Model Ricans

Rican Hallway to the Future

1989

Marga and I are walking down the Rican Hallway of our future high school for the first summer school session. In my mind I feel like this already happened, I'm not sure, I blink-blink-blink and I can see now why the hallway got its nickname. Tiny flags with a white star inside a blue triangle overlapping red and white stripes hang on the insides of open lockers.

I feel like a poser. Two boys clock me and Marga as we walk past them. I can feel their eyes all over my body. It's like a physical attack even though there is no contact. "Oye, mami, ven pa'ca," says the one with the thick lips.

"Ooeii," I respond and look at Marga for help. Something inside her big blue eyes triggers a voice in my mind that sounds like a radio broadcaster explaining to no one in particular: "Pronounced ooh-eeee, this is the way Puerto Ricans express 'ew' or 'gross' or 'that food tastes nasty.' This broadcast was brought to you by Super Gringa, LIVE-and-direct from the FUTURE! Back to you, Marga!"

What the heck was that?
Am I hallucinating?
Marga snaps me back to reality when she yells at the boy, "Pa'l carajo," which means "go to hell." This much I understand because this is what my abuela used to say to everyone who spoke English to her. Hm. Maybe I should say "pa'l carajo" to anyone who expects me to speak Spanish.

Marga pulls my elbow. When we're a few further doors down, she lets go and says, "I don't know why you wear those short shorts. It's like you want them to look at you."

"No, I don'T," I insist, slapping my flip flops on the green cement floor and emphasizing the "T" at the end of the word DON'T. "It's 100 degrees today. It's always 100 degrees in Orlando, I hate it. I hate FlAHHrida."

Marga rolls her eyes. "You know the Band Ma'am cranks the A/C in the classroom to negative icebox, so you're gonna freeze...tonta."

My tongue clicks the top of my mouth. I'm anything but stupid, and Marga knows it.
I mean, c'mon, we choose to go to summer school, although I guess it's only for learning the halftime show for the football games in the Fall, it's not like it's academic or anything, but in The Parents' minds, me and Marga are better than the other kids at summer school who are taking remedial math and English. "They're gonna end up pumping gas and having too many babies," says Dad.

No pressure. I don't feel any pressure.

And then I feel a light touch on my shoulder just before walking into the band room. It's Sky Bowman, standing confidently in front of me. His green eyes and platinum blond hair make him look exotic. These are not the features of anyone in my household. We are all brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. Dad said he grew up in a brownstone, so I sometimes wonder if that's the reason why.

Sky does not lick his thin lips like the Puerto Rican Boy did. He looks at my mouth while saying, "Lemme get your number."

My belly flutters so hard, I wonder if I will fly away to China. Marga taps her toe impatiently waiting for me at the entrance of the band room door. Under her judgmental gaze, she makes me say what Big Sister would say. "Ooieee, no, go away." 

I'm not very convincing so Marga grabs my elbow and pulls me away from Sky Bowman and into band class. I love the attention from boys, but Marga already told me it's better to be invisible. She's right. I think she's right. Only popular girls want attention from boys. Me and Marga are supposed to be different. We are supposed to be happy being nerds in band.

We grab our saxophones, and sit at our assigned chairs.

Goose bumps all over my legs. It is cold in here. I look out the window while everyone plays Vehicle by Ides of March, some band from the 1960s.