Never mind. I knew the answer to that. Jerk. Plus, by the way, he stunk. Literally.
Dustin thought the same thing, because he gave him a shove, saying, “Steve. Seriously. Go take a shower. You reek.”
Steve grinned. “Nope. No shower until after tomorrow’s game. Call it superstition. But it works.” He then tried to stick his armpit in Dustin’s face, but Dustin shoved him again, harder.
“You’re sick, dude.”
The Steve guy moved on to torture someone else. Dustin shrugged. “He can be a real douche.”
“No kidding.”
“You’d never know it, but he does have a brain. He’s actually really smart.”
I put my hands in my pockets, not sure how to respond.
“He was on teen Jeopardy! last year. I’m serious.”
“Huh.” Is it shallow to admit I couldn’t stop noticing how cute Dustin was? His eyes. There were flecks of green in them. I. Could. Not. Stop. But then I had to, because the vice principal, gripping a megaphone, instructed us all to return to the building. “False alarm, folks! Someone pulled the alarm.” This set off a round of booing. Except from me. Except from Dustin.
He just kept looking at me, so… “So I guess the fire drill is over,” is what I brilliantly came up with. I wanted to smack myself. Students were filing back inside. I swore I saw the crowd make room for the basketball players, Rayshawn at the center.
“Yeah. False alarm,” Dustin said. He cracked his knuckles, breaking into a huge grin.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Yeah,” he repeated, his huge grin huger.
“Wait—was this you?”
His jaw twitched.
“You pulled the alarm?” I whispered. He pulled the alarm?
He brought a finger to his lips.
The vice principal stepped toward us, clapped his hands. “Let’s go, folks!”
I pivoted. “I guess we have to go back inside,” I said. Oh, I was absolutely brilliant.
“I’ll walk you back to math,” Dustin offered.
“Thanks,” I said, heading for the door. Was this actually happening? “Wait. How did you know I was in math?”
Dustin held the door open. He was so close that I could smell his shampoo. Or maybe it was his ChapStick. Either way, it smelled fantastic.
Again Dustin grinned. “I knew you were in math because I saw you sitting there. You looked bored.”
“So… then you decided… to pull the alarm?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Yeah. How else was I going to get to finally talk to you?”
“Oh…”
“Plus you leave right after school. You take the METCO bus, right? You’re a freshman, right?”
“Yeah… you?” I blushed.
“Junior.”
“Oh.”
“So, anyway, I had to find an excuse.”
“Um, you could have come up to me in the hall? Cafeteria? Ever considered the obvious?”
“Boring. Unoriginal.”
“True,” I agreed. Very true.
* * *
So, that happened.
I know. I KNOW.
We exchanged numbers, and after that, boom, he sent me three texts in a row. Back and forth—all chill. But then in his last text he invited me to his next soccer game this Thursday. I know! Of course, my very first thought was that Mom would say no because she was always going for Strictest Mother of the Year. Not that I wanted to give her more to worry about. But going to a school soccer game should NOT be something to worry about. I would just have to figure out how to play this.
7
The first thing I did when I heard Mom and my brothers coming home was swing open the front door and offer to help with the bags. You know, get on her good side. But my brothers already had the bags, and were nonstop yakking… about cooking? Seems there’s this chef’s club for kids at the Y, and they actually liked it. Like, they were talking about making dinner… that night. My brothers!
Mom was nodding encouragingly. Dad would have been dumbfounded (vocab word). And so psyched to know they could actually boil water without burning down the kitchen.
They were mad excited as they unloaded the groceries. Christopher looks more like Mom, so his eyes were all bright, but Benjamin totally has Dad’s exact eyes, sort of gentle and smiley, if that makes sense. Food I’d never seen them eat before piled up on the counter. Benjamin looked so happy, taking out some chili sauce. Christopher was saying, “Don’t forget. We have to wash our hands first!” Whaaa? Where was I?
Mom gave them each a kiss on the cheek, then disappeared into her room. I decided to wait to bring up the soccer game. Thing is, when she tucked away in her room like this, it was like she wasn’t even home, she was checked out. Like, my brothers actually wanted to do something besides play video games, and she barely noticed. Dad, he would have been all over it, asking them a million questions, making them explain everything so they could feel like big deals. But Dad didn’t know about the cool chef’s club. Didn’t know I ate sandwiches in the hall at this fancy school he apparently wanted me to go to. The thing with my dad is, if you talked to him about something, he always had an idea about how to fix it. What would he have to say about METCO? About Dorito Girl? About being froze out even by kids like me?
* * *
After Benjamin and Christopher made chicken with chili sauce and broccoli (it wasn’t bad), and took off for their room to play video games (without washing any dishes!), Mom came into the kitchen, adjusting the belt on her robe. She seemed calm, at least. So I took my chances. “Mom. I want to ask you something.”
Don't Ask Me Where I'm From Page 5