Page 6 of When Ben Loved Tim
She looks wounded, but only momentarily. “Andyoudon’t get what it’s like to be me,” she says, placing a hand over her heart. “Not entirely. There are plenty of guys who refuse to date a black girl. Which sucks. Especially when it’s someone I actually like. But I’d rather know upfront who they are than experiencing that gut-punch of disappointment later. Wouldn’t you?”
I look back to where I last saw Tim. He’s holding open the passenger-side door of his car. Krista clutches her hands together as if charmed before climbing inside. All I can do is swallow against the lump in my throat.
“Sorry,” I say, turning to Allison. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Of course you understand.”
“Maybe I don’t,” she says, her tone sympathetic as she draws me in for a hug. “I get frustrated too. On your behalf, as corny as that sounds.”
“Same here,” I say, squeezing her before we let go. “Does this mean you’ll remain celibate until college so I don’t have to feel sorry for myself anymore?”
“I don’t love youthatmuch,” she teases. “C’mon. Let’s go hang out at my place until my dad gets home.”
“All right.” I decide to leave my self-pity behind. So some hot guy who is out of my league turned out to be straight. Big deal! Life goes on.
And yet, before getting into the car, I can’t help but sneak one final peek. My heart skips a beat when I do, because I swear he’s looking in my direction. I’m absolutely certain he is when Bryce nudges him, points at me, and says something I can’t hear. But I can guess. Tim stares a second longer before his new friends distract him again. I watch him get into his car as the others disperse, and despite all evidence to the contrary—even though it’s Krista sitting in the passenger seat instead of me—I still want him to be the guy that I’ve been waiting for.
Chapter Three
I’m pretty sure the universe hates me. The first week of school wasn’t great. Instead of having to search for Tim, it’s like he’s being dangled in front of me. I keep seeing him in the halls, Krista perpetually wrapped around one of his arms. Which I can’t even hate her for, since I would happily do the same. I refused to go walking at night over the weekend, certain I would see them jogging together or something equally insufferable. I hung out with Allison instead, which was nice, even though she keeps talking about Ronnie. Who admittedly, has indeed gotten much hotter. She made us go to the fast food restaurant where he works so I could see for myself. And he did look very presentable in his work uniform. I was crazy about his mischievous smile and milk chocolate skin back in freshman year, not that I stood a chance then or now. Ronnie clearly has a thing for Allison, so it’s only a matter of time. I’m happy for her. Even though I’ll soon be the third wheel on their bicycle of love.
My nerves were strained further when she called on Monday morning to tell me her car had broken down. Again. She’s been getting a ride with her dad ever since. I refuse to take the bus, or have my mom drop me off, so I’m back on my skates. I’m really getting the hang of them too. I still have to slam into a wall or some other solid object when needing to stop, but I hardly fall down at all anymore. Showing up to school windblown and kind of sweaty isn’t ideal. I miss singing with my best friend each morning. But hey, I’ve nearly convinced myself that life is good, even with a lonely heart. Although I do wish the universe would stop testing me.
I’m sitting in Spanish class when a complete stranger walks through the door.
“Hello class,” the man says, peering at us through the glasses on his nose. “I’m afraid your usual teacher, Señora umm…” He flips through papers on her desk before looking to us for help. Nobody says a thing, of course. “Anyway, she’s had a bit of a medical emergency, so I’ll be stepping in for the time being. My name is Señor Langdon.” He looks young, reminding me more of the student teachers who sit in on classes to learn the trade, rather than an experienced substitute. Either way, like sharks smelling blood in the water, the class begins to turn on him.
“Is she dead?” a girl asks. “Or dying?”
“Not at all,” Señor Langdon assures her. “I’m sure she’ll be back before you know it.”
“Unless she has prostate cancer,” a guy supplies helpfully.
Señor Langdon raises an eyebrow at this. “That would be an excellent starting point for a lecture on human anatomy, which is sorely needed, it would seem. Unfortunately for you, this is Spanish class. Now then, Señora uh…”
“Vega,” I say, deciding that I already like him.
“Thank you!” Señor Langdon says, perking up. “Señora Vega is quite organized in her lesson planning, so you should still be on track by the time she returns. So if you’ll please take out your books and turn to page thirty-eight, we’ll get started. Interpersonal relationships are the theme. Each of you will choose a partner and write a short dialog, four lines each.”
The class doesn’t go as it normally would. A substitute always increases the temptation to misbehave, so when pairs of students are called to the front of the class to perform, the conversations are much sillier than usual. Señor Langdon rolls with this rather than scolding anyone, and it’s actually kind of fun. When a snickering girl says that she’s going to marry a circus clown, Señor Langdon steps in to ask what skills her fiancé has and introduces new vocabulary, like the Spanish term for balloon animal. Which has us all laughing. The grin slides off my face when Darryl and another guy are called to the front of the class.
“I heard you are getting married soon,”his partner says in Spanish.
“Yes,”Darryl replies with an exaggerated lisp.“To a man. I am a—"Darryl shakes his head and reverts to English. And his normal voice. “Sorry, sir. What’s the Spanish term for homosexual?”
“Homosexual,” Señor Langdon says, pronouncing the word differently than I’m used to hearing it.
“Thank you,” Darryl replies cordially. Then, reverting to Spanish—and the lispy voice—he says,“I am a homosexual.”
People laugh around me. And look in my direction.
“Settle down,” Señor Langdon says warningly. He nods at Darryl and his partner. “Let’s hear the rest.”
“Will your parents be at the wedding?”his partner asks.
“No!”Darryl places the tips of his fingers to his mouth in a way that’s a caricature of femininity.“They don’t get along with my boyfriend.”
“Why is that?”his partner asks in Spanish.
“Because my father called him a—”Darryl scrunches up his face, as if deep in thought, before addressing the teacher again. “Excuse me, sir.” His eyes dart to mine and away again. “What’s the best translation for the word faggot?”
