The daily life of a side character.

"And so, it all begins for me," I said, gazing at the path I still had to cross to reach the institute. My nervousness made my palms sweat and heightened my discomfort. Steeling myself, I took the first step to cross the street and kick off what would be the first day of the three years leading me toward... *colle...*!

In a split second, I felt someone yank my arm, giving me a tremendous scare—because, damn it!—a car came speeding past right where I was walking, blaring its horn in a warning that would have come too late had someone not pulled me out of the way. *Well, look at that: my first day almost became my last.* I looked back to see my savior, who—by some twist of fate—turned out to be my grandfather.

"Girl, one of these days you’re going to scare us to death! Did you not see that damn car? Listen to it—it sounds like it runs on tin cans instead of gasoline! Instead of taking you to the eye doctor, I should have taken you to an ENT specialist to see if they could fix that deafness of yours. Damn you, you pale little milk-stinking pest!" he scolded me, without making *a single* pause. He just went on and on, while my future classmates walked past us, struggling not to laugh—or at least, those with a shred of decency did. Because about five of them were laughing as if they were at the circus watching the clowns; after all, how *amusing* other people's misfortune can be!

And that wasn't even the worst part. No, the worst part was that I was arriving three months late to the school year; while everyone else already knew one another, I was practically "the new girl"—the one nobody knew. *Just my luck!* And, to top it all off, my grandfather was walking me to school, under the excuse that he had to make sure I didn't get run over. Given the sheer mortification of the situation, getting run over actually seemed like the *best* option. Everyone was staring right at me. *Oh, the shame!* *Earth, swallow me whole and spit me back out somewhere no one can ever find me!* But it wasn't *that* bad; I was already standing right in front of the school, with a teacher waiting for me. She was an older woman with blonde hair—which, well, no offense to the lady, but that dye had definitely seen better days. But then again, who was *I* to criticize a bad hair dye job?

"You're Libya Ramírez, aren't you?" I nodded quickly in response. She smiled, flashing all her teeth—or, rather, the ones she had left. It was the first time in my life I’d ever seen a teacher missing a tooth. "Oh, how wonderful! You look exactly like your mother did when she was your age. I was just thinking to myself: 'What is Rosario doing here, in a school uniform and twenty years younger?'" I laughed awkwardly at the sudden mention of my mother; what a coincidence that her mother's teacher turned out to be *my* teacher, too! Wait... How old is this woman?

"Speaking of her, I heard she left the country... she went to China, didn't she?" Before I could answer, my grandfather—who still hadn't left, as if he were afraid I’d get run over right inside the school—interjected: "To Chile. Rosa is in Chile, with Jacob... her husband."

"Don't tell me your girl went off and married a Chilean!" She shifted into a more comfortable stance. "No, he's a young man she married right here in town." "Don't tell me you didn't hear about it!" —They continued chatting for a few minutes, during which time I focused on ignoring every word they said. It wasn't that I didn't care... well, actually, I *really* didn't care. She’s my mother; I know more about her than she knows about herself, even though she left five years ago. Before my grandfather could get *too* comfortable—even more comfortable than he already was—I finally interrupted the conversation. "Sorry to interrupt, but we’re running late, and I really don't want to miss my first class of the day." My words seemed to make them both realize that time was still a crucial factor in the equation that made up this situation. And so, we finally got moving. For the love of God! My face was starting to hurt from all the smiling; and no, I’m not being a hypocrite—I’m just being polite. "Oh, that’s right! Forgive me, sweetie; it’s just that I haven't seen your grandfather in years. Come on, I have to show you where your class is. Oh, and Pedro: tell María I say hello."

    "The message will be delivered; don't worry. And you: take care of yourself and pay attention. And I don't just mean to what people tell you." *Damn it!* Is she never going to let that go? Yes, I nearly got myself killed... so what?! I know it was stupid, but that’s a topic for home, not for public debate—and of course I’m not downplaying the situation; far from it. It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve nearly been run over—though, apparently, that old saying about "the third time’s the charm" is a lie, since this was already the fourth time. Anyway, best not to tempt fate.

"So, tell me: are you ready to start high school? I want you to know that you can trust me; I’ve been a friend of your family for years. In fact, I was the one who enrolled your mother in kindergarten, and now I’m going to be your English teacher. Isn’t that just fascinating?"

The woman—whose name, for the moment, I didn't know—kept talking, firing off questions faster than I could answer them. Even so, her chatter made me lose track of the way to my classroom; I was already praying I wouldn't get lost, since having to ask for directions later would have been mortifying.

And, finally, we arrived: at her class, 9-B. It was exactly what one would expect from a "Third World" classroom—though, admittedly, a *tiny* bit nicer. Sure enough, I was late; everyone was already seated. A young woman—the teacher, I gathered—looked up, spotted us, and approached with a broad smile. (Yes, she had all her teeth.) "Good morning! You must be the new student. Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Carmen, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher, as well as your Biology and Geography teacher." Her voice was truly sweet, and she seemed to have a gentle nature. I still hadn't managed to figure out my new classmates, as they had all remained in absolute silen...

"Hey! Aren't you that wreck who almost ended up splattered all over the middle of the street?" That damn loudmouth just *had* to open his trap. And now that I got a good look at him, it turned out he was one of those crab-faced guys who’d laughed at me a little while earlier. Oh, how I wished I had died and become a ghost at that very instant: I would have tugged at his feet to scare him while he slept, or tormented him for the rest of his life with the trauma of having witnessed a hit-and-run. *Calm down. It’s not worth it. It’s just an insignificant comment from this ragamuffin with a soursop for a face.* It’s nothing important. "Watch your language, Dylan! This isn't some vacant lot, and it certainly isn't the way to welcome your new classmate. What is she going to think of us as a class if this is the first thing she sees and hears?" scolded Mrs. Carmen, before adopting a more authoritative stance with her hands on her hips. "Well, and what *is* she going to think? Honestly, nobody here is exactly a saint, so who are we to put on airs like purists?" The very embodiment of the *raison d'être* of plastic surgery had the audacity to talk back to the teacher once again—and right in front of the *other* teacher, who had just fully revealed herself.

"Dylan Julian Pérez García de la Santísima Trinidad... did your grandmother teach you to be such a smart-aleck? Because that is *not*—not by a long shot—the Gladys I taught Ethics to back in '65! Do you want me to go tell her about that beggar's tongue of yours?" The English teacher finished speaking, and the class fell silent—though only because they were straining every muscle to keep from bursting into laughter. But wait—hold on a second... was she *really* her grandmother’s teacher? And does she truly *know* that boy’s grandmother? I cut short my train of thought when I saw that Mrs. Carmen was about to speak.

"Oh, my dear... Please forgive me for this. Disregarding your classmate’s comments, please introduce yourself to the class so they can get to know you better." Those words chilled me to the bone, for I still get terribly self-conscious when speaking in public. Pushing all that aside—along with the unjustified hatred I felt toward that boy I had just met—I stepped forward and said: "I’m Lidia Ramírez." And that was all the courage I could muster. And, once again, that creature—utterly devoid of any beauty whatsoever—struggled to stifle a laugh, acting as if he were actually in a position to pass judgment. *Look, maybe I’m not pretty, but I certainly don’t look *that* bad.* At that moment, my future English teacher approached me—once I had already stepped back—and said: "Oh, sweetie, don’t you worry; everything is going to be just fine. Pay no mind to these people; you’re an absolute angel. If it’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Carmen, why don’t you let her sit next to that boy over there who doesn’t have a partner?" Since Mrs. Carmen had given her consent, I walked over and took the seat assigned to me, wishing the whole time that people would stop staring at me—as if, somehow I wished I could conjure a magic spell to make them look away. Truth be told, my teacher’s words made me feel terribly embarrassed. She formally bade farewell to her colleague, who then took her leave. Carmen—who, judging by the notes on the blackboard, had been teaching a biology class—returned to the center of the room. "I hope you manage to get along with your new classmates; you’ll be together until you graduate from high school. And now, having nothing further to add—and given that there are only fifteen minutes left in the period, and knowing full well that none of you are going to focus on the lesson anymore—I simply ask that you remain quiet and orderly until the bell rings." Those words were music to everyone’s ears—everyone’s, that is, except mine; for I was running further behind in the curriculum than a Latina teenager usually runs behind with her period. But before anyone could erupt in cheers of joy, the teacher addressed the class once more—or, rather, she addressed one particular instigator. "However, just to ensure that everyone remains calm... Dylan—since I know you’re the ringleader here—I’m going to ask you to take a seat right here, in front of me." Immediately afterward, she sat down herself and pointed to a chair situated directly across from her.

"Whoa, whoa there, Teach! And why, exactly, do I have to do that?" "Just sit down." Faced with the woman’s stern tone, he did exactly as he was told. Once they were seated face-to-face, she began rummaging through her purse. "Given that you already have such thick, bushy eyebrows, I’m going to do you a favor and give them a little definition." She pulled a razor blade from her bag—a gesture that left me wondering what on earth the biology teacher was up to. She cupped her student’s face and, using a razor blade, began to shape his eyebrows. "Since I know you aren't capable of sitting still for even fifteen minutes, I’m going to spend the rest of the class grooming your brows. I want you to keep in mind at all times that there is a razor blade pressed against your face, so don't even *think* about moving. Bear in mind that I could easily slice a chunk right off your face—eyebrow, skin, and everything else," she said, continuing with the procedure while the young man remained so motionless that, by comparison, a statue would have looked like it had Parkinson’s. I couldn't believe my eyes; this wasn't even remotely normal. I glanced at my classmates, looking for some kind of context, but no one seemed surprised. In fact, I noticed that many of them sported eyebrows that looked excessively perfect compared to the rest of their appearance—suggesting that this wasn't the first time this method had been employed. But isn't that illegal? Threatening a student like that? I didn't think that was allowed... or was it? I’ll just try to stay on the good side of this apparently sweet-natured teacher.