Chapter Eleven

Kiev + Piggie

 

After a brief conversation with Lia, she walks away and disappears down the corridor. I stay put, still not believing Mr. Nazari sentenced us to community service.

Piggie Palooza.

Damn it. This festival is the definition of boring and corny.

Sighing, I glance down the hallway, wondering about what to do next. I check the time on my phone. I have Spanish pretty soon.

As I head toward my next class, Lia pops in my mind, wearing that tight t-shirt.

Cole’s words come to mind. “A hot girl hides under her baggy clothes.” I think he’s right—she is … she’s hotter than I thought.

When I enter the classroom, guys and girls follow me with their eyes all the way to my desk. Feeling like a strange animal or something, I drop onto my chair and concentrate on the floor.

“Buenos días,” Ms. Park says.

“Buenos días,” the rest of the class replies.

I look up to find her standing in the front carrying some books. Ms. Park isn’t your average-looking Spanish teacher. She was born in Korea, studied high school and college in Paris, and got a language masters in Madrid, Spain.

The Spanish teacher sets her books on her desk and peers at me. “¿Que le pasó, Señor Jimenez?”

When I’m about to tell her about my ‘accident,’ the guy behind me blurts, “A girl beat the crap out of him.”

“Boo, boo. My nose,” someone else adds.

I want to stand and kick their asses.

“¡Niños!” the teacher shouts. “Español.”

“Chica beat-o a crap-o of el,” someone behind me says.

I stand and spin to him. “Shut up.”

The guy throws his arms in the air. “I didn’t say anything.” His expression tells me he’s telling the truth.

“Siéntese, Señor Jimenez.” Ms. Park asks me to sit.

I stare around, sending death glares.

“¿Señor Jimenez?” the teacher asks.

Turning to Ms. Park, I nod and take my seat.

In between classes, I head to the secluded restroom and take a good look at my beaten face. To my surprise, it doesn’t look that bad. I inch closer to the mirror and inspect my nose. I expected it to be swollen. It isn’t. It almost looks normal, except for a slight purple area around my nostrils.

I gingerly pull one of the nose plugs out and wait for blood to drip from my nose. Nothing, which is good. I study the nose plug—its far end is the color of dried blood. Gross. I toss that shit in the trash. I remove the other plug and breathe through my nose. It feels good but not perfect—a bit itchy.

On my way to English, I run across Lia’s goth friend, Barnabas. He’s by himself, which I find weird since he and Lia are always together, like conjoined twins. Maybe they’re dating. He asks me about my nose, and I tell him it’s okay—no big deal. The guy seems cool about it. Actually, he’s one of those always-relaxed dudes. After our brief encounter, we go separate ways.

I avoid looking at or talking to people the rest of the school day. I wait a bit before exiting, but when I enter the parking area, I spot Cole sitting on my Jetta’s hood. The sight of him makes me curl my hands into fists—he told Mr. Walker about the altercation. And now, because of Cole, I have to volunteer for the stupid festival. I take a breath and stride to my car.

“You’re still alive,” he says when I reach him. He thrusts himself up, stands, and stretches his arms toward me. “Give me a brother-to-brother embrace, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

Blood rushes to my face. Unable to contain myself, I punch him in the belly.

He doubles over and grabs his stomach. “What the fuck!”

“That’s for telling Mr. Walker that Lia punched me in the nose.”

Cole takes desperate breaths.

I waggle a finger at him. “Because of you, I have to do community service at the freaking Piggie Palooza Festival. I hate it.”

“Look,” he says, all out of breath. He raises a finger and after a minute, he continues, “You know me.” He stares at me. “I always say what’s on my mind.” He pokes a finger against my chest. “Is that a crime, Mr. Kiev Jimenez?”

“I…” I pause because he’s right.

“What’s going on here?” a girl asks.

“Miss Monica Serrano, what a pleasant surprise.” Cole poofs back into his suave self.

She approaches me, points at my face, and wrinkles her nose. “I heard what happened.”

I glower at Cole before saying, “Did you happen to hear what happened through this dude’s big mouth?”

Monica shakes her head. “People talk.” She touches my cheek. “Does it hurt?”

I tilt my head away from her hand. “What did you hear?”

She bites her lower lip. “Something about a girl punching you? Is that what happened?”

I sigh. “Something like that. But it was more of an accident.”

Cole takes a step forward. “An accident where his nose crashed into her fist.”

“Can you close your mouth for a second?” I ask.

“Should I close my mouth, Miss Monica Serrano?” He scans her with hungry-wolf eyes.

She brushes a tuft of hair from her face. “Not for me to say.” She inclines her head. “Were you guys fighting?”

“No,” Cole answers.

“Yes,” I say.

She motions at the school entrance. “That girl is not worth fighting for.”

“That girl has a name,” I blurt. Why am I defending her?

Monica scrunches her face.

Cole places a hand on her shoulder. “Mr. Kiev Jimenez here is denying his feelings for Miss Ophelia Abbie.”

“What are you talking about?” I swat a hand at him.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says to me, then faces Monica. “As far as me goes, I cannot deny my love.” He grabs her hands. “Do you believe in butterflies fluttering in your stomach at first sight, Miss Monica Serrano?”

She looks at her hands, then at him, and pulls them away with disgust. “You’re crazy.”

He nods. “For you, my Tex-Mex Queen.”

She frowns, relaxes, and then raises a brow—a torrent of emotions flowing across her face. She giggles. “You’re kidding.”

He bows. “I am not. My love—”

“I’ll leave you two alone.” I walk around my car to the driver’s side.

“Kiev?” Monica says.

I open the door. “Yes?”

She bites her lower lip again. “We have to, you know, talk to Mr. Butrow about the thing we discussed yesterday.”

With all this mess, I forgot we’re going to tell the theater teacher about switching characters. “Right now?” I ask.

She nods. “He usually stays a little late after school.”

“O-kay.” I close the door and lock the car.

Cole offers his elbow to Monica. “I’m ready to join you in your adventure, my love, my life, my south-of-the-border queen.”

She shakes her head. “Kiev and I have to do this alone.” She steps closer to me and grabs my upper arm. “Let’s go.” She pulls me toward the school’s entrance.

I look over my shoulder. “See you later, dude.”

Cole doesn’t reply, finding the pavement quite interesting, which makes me feel weird. Shame replaces all the hate I felt moments before. I need to apologize for punching him and also make sure he knows I’m not hitting on Monica.

Monica and I enter the auditorium, where Mr. Butrow hangs out. He’s sitting in the front row, flipping through a script.

We march up to him, side by side.

When we’re in front of him, Monica gives him a little wave. “Hi.”

He glances up from his script. “Miss Serrano.” He turns his attention to me and wrinkles his forehead. “Mr. Jimenez.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Butrow,” I say in a polite voice.

He sets the script on the chair next to him. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Jimenez.”

I lift a brow. “You are?”

He stands. “I need to talk to you.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at Monica. “Could you excuse us?”

“Of course,” she says.

Mr. Butrow waits for her to be out of earshot. “So, Mr. Nazari informed me you were involved in a fight.”

“Accident,” I lie.

He slides a hand over his gray hair and stares at me. “Fight, accident—whatever you want to call it—is a serious matter.” He frowns. “You know this is a zero-tolerance school, Mr. Jimenez.” A statement.

I want to shout that Lia hit me out of the blue, but I refuse to play victim. I sigh. “I know, Mr. Butrow. But—”

He holds out a hand. “I’m not asking you to explain what happened.”

This is so unfair, it sucks. Damn it. I glance at Monica, who stands in a far corner with her arms crossed. I don’t know what else to say, so I stay silent.

The director cocks his head and motions at my face. “Does it hurt?”

On instinct, I touch my nose. “It’s okay now.”

Tense silence follows.

I clear my throat and point at Monica. “We wanted to talk to you about something, Mr. Butrow.”

He shakes his head. “Whatever you have to say, Mr. Jimenez, it can wait.”

I sense bad vibes emanating from him. “Can wait for what?”

“Your reproachable behavior has forced me to make a decision.” He locks his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry to say, but you’re fired from the play.”

“What? No.” I take a step back as my internal organs drop. “It was an accident.”

“We’ve already discussed that, Mr. Jimenez.”

“But that isn’t fair!” I shout. “You can’t do this to me.”

“It’s done.” He glowers at me for a long moment. “You can go now.”

“I…” I inhale deeply, then exhale. “Is there anything I can do to fix this?”

“Not now. In the future, avoid confrontations.” He waves me off. “If you excuse me, I have work to do.”

I open my mouth and close it.

Mr. Butrow drops onto his chair, grabs the script, and flips through its pages.

“Pinchi maestro,” I curse in Spanish through gritted teeth.

He tilts his head up. “What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘Goodbye, teacher.’”

He nods and goes back to the script, and I turn to leave.

“Mr. Jimenez?” Mr. Butrow calls, stopping me. I spin in my Vans to face him, and he adds, “This isn’t permanent. You can try auditioning again for our next play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

That sounds like a consolation prize for being fired from the current play. Before I do something stupid, I say, “Okay,” and storm out of the auditorium without looking back.

Afterward, Monica joins me outside. “What happened?”

“Mr. Butt Row.” I gesture at the auditorium behind her. “He—I’m screwed.”

She grabs my arm. “Hey.”

“Don’t—” I huff in frustration, wiggling her off.

She throws her hands up in surrender. “Okay.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, it’s just that this totally sucks.”

Monica inclines her head. “Entiendo si no quieres decirme.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you.” I hold out a hand. “Just give me a minute.”

She switches her backpack from one shoulder to the other, then nods. “Do you want a soda or something?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. I want to go home, drop onto my bed, and sleep the rest of this nightmare of a day off.

She bobs her head. “Anything I can do to help?”

Man, this girl won’t stop until I tell her what happened. “Mr. Butrow fired me over this.” I point at my nose.

She gasps. “Why?”

“Zero tolerance,” I say, making finger quotes.

“Oh. That’s horrible. I guess…” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m gonna quit in protest.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I can, and I will.” She shrugs. “I don’t like the teacher that much, anyway.”

“Please, don’t quit.” I force a smile. “I’m looking forward to see you play Horatio.”

She blinks. “You are?”

“Yes.” Not really.

She smiles wide. “Okay. I’ll do it for you.”

For me? What’s that supposed to mean? I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “I have to head home.” I walk away before she gets any weirder.

“Kiev?” she calls as I reach the door, making me crane my neck. She walks toward me, swaying her hips. “Are you going to the festival’s kickoff party?”

“Party?” I echo, trying to buy time. The detail is—each year, most high school kids dance and get drunk the Friday before the Piggie Palooza festival starts. I’ve never been to this party because I dislike the festival and anything related to it. Besides, I won’t go just because Monica is asking me.

“Are you okay?” Monica asks.

“I can’t go.” I force a smile, which takes effort. “I have … stuff to do tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Disappointment runs across her face. “Maybe we can hang out later?”

“Uh.” I don’t know what else to say—can’t deny Monica is pretty and kind of nice, but Cole really-really likes her.

She glances down. “I understand if you don’t want to be with me.”

“It’s not that,” I say. “We can hang out at lunch if you want.”

Monica gives me an almost imperceptible nod. “I was hoping you could help me with my lines.”

“I really have to go.” Shit, I can’t say no—such a coward.

“Then go.” She waves me off.

I lean down to grab the too-short door handle and head out. As I pace to my car, I sense her staring at me, but I won’t look back. I get into my car and glance around—no sign of Cole.

When I get to my house, I park in the driveway and stay in the car, trying to gather the energy to confront Dad. After a minute, I take a breath, jump out, and enter a silent house. I guess Vi isn’t here yet, and he must be in his home office, typing away. I consider going to my bedroom, but I need to give him the stupid slip.

I step to his office and knock. “It’s me, Kiev.”

“Come in,” he says in Spanish.

I open the door.

He stands by his desk with crossed arms. “Me hablaron de la escuela.”

School called—he already knows. “What’d they say?” I play dumb.

He frowns. “Español, Kiev.”

I repeat my question in Spanish.

He uncrosses his arms and rubs his forehead. “Una chica…”

“A girl what?” I ask in Spanish.

Dad steps closer and points at my nose. “¿Una muchacha hizo eso?”

After I give him a yes-a-girl-did-that nod, he smirks, then turns serious and looks away. Reluctantly, I produce the slip and touch his shoulder, making him swivel his head to me.

“For you,” I say in Spanish, offering the dreaded piece of paper.

He takes it and scans over it for a couple of seconds. He waggles it. “Tú … tú…”

Me … me … what? I think.

Dad bobs his head and inspects my nose. “¿Que le dijiste a”—he glances at the slip in his hand—“Ophelia para que te hiciera eso?”

What did I say to Lia to deserve a punch? Oh, yeah. “I just said her first name—she hates it,” I reply in Spanish.

Dad gives me a little smile that soon transforms into a grin, then he explodes in laughter.

“What?” I shout.

He holds out a hand, then puts his hands on his knees, still laughing.

“It isn’t funny,” I say in Spanish.

When his laughing fit subsides, he moves his jaw, as if it hurt from laughing. “Did you apologize, like a gentlemen?” he asks in his native language.

“No.” I point at my nose. “She needed to apologize to me, not the other way around,” I say in Spanish.

Dad sighs, puts a hand on my shoulder, and tells me that words can be more hurtful than a punch, adding, “Piensa, hijo. Piensa.” Think, son. Think.

I guess he’s right. “I’ll apologize to her next time I see her,” I say in Español.

“Okay.” He concentrates on the slip in his hands. “You’ll be busy Sunday through Wednesday,” he says in Spanish. He looks up and rubs his forehead. “You’ll have to catch up with work afterward.”

I give him a reassuring nod.

Dad pays me to help him deal with the bills, keep track of other expenses, and order groceries online. Which is better than working retail or asking for an allowance.

With that, I leave the office and head to my bedroom. Somehow, talking to him calmed me down. Still, this has been a shitty day, and it isn’t finished. I check the time on my phone—not even five PM. I enter my room, close the door behind me, and drop onto my bed with my hands under my head.

I replay today’s events in my head—punch in the nose, infirmary, principal’s office, sentenced to community service, hitting Cole, and the cherry on top: getting fired from Hamlet.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I peer at the cage on the floor. “What do you think of this mess, Pepe?”

He pokes out a paw through the cage’s bars, as if saying, “I can think better outside my prison, Master.”

I open the door, and he exits and looks up at me with his tiny black eyes.

“Better?” I ask.

I expect him to nod or say yes, but he’s just an armadillo. He scurries under my bed—one of his favorite hideaways. So I drop back onto the mattress and close my eyes, trying to sleep the rest of the day off.

A discussion makes me flip my eyes open to moonlight filtering through the window. I listen carefully—Vi and Dad. Since I can’t make out what they’re saying, I step to the door, open it, and poke my head out.

“Not fair!” Vi says, standing outside Dad’s office. She rushes to her room in front of mine, stops, and stares at me. “What?”

I throw my hands up in surrender. “Nothing.”

“I’m just a little late and Dad goes all…” She pauses and inspects my face. “Oh.”

I want to check my phone to see the time, but I know it’s late. She gets home past ten most days, as if she hates being in the house. Maybe she does. I point at my nose. “It’s no big deal.”

“Does it hurt?” she asks in a whisper.

“Only when I breathe.” I smile.

For a moment, Vi gives me a rare little smile of her own, then wrinkles her forehead. “Is it true what they say at school?”

I point my chin toward Dad’s office. “What happened with you and Dad?”

She opens her mouth for a moment and shakes her head.

“That bad, huh?” I say.

Vi enters my bedroom and walks to the window in the back. She looks over her shoulder. “Close the door.”

“How mysterious,” I say.

She frowns at me.

“Okay.” I shut the door closed and join her at the window.

We take in the view—dust and dust, and bushes that, I guess, used to be green years ago. During the day, everything’s brown, but now the moon bathes everything in silver.

“So.” I break the silence.

She faces me and locks her brown eyes with mine. “Dad doesn’t understand me.”

I stop myself from saying she doesn’t understand him and me, perhaps everybody.

Vi relaxes her expression. “He lectured me for getting home late.”

I want to ask her where she was, but that will only upset her more. “He worries about us.”

She scowls. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Vi.” I sigh. “You know you can trust me, right?”

She turns, walks to the bed, and sits on its edge. “I don’t know.”

I squat in front of her. “Where were you?” I tap her knee. “It’s okay if you don’t feel like telling me.”

Vi glances at the door and hugs herself. “Since Mom … since that, nobody wants to hang out with me.”

I sit next to her. “You want to talk about it?”

Vi rocks back and forth, back and forth. “I miss my friends.”

I gingerly wrap my arm around her shoulder and wait for her to shrug me off. “We all miss you, Vi.”

She swivels her head to face me and blinks. “I…” She clears her throat. “I hate being here—this town, people pitying me.”

“They mean well,” I say.

“No, they don’t.” She shrugs me off and storms out of the room.

I take a deep breath and stand. When I thought I had a breakthrough, she runs away. She needs to talk about it and vent everything out. I wonder if she blames herself for Mom’s departure—so complicated.

A few minutes later, my phone vibrates with a text.

Cole: Need to talk to you. Parking lot. 30 mins before first period.

His text is so unlike him, as if ordering me. I’m sure he’s still upset with me for punching him.

Me: Okay.

The following day, I get to school early, entering an almost empty parking lot. I spot Mr. Corey—Cole’s beat-up Corolla—up ahead and park next to it. I jump out and knock on his window.

He faces me and stares for a long moment, before getting out of his car. “You owe me, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

I look at the pavement for a second. “I know. Sorry for punching you.”

He swats a hand. “That’s already in the forgotten-memory archives.” He points at me. “I’m talking about Miss Monica Serrano.”

“Oh, that.”

Cole crosses his arms. “You’re trying to steal my girl.”

I avoid rolling my eyes. “I have zero interest in her.”

“Right.” He rolls his blue eyes. “You aren’t interested in hot girls with dangerous curves.”

I nod.

He uncrosses his arms and raises a brow. “Are you being honest with me?”

“Of course.”

He rubs his forehead. “Are you…? I mean, it’s okay if you are—I’ll understand.”

This time, I do roll my eyes. “You know I like girls.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand how a straight guy dislikes a girl as perfect as her.”

“Dislike is a strong word. Monica’s pretty, but it’s not all about looks, dude.”

He points at me. “See?”

“What?” I ask.

“Straight guys don’t say that.”

I flinch. “You have a twisted definition of a straight guy. Besides, I don’t want to date her or anything.”

“Oh, now you’re gonna say you like her as a friend.”

I sit on the hood of his car. “I don’t like her like a friend.” I’m not lying. Although I promised to hang out with her, I’m not feeling it.

He slides next to me. “You’re excrementing me, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

“I’m not, Mr. Cole Novotny.”

He concentrates on my face. “Do you swear you’re telling the truth and nothing but the truth?”

I chuckle. “Yup.”

He inches closer, his nose almost touching mine.

I slide to the side. “Personal space.”

Cole gestures to my face. “I believe you. But you have to tell me what happened between you and the owner of my heart.”

I sigh in relief. “Sure. Short story is: We talked to Mr. Butrow, he fired me from the play, and Monica invited me to the festival’s kickoff party.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

“I’m not going to that stupid party.” I give him a little nudge. “Relax.”

He presses a hand against his heart. “You scared me.” He bobs his head. “So, you got fired?”

I point at my nose. “This is the culprit.”

“Oh, that is indeed pretty shitty.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You know … you should go to the party with Miss Monica Serrano.”

“Huh?”

“As I said before, you owe me, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

I motion for him to elaborate.

“To fully pardon you for punching me, you’ll take her to the party, and deliver her to me.”

Deliver. As if she were a package or something. But I understand this is him being desperate to be with the girl of his wet dreams. My shoulders slump and I mutter, “Okay.”

Cole curls a hand around his ear. “What’d you say?”

I say a reluctant, “Okay.”

He points his ear at my mouth. “I’m a little deaf.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” I shout.

He pokes a finger in his ear. “I’m not that deaf.” He side-hugs me. “You’re awesome, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

“Whatever,” I say, still trying to digest what I agreed on.

He lets go. “What should I wear?”

Hell if I know. “It’s getting late.” I slide off his car’s hood and head toward the school’s entrance without looking back.

“I love you, man,” Cole shouts behind my back.