Chemistry Class

I never realized how different I was from others until I got to America. In Spain, yeah, I was a bit different. I didn’t fit into either of the groups: blonde hair and blue eyes or brown hair and brown eyes. I have kind of blondish-brown hair and my eyes are kind of a light blue sprinkled with gray. But in America, I realized that all the people were either white, and trying to be like Aryans, or Mexican, at least at my school. I actually had a kid come and ask me if I was black. I don't even know how that works! Damn California. The Mexicans snickered at me and asked me in broken English if I was a white kid. I responded by telling those pindejos that I was Spanish. They laughed and said I wasn’t a Latino. I screamed at those damn Indians that they weren’t the Latinos and stormed off. My councilor told me that I needed to not refer to the Mexicans as ‘pindejos’ and that I needed to control my temper. I called her a pindeja too and stormed out of there. I did a lot of storming in those days.

The highlight of my day was chemistry. I just liked the thought of working with dangerous chemicals that could burn my skin off at any moment. Besides that, there was a really cute white guy who had my lab table. I don’t know why, but he always seemed like he was wet to me. His skin was snow white, and porcelain smooth. His cheeks were always tinged rouge and his hair was a deep brown, the kind of brown that doesn’t seem natural, but that’s just because it’s on a guy. But his eyes were the best part. They were blue, but blue like corn flowers, blue like the autumn sky. I was shy back then; I didn’t know many people and my English was accented from my Spanish heritage. Besides that, I had studied French all my life and had learned English very quickly. One day, Seth and I were the only ones at our lab table that day. It was right before Christmas break and the class was half empty. We had a fun lab that day to fill the time and I was keeping talking to a minimum. Then he asks me, “So, Joaquin, where’re you from?” I mumble an answer; he asks again.

“Spain.”

“Yes, but where in Spain?”

“Granada.”

“What neighborhood?”

“Albaicín?”

“What was your address?”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Like, were you close to Plaza San Nicolas or not?”

“I was right on it.”

“Did you live in a red house?”

“Yeah?”

“¡Yo era tu vecino!”

“No fucking way.”

“Yeah fucking way!” We were speaking rapid Spanish intermixed with Arabic phrases and laughing. The teacher was looking at us funny and so was my new Mexican friend Darlene. She was picking up bits and pieces but the teacher was totally lost. He asked me how his cousin was; I told him when I left she was still a goody two-shoes who made straight a’s and was still dating the head football player. He asked me why I was in the States; I told him my dad got a job here and they wanted to live here in the middle of no where. I could see Darlene was inching closer to hear the conversation, so I switched to French. “I’m glad to see three years in the states hasn’t made you forget your French. Do you still remember Arabic?”

“Not so much as French, but then again, I never need it. My sisters like to speak it from time to time but mostly for refreshers.” The bell rang. “Come see me at my locker today after school, twenty-three fifty-five.” I nodded and went off to German. I couldn’t help but noticing how cute Julio, Seth, had gotten. And I couldn’t get over the fact that he had changed his name. But it was good to hear the Granadino Spanish, the French, the Arabic. My parents hate speaking French or Arabic, so I never get to practice. I show up at his locker after school, and he hands me a note. It’s in Arabic. “You’re gonna have to give me a day to remember how to read this, you know that, right?” He nods, gives me a hug, and walks away. I’m sitting on the bus trying to puzzle out the Arabic. It’s been 6 months and I’ve forgotten most of it. I’m just about to give up, when I realize the paper is upside down. ‘God I’m fucking stupid.’ And once it’s right side up it’s clear as day. I gasp aloud and the girl next to me looks down at the paper. “What are you, some kind of terrorist?” I smile and tell her to shut up. She goes back to her friend, all the while looking back at me.