Saturday's Storyteller: "His face was as broad and as cross as a closed envelope."

by Belinda Roddie

His face was as broad and as cross as a closed envelope, and when he let me into his office with his thin eyes averted to the floor, I knew immediately that something was wrong. I had actually, in my entire life, never been sent to the principal's office. I had never gone against the rules. Only now, this man was probably trying to find a way to get me in trouble.

"Miss Lopez?"

I sat across from my desk with one leg crossed over the other, a makeshift crucifix against a blank-faced demon. From his pasty white paper face to his dull gray suit, Principal Thurmond was anything but hospitable.

"Yes."

He wrinkled a nose at me. "Your world history teacher asked me to bring you here out of concern. She says you seem to be distracted as of late."

I shifted my shoulders a bit beneath my jean jacket, but I never uncrossed my legs. "Do tell."

He didn't seem pleased with my borderline snappy comment. "She says she caught you writing some, shall we say, non-world history related notes in your journal."

I exhaled. Of course. I should have known that after confiscating my little book the day before, my teacher would hand it off to some puddy-faced administrator with a year-long nasal problem.

"Some of the stuff appears to be short stories," my judge continued. "Innocuous enough at first. But the material in them..."

"I don't understand. Did I write something bad? Was my fiction violent? Controversial? Stephenie Meyer-quality?"

"Miss Lopez," Principal Thurmond intoned dramatically, his flat lips drawn into an even flatter line. "What I am trying to tell you is that your stories not only are a detraction from your learning, but they are also of a sexually inappropriate nature."

He leaned back in his overly cushioned chair as if expecting his words to roll, hard, into my chest. Like he was lobbing truth cannonballs, desperate to hit me, and hard, right in the emotional part of my psyche. A verbal assault trying to pose as more than a feeble attempt on the frontlines. And I found it entirely amusing.

"Ah." I smiled. "So controversial, then. Well."

The principal was not enthused. He proceeded to lecture me on all the things I had learned to ignore. That writing homoerotic stories in class was a distraction, even though no one had minded save for my stuck up teacher. That it was perturbing to him that I seemed so comfortable with the content. That if I were not careful, this news would be sent to my parents, and I would have to take it up with them. I sat rigidly through all of it, working very hard not to smirk any more than I already had.

Needless to say, Principal Lopez sent me away with a warning. He gave me back my journal, but strongly encouraged me to tear out the pages. I would do so. And then I would save them in a small wooden chest with cloud patterns on the sides, like I had done with every other story I had jotted about Miss Hillary Metzer.

***

"Natalia," my mother warbled as soon as I walked into the apartment, my backpack sluggishly hung across my crooked back. "You're late."

"Problem with the powers that be," I chuckled as I sat at the kitchen table. Across from me, my brother Javier was working on the Chronicle crossword puzzles. "Found out about my girl crush."

"Ay, dios mio," my mother sighed, shaking her head as she sliced open an avocado. "When will they learn what is and isn't their business? You didn't publicize your love life this time, did you?"

"No." I sighed. "But my teacher caught me writing in my journal during a particular boring day in class, and..."

"As opposed to every other day?" Javier interjected with a laugh.

I waved dismissively at his comment. "And she decided Principal Thurmond had to know about it."

"Ah." My mother seemed far from disturbed, sticking the blade of her kitchen knife into the avocado's pit and wiggling it furiously to get it out of the green goodness. "So, what? Does the girl know, or her parents, or...?"

"No." I shook my head enthusiastically. "Thurmond just decided to give me a warning. Even gave me back my journal and everything."

I sat down at the table and watched my mother prepare dinner. The way she worked with avocados, onions, and jalapeños was almost like magic. I know we'd be eating well tonight, and my father would be more than happy to come back home to the smell of fresh pork and chili powder.

"Natalia," I heard my mother warn me, though not in the same way as my principal had. "Ten cuidado, you silly thing. It's not even the teachers and the principal I'm worried about. But the girls, the stubborn little chicas..."

"Who prefer stubble and dangling junk," my brother added.

"Ay, cállate," grumbled my mother. "You and your vulgar language. All I am saying, hija, is that if any of those girls find out, they could be rougher on you than even the biggest haters."

I smiled. "It's good to know that my family, out of everyone else, is supportive," I commented, inhaling and already smelling the carnitas even before they had been cooked.

My mother smiled from the counter. "I try to be progressive in this community," she said, a small strand of black hair dancing on her sweaty forehead. "Now, either it's doing homework or helping me in the kitchen, you two. I didn't have two children just to see them goof around all day!"

***

After dinner, I swung by my friend Anthony's house for a "study session," which usually consisted of microwave pizza bites and a catch-up on Game of Thrones. Anthony lived with his uncle, Francisco, who was only seven years older than we were but had a good job and was always willing to offer us a cheap cerveza.

"What the landlord doesn't know hurts no one," Francisco said even as I declined a watered down Corona. "Stick to your nerdy TV show. I'll be the one living like an adult."

"Don't listen to him," Anthony chuckled as his uncle disappeared into the kitchen. "He's the one who likes watching The Voice whenever I'm at soccer practice."

"So, give it to me straight," I mumbled between bites of processed pepperoni, turning down the volume right as Arya Stark stumbled onscreen. "Anyone ask questions after I was sent out of class?"

"Nope," said my friend, ignorant as he was of my sexuality. "Well, one person. That Hillary chick?"

"Oh." I stopped chewing for a moment, forgetting how to work my jaw temporarily. "Did she say anything remotely interesting?"

"Only that she hoped you weren't in trouble." Anthony snickered and sucked some loose cheese off his cuticle, his fingers stained with red sauce. "White girls are funny. They act all shocked and awed when one of us gets in trouble. Next thing you know, they'll be wondering why we tend to be poorer than they are."

"I highly doubt Hillary Metzer lives in a three-story waterfront house with a yacht," I argued.

Anthony raised an eyebrow at me. "Defending her, eh? Guess it's nice to know someone cares about you in that school."

"Well, there's you."

"Please. I'm a stupid fifteen-year-old Mexican boy with no sense of, what was it, 'respect for authority?' That's the token line from Mister Saddlebags, isn't it? I wouldn't know how to care."

"Mister Saddleback's just old and petrified in his ways."

"Petrified. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were throwing in vocabulary to impress me."

"Don't flatter yourself." I finished off the last pizza bites and turned the volume back up on the TV. "Ready for the blood bath?"

"If they ever get to the Cerulean Wedding, I quit. I'm done."

***

I saw Hillary the next morning as I got off the bus at school, and she seemed to be standing alone for once. Usually, the girl was chatting with friends and just scattering when the bell rang, but today seemed different. She even waved at me as I walked by, my thin hair tucked under a cap and my olive skin chilled in the October morning air.

"Natalia?"

"Hey." I waved. "Where are your buddies?"

"Late." She sighed. "As usual. You okay?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, you okay even after Thurmond ribbed you?"

"Oh." I shrugged. "No detention, at least."

"Oh. That's good."

I thought the conversation would end there, and I sidled by Hillary thinking I could just hurry to my biology class without any more curtailed, awkward conversation. But she wasn't done yet.

"It wasn't about your journal, was it?"

I turned around to face her slowly. Hillary had always been beautiful, even before high school. She avoided most acne break-outs, and her red curly hair was somehow an eye-catcher for me. Not at all something my mother had expected me to be drawn to.

"What?"

She didn't let it down. "That book you write in. You didn't put down anything bad, did you?"

"You mean, did I threaten to burn down the school and string up all the teachers? No." I breathed an airy, distracted laugh. "But hey, anything that pulls away from Miss Gerry's oh-so-riveting lectures is a bad thing, I guess."

"I guess so, too," Hillary said. "Just...be careful, all right?"

Be careful. Ten cuidado.

"Yeah. Sure."

I'd have to keep my romance writing at home for now.

This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.