Lima Loser.

It was Friday afternoon, and Avenged Sevenfold were blasting out of my iPod speakers when the knock came upon my bedroom door.

“Entre!” I tried to use my oh-so great Spanish skills. Wait, that’s French…

The door opened, and Noah Puckerman entered.

“Nice room,” he looked around at the mix of Michael Jackson/heavy metal posters that were plastered on my walls.

“Thanks,” I shrugged. I went to the speakers, turned down “Gunslinger”, and turned back to Puck. “Shall we get started?”

“Shit, I just got here!” he replied. “Can we just chill out for a bit?”

“It’s already 4:00,” I frowned at the clock above my bed. “And well, I have a feeling this might take a while. So, let’s start, and whatever time is left can be used to ‘chill’.”

“Alright. Sounds good,” Puck nodded, and took a seat on my bed.

“Where’s the video camera?” I asked him.

He just stared at me, and then slapped his forehead. “Fuck! I forgot it.”

“Yeah, I figured that before you even walked in the door,” I said, amused.

“I’ll call my mom to bring it over right now, okay?” he looked at me.

I grabbed the phone on my desktop and tossed it to him. He quickly dialed his house number, and after two and a half rings, somebody picked up.

“Hello? Yeah, I’m gonna need someone to bring over the video camera to Courtney’s house. I totally forgot it. Kay. Yeah, same place you dropped me off. Seeya.” He hung up. “Sorry about that.”

“It was just a simple mistake. No big deal,” I shrugged it off and sat at my desk, with my back to him.

“I already said this, but nice room. It actually looks sick. I dig all of the MJ. And the black walls are hot,” Puck told me. “You unpack fast.”

“Thank you…again,” I grinned. “And I didn’t switch houses, just schools.”

A few minutes later, we heard a beeping from the driveway. I looked out the window, and sure enough, Puck’s mom was waiting.

“I’ll be back,” he headed downstairs and out of the house. I was still looking out the window, and I saw him run over to his mom’s car and grab a camera bag. He waved goodbye to his mom, and came back inside.

“Got it!” He seemed rather pleased with himself. He opened the bag and hauled out a camera stand. He set that up, and then got the camera set up on top of it.

“You know how to work this thing?” I asked. “Because I don’t.”

“Yeah, I’m used to it. My mom’s really into this stuff, and she makes me help out with it sometimes,” he replied. “Okay, you ready?”

“Wait. We should have a script or something. We aren’t prepared,” I began.

“Or we could just say what’s on our minds,” he smiled. “Just say the things you feel about racism. When you hear the word, what pops into your head?”

“Colors,” I admitted.

He laughed. “Wait till I turn the camera on, okay?”

“Right,” I giggled and sat on my bed.

He put the timer on for ten seconds, and sat on the bed next to me. He gestured for me to start first.

“When you think of racism, you usually think of someone putting down other races except for their own. And yes, that’s basically what it is. Racism is prejudice against other races. But it also can be the belief that one race is more superior than the other,” I explained.

Puck cut in. “Yeah, like, if I were to go up to Courtney and punch her and be like ‘You’re white. You smell’. That’s racism.”

“Exactly. And I can’t go up to Noah and tell him his nose is too big, because honestly?” I looked up at his face. “Noah’s nose is pretty amazing.” I poked his nose.

He grinned, and turned back to the camera. “Racism comes in lots of forms. A stereotype is one of those forms. Come on. What do you think of when you hear the phrase ‘black people’?”

“Most people think of violence,” I stated.

“True. And gangs, and jeans that are ten times the size they’re supposed to be,” Puck added.

“But these stereotypes are stupid! I mean, I can think of a bunch of white people that are violent, in gangs, and need to buy smaller pants.”

“Ken Tanaka, this does not apply to you,” Puck said, seriously. I guessed that this was the football coach I saw a few times around school. He was the only male wearing short shorts, and…disturbing.

I thought about it while working on the video with Puck, and I had come to the conclusion that Rachel was so wrong. Puck wasn’t trying to get with me. He was just being…well…Puck.

I laughed. “Anyway, what do you think of when you hear the phrase ‘Pakistani’?”

“Terrorists,” Puck said, a little too quickly.

“But are all Pakistani’s terrorists? No. They are not. They’re just judged based on one event,” I shook my head. “And it’s not fair.”

“Not fair,” Puck repeated, snapping his fingers.

We talked for a couple more minutes, and then Puck flicked off the camera. I fell back on my bed, laughing. “We cannot hand that in.”

“Why not?” Puck looked unhappy.

“Because it wasn’t serious, at all,” I told him. “We’re gonna get sued.”

“Nah. I’ll edit it so that it’s appropriate,” Puck promised.

“You’d better,” I playfully punched his arm.

“I will!” he took the arm I’d punched him with and twisted it behind my back. “We still have more than a week to finish this, anyway.”

“I know,” I told him. “Let go of my arm now?”

“Okay,” he agreed. He smiled at me as he let my arm go.

I looked up at the clock. “It’s only 4:30. What are we going to do now?”

He shrugged, and then his face lit up. “Ooh, I know!”

Expecting something totally dirty to escape his mouth, I asked “What?”

“Well, you know how Mr. Schue wants you to work on your stage presence?” Puck asked.

“Yeah?” What was he getting at?

“I can help you with that. It’s one of my stronger areas,” he grinned, proudly.

“Oh yeah? Well, O Mighty One, let’s head downstairs.” I stood up, and he followed my lead as I went towards the basement.