in her. And next time you go drooling over Amy Green or whoever, Melody’s going to feel really ugly. Don’t do that to her.”
Señor Lopez Lopez, my Spanish teacher, was born in El Salvador. He had fled the country in the early eighties to escape the civil war. With nothing more than the clothes on his back, he had walked all the way to Texas. He had been assaulted by Guatemalan drug runners and mugged by Mexico City cops, and nearly drowned crossing the Rio Grande. He learned English while working illegally on a California farm, whose owner forced him to work fourteen-hour days (the other option being deportation). Sr. Lopez Lopez became a citizen when a general amnesty was declared, and earned his college degree while working as a dishwasher in Los Angeles.
Every year someone made the mistake of asking him why he gave so much homework. They’d get his life story in return. After that, no one felt inclined to complain about the workload.
Sr. Lopez Lopez was reviewing the study guide for a test we were apparently having the next day. My thoughts were elsewhere. Hell, it wasn’t like I could understand my teacher anyway; sometimes it was like he was speaking a foreign language.
I was pretty pissed at Samantha for sticking her gargantuan nose in my affairs, and even more annoyed because she’d been so dead-on right. I did get my rocks off on the way Melody admired me. And unless I was willing to make out with Johnny or Rob, I couldn’t really say we were
just
friends anymore. I couldn’t even say I really wanted to be just friends.
But not everything was black and white either. One kiss (or one night of kissing) wasn’t a cause for commitment. I probably had too high of an opinion of myself. Maybe Melody was just as confused and uncertain as I was.
Of course, I wasn’t exactly
un hombre amoroso.
For all I knew, Melody might be writing
Mrs. Leon Sanders
in her notebook. Sr. Lopez Lopez directed us all to do something: either break into study groups or take off our shoes and make duck noises. I was bending down to unlace when someone scooted his desk next to mine.
I turned to see the acne-free, lantern-jawed, five o’clock–shadowed face of Dylan. The guy who’d humiliated me more than anyone else in my life. The guy whose memory had caused me to cry over the weekend. And here he was, wanting to study.
On some other plane of existence, God laughed.
I’d made it a point never to acknowledge him this whole semester. Apparently, he didn’t remember our past. How could you call someone a faggot and spit on him, then expect to review verb tenses a mere five or six years later?
Dylan read our instructions, his lips moving silently. “Dude, what’s a subjunctive mode?”
I’d take the high road. “It’s a tense you use when describing something that might possibly happen.”
You stupid monkey.
“Huh?”
“Look at any Spanish sentence. If it has the word
‘que,’
then you probably should use the subjunctive mode.”
Douche bag.
“If you see what?”
“If you see the word
‘que.’
”
“If you see what?”
“If you see
‘que.’
”
“If you see what?”
“If you see
‘que’!
If you see
‘que’
!
If you see
‘que’!”
Sr. Lopez Lopez fixed me with a wrathful gaze. “Leon!”
I suddenly realized what “if you see
‘que’
” sounded like when repeated out loud.
Dylan laughed. “Dude, you totally fell for that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wanted to be even more pissed off, but that actually was pretty funny.
“How do you say ‘gotcha’ in Spanish?”
“Pendejo.”
“Dude, I totally
pendejo
!” he said, happily calling himself an asshole.
“I couldn’t agree more. Are we going to study or what?” I had a hard time not smiling.
“This is gay. When are we ever going to use this?” said Dylan, far too loudly. I was afraid we’d invite another “When I was your age, U.S.-backed guerrillas burned my village” speech from Lopez Lopez.
“It’s
Señor Lopez Lopez, my Spanish teacher, was born in El Salvador. He had fled the country in the early eighties to escape the civil war. With nothing more than the clothes on his back, he had walked all the way to Texas. He had been assaulted by Guatemalan drug runners and mugged by Mexico City cops, and nearly drowned crossing the Rio Grande. He learned English while working illegally on a California farm, whose owner forced him to work fourteen-hour days (the other option being deportation). Sr. Lopez Lopez became a citizen when a general amnesty was declared, and earned his college degree while working as a dishwasher in Los Angeles.
Every year someone made the mistake of asking him why he gave so much homework. They’d get his life story in return. After that, no one felt inclined to complain about the workload.
Sr. Lopez Lopez was reviewing the study guide for a test we were apparently having the next day. My thoughts were elsewhere. Hell, it wasn’t like I could understand my teacher anyway; sometimes it was like he was speaking a foreign language.
I was pretty pissed at Samantha for sticking her gargantuan nose in my affairs, and even more annoyed because she’d been so dead-on right. I did get my rocks off on the way Melody admired me. And unless I was willing to make out with Johnny or Rob, I couldn’t really say we were
just
friends anymore. I couldn’t even say I really wanted to be just friends.
But not everything was black and white either. One kiss (or one night of kissing) wasn’t a cause for commitment. I probably had too high of an opinion of myself. Maybe Melody was just as confused and uncertain as I was.
Of course, I wasn’t exactly
un hombre amoroso.
For all I knew, Melody might be writing
Mrs. Leon Sanders
in her notebook. Sr. Lopez Lopez directed us all to do something: either break into study groups or take off our shoes and make duck noises. I was bending down to unlace when someone scooted his desk next to mine.
I turned to see the acne-free, lantern-jawed, five o’clock–shadowed face of Dylan. The guy who’d humiliated me more than anyone else in my life. The guy whose memory had caused me to cry over the weekend. And here he was, wanting to study.
On some other plane of existence, God laughed.
I’d made it a point never to acknowledge him this whole semester. Apparently, he didn’t remember our past. How could you call someone a faggot and spit on him, then expect to review verb tenses a mere five or six years later?
Dylan read our instructions, his lips moving silently. “Dude, what’s a subjunctive mode?”
I’d take the high road. “It’s a tense you use when describing something that might possibly happen.”
You stupid monkey.
“Huh?”
“Look at any Spanish sentence. If it has the word
‘que,’
then you probably should use the subjunctive mode.”
Douche bag.
“If you see what?”
“If you see the word
‘que.’
”
“If you see what?”
“If you see
‘que.’
”
“If you see what?”
“If you see
‘que’!
If you see
‘que’
!
If you see
‘que’!”
Sr. Lopez Lopez fixed me with a wrathful gaze. “Leon!”
I suddenly realized what “if you see
‘que’
” sounded like when repeated out loud.
Dylan laughed. “Dude, you totally fell for that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wanted to be even more pissed off, but that actually was pretty funny.
“How do you say ‘gotcha’ in Spanish?”
“Pendejo.”
“Dude, I totally
pendejo
!” he said, happily calling himself an asshole.
“I couldn’t agree more. Are we going to study or what?” I had a hard time not smiling.
“This is gay. When are we ever going to use this?” said Dylan, far too loudly. I was afraid we’d invite another “When I was your age, U.S.-backed guerrillas burned my village” speech from Lopez Lopez.
“It’s
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