I guess I can say right off the back that I’m the loner type. It’s not that I can’t make friends, it’s just I’m usually that friend who gradually gets left out. I’m either not popular enough to hang with, not rebel enough or not smart enough to join their academic college dream team for schools that I know I won’t get accepted to. I never joined any clubs or sports in high school so maybe that was my downfall once freshman year started. I didn’t have a lot of close friends growing up either. My very traditional and Hispanic family said it was because of my distinct uncaring personality, whatever that means.
Where others found my personality to be off or distant, my mom said I had the biggest heart of everyone in the family. My mom was unique and the best out of all her siblings. Yes, I know I am being completely bias but hear me out.
She never cared what others in my family said about me or made me feel bad for having interests that some might call geeky or weird. She still wanted me to at least try and make friends or form a connection with people in my class.
It's hard making friends when you are so use to being the kid that was always picked last or only needed as a filler for a group. Now before you guys think that this is going to be some weird kid who is socially awkward with everyone and doesn’t know how to talk to her peers because she was bullied yada, yada. The answer is a definite no.
I do okay in group work activities and I can chat with my peers when I’m in the mood. And nobody made fun of my anime T-shirts or at least not to my face yet. I'm just what you would describe as the minor characters in everyone else's stories -that's what I had thought at least. My life was beautifully boring and simple before I met Fred.
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Last period had finally ended with the halls filling up with students as they tried to hurry out to the parking lot to drive home or hangout with their group of friends at the new coffee shop. The cafe was known for their overly sized muffins and weird theme of cats. Now, the cafe was brand new but the quality of the food was shit. It seems like everyone goes there to post their over priced stale bread on instagram for the views and likes.
Personally, I felt that La Panaderia which is a family owned Mexican bakery was way cheaper and their pan dulce always tasted fresh every morning. Again, I could be bias here, growing up in a Mexican household...
Like a ghost I brushed past the students, no one giving me a single glance as I made it down the stairs to the main hallway. As usual the same exclusive friend group was standing in the middle of the hall as if it's a stage on Broadway for everyone to see their designer bags and shoes. In actuality, it was a major inconvenience for everyone else who is trying to pass through.
I always did my best to stay out of exclusive groups, because once you’re in, you’re stuck like quicksand. At first you think, having a popular friend group isn't so bad but what you don't know is you are sinking deeper into a world of unwanted drama.
Unfortunately, Melissa Vice was a victim of the infamous quicksand that drowned her name further down to the point she switched schools. Gossip is a deadly game of telephone. One secret is said to another and the information is mixed up to the point where the truth no longer mattered. The whole class already made the decision in labeling her as a lier, then a cheater, then finally the classic...a slut.
After maneuvering past the annoying friend groups in the hall, I sat on the front steps inside the main door which is commonly known as “pick up for kids who don’t have friends to drive with.”
Sitting on the steps near the window, I kept looking out for a white GMC denali that surprisingly is still running after all the potholes and curbs that my mom hit. Resting my head against the cool glass window, I enjoyed the mixture of feeling warm and cold.
“Yo MK, How did you do on Johnsons quiz?” A voice sounding like my cheating buddy in math class calling me from behind. I broke my gaze no longer searching for my mother who I wanted so desperately to hurry up.
The boy gave a cheeky smile finally gaining my attention. He was fairly shorter than most of the boys in my class but his athletic build made him appear much bigger. Unfortunately I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. What I do remember is how he always tried to impress his peers on how cool he was in slacking off but in reality, he freaks after every test or quiz. He had slipped up in telling me that he was on the verge of getting kicked off the football team by his father. Why he felt the need to tell me this information after the quiz, I have no idea. Maybe to get sympathy for cheating off of me?
“Um, hopefully passing” I smiled sheepishly. Math was never a skill or talent that I had. My mother was a math wiz or at least that’s what she claims. I never challenged her on the topic because I don’t want to feel dumb at school and at home.
“Yeah, same, I honestly don’t see the point in memorizing all these equations.” He groaned continuing to whine and complain about how Johnson was dumb and bald. I kept the facade that I was actually interested in his mellow dramatic football dreams. The generic nod or "oh no" became my script for most of this conversation.
“Oh that’s my car” I said sounding relieved to finally spotting my mom who was waving a white bag filled with conchas and other sugary pastries. She must have stopped at the hair salon before coming to get me because her dark brunette hair was curled up to her shoulders.
“I hope you passed on the quiz! See yah tomorrow, M-mark.” I said fumbling on my classmates name and then immediately regretting it.
“It’s Marques.” He said not pleased at all with my response. Well, I got the first letter right I thought to myself.
“That’s what I meant to say.” I said quickly and pushed the door open to a chilling brisk of cold air biting my cheeks.
The ride back home was filled with loud Banda music and great chisme from my uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins etc. There was always some type of scandal happening in the city. I had lost track of whose cousin-friends-neighbor that the story originated from. Regardless, I was invested. The story of the poor 40 year old man whose wife had left him for a younger man and was left with 2 -kids and an elderly lady continued all the way home.
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“There’s rice and beans and tortillas on the table whenever you are ready to eat!” My mom hollered as she reached for the mail most likely consisting of bills and a possible quinceanera invitation from a distant cousin. I quickly served myself a bean and rice tortilla, rushing up the stairs to catch up on a two page paper over the Spanish Inquisition which was long over due.
My room walls remained the same color of baby pink ever since my mom bought the house. I was never picky when it came to colors. I never had a preference on what was trending or in style. If I did have any sense of fashion, my theme was always comfort, cozy and a sprinkle of anime. I had piles of manga lined up against my window sill ranging from shojo and Shonen Jump. As tempted as I was to return to my piles of nerdy books, I turned back to my prison desk to work on my paper.
I pulled my chair out from underneath my desk when suddenly my door bursted wide open causing my body to jolt up from the surprise. “Ay why are you not coming down to eat!”
There was never a thing called privacy in my room. The neighborhood kid, Issac, who was practically like a little brother, always wore his Minecraft shirt with his bright light sneakers. Because my mom worked from home and would often get done early, she offered to help out Issac’s mom to be there when he got off the bus.
“I have a lot of homework to do Issac. I’ll play with you after I’m done.” I promised guiding him out of my room. Like most 5 year olds, he continued to protest with “Why not now!” as he frantically waved his arms despite giving him an explanation. This probably continued for a whole minute before I caved and gave him my older DS to play with just incase he decided to drop on the floor and finish his performance by throwing objects across the room.
Once he was satisfied with the offer of my DS, I was able to get rid of the annoying yet adorable twerp, returning to my Spanish Inquisition essay. After a few bites of my tortilla I was ready to start my paper with my topic solid and ready to go, I began typing
Political power influences-
“Mikaela!”
Well shit, I lost my train of thought.
“What!” I yelled and then instantly regretted.
“IT's MANDE!" My mom hollered back even louder knowing that I had internally screwed up.
“Sorry, mande.” I responded quickly. I may have just turned 16 years old but my mom always reminded me that she wasn’t afraid to give me the old chancla if she had to. Finding any excuse to leave my desk, I rush down stairs to see what my lovely screaming hispanic mother wanted.
"Can you go walk Issac home for me, his mom said his dad is going to be home in a few minutes.” She said grabbing her purse hanging in the coat closet.
“Okay, where are you going?” I said portraying my voice like hers whenever she asks me billions of times on what I was doing or going. I know it annoys my mom like it irritates me. It’s my right as an only child with no friends.
“No where-”
“She’s getting your birthday cake!” Issac blurted.
“Ay Issac...” she rolled her eyes and slipped on her coat. She never denied it and it wasn’t like I couldn’t have figured it out myself. “I’ll be back in 15 minutes.” she promised.
“Okay-dokey” I waved goodbye and quickly went to go find a pair of converse to slip on. After finding all of Issac toys and shoes and for some reason a lost pair of socks that he left at our house, we were finally ready to go.
“My mom told my dad he was cheating bawstard.” Issac said retelling all the arguments his parents had after the divorce. This made the trip to his house a whole lot quicker and brought an interesting topic to talk about after cake.
“Okay Issac I don’t think you should be saying those words in front of your parents.” I said forgetting that I let this 5 year old repeat every curse word in the book.
“Okay but can I say them to you?”
“Um you can say them with me but not at me or other people unless they deserve it” I added before finally reaching to his house. I went on ahead looking for the hidden key in the flowering pot.
“That sounds complicated. I just won’t say them.” He shrugged.
And that’s how I stop kids from cursing by boring them with social norms and rules of society. As we waited inside sitting on the living room couch watching Bluey, it wasn’t long until Issac’s dad was honking outside with a brand new bike in his open trunk. Issac jumped up faster than any kid I have ever seen once he heard his dad’s truck pulling up onto the driveway.
“Thanks MK” He smiled and waved as he drove off. As much as a cheater Issac’s dad was in his marriage, he was never a bad father. He was always on time to pick up his son and was at every little league game. At bare minimum at least he was present unlike mine. My mother rarely talks about him and I didn't blame her. Her sister's were never good at keeping secrets even if it meant that it could potentially hurt others in the process.
So it was an understatement that my mother was royally pissed at her sisters to the point that we had stopped coming over for Thanksgiving after so many years since revealing that my father had left us for another family who were successful, rich and was blessed with a much prettier daughter than I could have ever imagined to be, according to my aunt Sofia.
Yeah, I know my aunt's a bitch...
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