When we get to school, I steer clear of the cop patrolling campus, just in case. All the students seem to be friends with him, but still. He gives them high fives and dabs at them when they pass by, as if anyone still dabs. I’ve never seen a cop act all buddy-buddy like that. My experiences with cops haven’t exactly been pleasant. I’ve only had two close interactions, and I’m not trying to have a third. Once freshman year, when I saw my friend Junior get his head bashed into the cement floor of his own garage by a cop. And once when my dad was taken away. They both ended in deportations. My dad, and Junior’s mom. The cop at this school seems safe enough, but I’m not getting close enough to find out.
The first familiar faces I find are Emily and Karen in the courtyard, so I go to them.
“Yummy!” Karen calls out when she sees me.
“Becky!” I say, and go in for a hug. Karen frowns.
“Karen,” she corrects, and Emily changes the subject before it gets awkward. She and Karen start talking about volleyball tryouts, which I have zero interest in, so I zone out.
My eyes wander, and I find Jenna walking toward us. When our eyes meet, she smiles like I’m important, and her walk becomes even bubblier. She hugs me first, then Karen and Emily. I almost forgot how nice hugs are. After Bianca outed me, I went all summer without a single hug from anyone outside family.
Jenna cups one of my earrings in her hand. Her fingertips brush against the side of my neck and make the baby hairs stand up. One of the perks of brown skin is she hopefully can’t tell I’m blushing.
“You look so ghetto today!” She giggles. So does Karen.
I blink. They’re my favorite earrings. I thought it was going to be a compliment. But I look “ghetto.” What is that even supposed to mean?
Karen gives me a sympathetic look. “Yummy, I love you, but yeah, you kind of look like a cho-la.” I hate how casually she says she loves me. She doesn’t even know me. And I doubt she even knows what a chola is, but I know what she meant by it. That I look too Mexican. Too “ghetto.”
I look to Emily. Her cheeks are cherry red and her eyes wide. She tries to touch my shoulder, but I take a step back and push her hand off me. I use my stink-eye to punch all of them, since I’m too much of a wuss to do it IRL. They don’t seem to notice the mental punching.
“If you loved her, you’d be a true friend, like me, and let her know how she looks,” Jenna says to Karen.
“Guys, that’s—” Emily starts, but my ears are ringing too loud to hear what she’s saying. I want to go off on them, but I don’t even know how to put into words why I’m angry. All I know is I don’t want to be near them. I turn around and walk away.
First hour is my least favorite class right now, because all three of them are in there.
I sit at the desk closest to the door, in the back of the room. Jenna, Karen, and Emily didn’t get the hint, and they sit by me like they didn’t just call me ghetto. I get up to move seats, but Jenna grabs my arm.
“Chill out, it was a joke!”
I yank my arm away and make my way to the farthest empty seat without saying a word. I can feel their questioning stares on me, but I ignore them. I don’t care if they think I’m overreacting. I like my hoops, and eyeliner, and J’s. I look good, okay? I do. I’m a fine-ass elegant beast. They’re wrong. They’re wrong.
If I’m going to go back to having no friends, it’s going to be my choice, no one else’s. I can’t do this with them. I get my phone out and pretend to be texting. I want to look cool and aloof, like I have friends I can text. Really, I’m staring at my screen thinking about how it’s two days in and I’m back to square one. Worse than square one. The only person I want to text is the person posing with me on my phone background. So I do.
Yami: I hate it here.