Joyride to Subway

Fred Part 2

        Walking into that classroom was often an interesting experience. Señor Sanchez, the teacher, thought it best to teach with what he named “alternative methods.” These often involved singing of spanish songs we had no business learning, doing different activities—which he mistakenly calls fun—and bringing in guest speakers. The last guest speaker was an interesting man. He went by Juan Martinez and could speak but the barest of english, and oftentimes that was so heavily accented that I was not able to understand much of what he said. What I did understand, however, was that he had been arrested twice for breaking and entering, and was involved in a hispanic gang that I had no intentions of meeting any other members of. I filed a complaint at the office because having a convicted felon come talk to a class was clearly student endangerment, but nothing ever came of my report and Sr. Sanchez still had his job.

As soon as I sat down, Sanchez was getting ready to lecture me on something I had supposedly done wrong on my flawless paper that I had handed in the day before. Luckily for me, Steve and Billy chose that moment to walk in. Sanchez despised me, but, for reasons I had yet to discover, he absolutely adored Steve even though I was by far the better student. After glancing at Steve and Billy, who were taking their seats next to me, Sanchez retreated to his desk to wait the remaining one minute and sixteen seconds before class started.

“Hello again Freddy-boy,” Steve said.

I completely ignored Steve, degrading nickname and all, and turned to Billy, “How has your day been thus far?”

Billy raised a shoulder in a shrug and said, “The usual. Get bored out of my mind in most of my classes. Gym was alright, but I’m not that big of a fan of dodgeball.”

I raised a brow. “Really? You fooled me. You had the opposing team trembling with fear.”

Steve whistled in appreciation. He patted Billy on the back and said, “You, my friend, are one badass asian.”

Billy looked at Steve out of the corner of his eyes. “If you compare me to Jackie Chan—”

Steve raised his hands innocently and cut him off. “Save your breath, tough guy. I learned my lesson the last time.”

I crossed my arms and laughed. “You? Learn? I don’t believe it.”

Steve grinned and said, “I’m full of surprises Fredward.”

Before I could comment on his horrid use of nicknames, the bell rang and Sr. Sanchez jumped into teaching. He lectured on spanish grammar that only about an eighth of the class was likely to comprehend. I tuned him out about halfway through his lecture because we had been talking about conjugation and whatnot for what felt like months. Of course, exactly two minutes and twenty seven seconds after I had stopped listening to him, Sr. Sanchez decided to ask me a question.

“Fred, what is the proper way to say ‘we swim?’ With the correct ending?” Sanchez, knowing I hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention, was already gloating at what he assumed would be my failure.

“Nosotros nadamos,” I said without missing a beat, crushing his dreams of beating me intellectually. At least for that class period.

Sanchez didn’t even have the decency to look pleased at my success. If anything, he looked like he had just swallowed a lemon. “Very good, Fred,” he muttered before returning to his lecture.

“He thought he had you there,” Steve whispered with a grin.

With a smirk in reply, I said, “He’ll never beat me. Not without making it obvious to everyone else that he’s trying to, anyways.”

Steve nodded. “True that mi amigo,” he said before turning back to Sr. Sanchez and pretending to pay attention. I followed suit, wishing that I had the ability to fall asleep with my eyes open. It would certainly come in handy during school.