"Hay algo en ti que no logro descifrar," Isabel said after a long pause, studying me like I was some kind of a freaking puzzle she couldn't solve.
Great. I was officially a mystery. Not the cool, James Bond kind of mystery—more like the "why does this dude wear designer shirts to English class" kind of mystery.
"I knew you were a nerd," she continued with that smile that could make me forget my own name. "Sí, la primera vez que te vi, lo supe."
Ah, there it was. The N-word. Nerd. Coming from the girl I'd been fantasizing about for weeks, it hit different. Yes, I loved walking her back home—it was literally the highlight of my pathetic American existence—but this felt like a backhanded compliment wrapped in a Spanish accent. But cabrón, it was the sweet kind of pain I'd grown to love, like pressing on a bruise just to feel something.
"I've never been a nerd, Bel," I defended myself, probably sounding exactly like what a nerd would say. "Maybe it's just... culture collisions, you know? Different countries, different vibes."
That pendejo Jeff had left me stranded at school on purpose—probably his revenge for me calling his favorite Marvel movie "formulaic garbage"—but luckily Mr. García had delayed his pickup too. So here I was, walking home with Isabel García Hernández like some kind of romantic comedy, except I was the comic relief instead of the leading man.
"¡El Renowned Ben is going to speak to us tomorrow!" Isabel suddenly burst out, her eyes lighting up like Christmas morning. "¿Estás tan emocionado como yo? ¡Todas las chicas lo estamos!"
And there it was—Benjamin fucking O'Brien again. The more she gushed about this guy, the more my brain started spinning like a broken washing machine. Who the hell was this dude that had every girl at Westbridge ready to throw their panties at him? What made him so fucking special that even Isabel—smart, independent, could-probably-run-for-president Isabel—was acting like a groupie? I guess you also don't figure it out, do you?
"Sure," I muttered, "but I think he pulls more girls than boys."
But then my stupid, self-sabotaging brain—call it whatever you want, cerebro idiota, brain cells on vacation, whatever—convinced me that this was the perfect moment. The golden opportunity to ask the question that had been eating me alive since day one.
We were almost at her casa. The sun was doing that thing where it makes everything look like a movie scene, and Isabel's hair was catching the light just right. This was it. My moment of truth.
"Bel," I called out, my voice cracking like I was going through puberty all over again.
She turned to me, and Cristo Santo, that face. Those eyes that could probably convince the Pope to convert to Buddhism. That slight smile that made my knees feel like they were made of jello. This was the face that made me want to conquer Westbridge University, the reason I was willing to embarrass myself daily just for a chance.
"Would you... would you date a dude like me? By any chance?"
The words tumbled out in Spanish, probably because my English had abandoned me along with my dignity and common sense. She didn't laugh. Thank God for small miracles. Maybe she wanted to respect what was left of my pride, or maybe she was just too shocked that someone like me had the audacity to ask. She looked straight into my eyes—and I mean really looked, like she wanted to tell me something but didn't know how. "Hugo, you idiot" my thoughts attacked me.
"Date you?" she said softly. "Tell me, Hugo... what do you think?"
And right there, in her eyes, I saw my answer. Clear as fucking day. It wasn't cruel, it wasn't mocking. It was just... honest. The kind of honesty that hits you like a cold shower when you're dreaming of summer vacation.
And you're still waiting for me to tell you the answer!! Get a life.
So when I finally dragged my emotionally destroyed ass home, truth was, I had to step up my fucking game. Big time. I didn't call Francisco like I usually do when my life implodes—nah, this time I knew exactly what needed to happen.
And when Jeff knocked on my door asking about Isabel, I was already ten steps ahead, calculating like some kind of romantic chess master. Sorry, I didn't mention that this absolute pendejo still thinks I was pulling strings for him, like I was his personal wingman just passing him the ball. The delusion is real, hermanos.
Oh, and I think I'm shit at storytelling because I never told you guys that Jeff is fat. Well not fat fat, more like... thick? Chunky? He's got that "I eat my feelings with a side of ranch" vibe going on. But whatever, that doesn't matter right now.
What matters is that I was ready for tomorrow. I had a plan, and if I could just execute this shit without completely fucking it up, I was about to become that guy. The guy everyone talks about. The guy who doesn't get friendzoned in two languages. Believe you me, cabrón. Tomorrow was going to be my goddamn glow-up moment.
Okay, let's just say... if tomorrow goes how I think it will, even Becky Ash will know my fucking name.