Perfect Chemistry
: Chapter 4

I knew I’d be called into the new principal’s office at some point during the year, but I didn’t expect it to be on the first day of school. I heard Dr. Aguirre was hired because of his hard-ass personality at some high school in Milwaukee. Someone must have pegged me as a ringleader, ’cause it’s my ass sitting here instead of another Latino Blood’s.

So here I am, pulled out of gym so Aguirre can puff up his chest and ramble on about tougher school rules. I detect him feeling me out, wondering how I’ll react, as he threatens me, “. . . and this year I’ve hired two full-time armed security guards, Alejandro.”

His eyes focus on me, trying to intimidate. Yeah, right. I can tell right off that while Aguirre might be Latino, he knows nothing about how our streets work. The next thing I know he’ll be talking about how he grew up poor, just like me. He’s probably never even driven through my side of town. Maybe I should offer to give him a tour.

He stands in front of me. “I promised the superintendent as well as the school board I’d personally be responsible for rooting out the violence that has plagued this school for years. I won’t hesitate to suspend anyone who ignores school rules.”

I haven’t done anything besides have a little fun with the pom-pom diva and already this guy is talking suspension. Maybe he heard about my suspension last year. That little incident got me kicked out for three days. It wasn’t my fault . . . entirely. Paco had this crazy theory about cold water affecting white guys’ dicks differently than Latinos’. I was arguing with him in the boiler room after he’d shut down the hot water heaters when we were caught.

I had nothing to do with it but got blamed all the same. Paco attempted to tell the truth, but our old principal wouldn’t listen. Maybe if I fought more he would have listened. But what’s the use in fighting for a lost cause?

It’s clear Brittany Ellis is responsible for me being in here today. You think her jerk of a boyfriend’ll ever get called into Aguirre’s office? No way. The dude is an idolized football player. He can ditch class and start fights and Aguirre will probably still kiss his ass. Colin Adams is always pushing me, knowing he can get away with it. Every time I’ve been about to retaliate, he’s found a way to escape or rush to where teachers were in abundance . . . teachers who were just waiting for me to fuck up.

One of these days. . . .

I look up at Aguirre. “I’m not startin’ any fights.” I might finish one, though.

“That’s good,” Aguirre says. “But I heard about you harassing a female student in the parking lot today.”

Almost getting run over by Brittany Ellis’s shiny new Beemer is my fault? For the past three years I’ve managed to avoid the rich bitch. I heard last year she got a C on her report card but a little call to the school from her parents got it changed to an A.

It would hurt her chances of getting into a good college.

Screw that shit. If I got a C, mi’amá would smack me upside the head and nag me to study twice as hard. I’ve worked my ass off to get good grades, even though I’ve gotten interrogated more often than not about my means of getting the answers. As if I’d cheat. It’s not about getting into college. It’s about proving I could get in . . . if my world was different.

The south siders might be seen as dumber than the north siders, but that’s bullshit. So we’re not as rich or obsessed with material possessions or getting into the most expensive and prestigious universities. We’re in survival mode most of the time, always having to watch our backs.

Probably the hardest part of Brittany Ellis’s life is deciding which restaurant to dine at each night. The girl uses her smokin’ bod to manipulate everyone who comes in contact with her.

“Care to share with me what happened in the parking lot? I’d like to hear your side,” Aguirre says.

Not happening. I learned long ago that my side doesn’t matter. “The thing this mornin’ . . . total misunderstandin’,” I tell him. Brittany Ellis’s misunderstanding that two vehicles can’t fit in one spot.

Aguirre stands and leans over his polished, spotless desk. “Let’s try not making misunderstandings a habit, okay, Alejandro?”

“Alex.”

“Huh?”

“I go by Alex,” I say. What he knows about me is in my school file, a file so biased it’s probably ten inches thick.

Aguirre gives me a nod. “All right, Alex. Get ready for sixth period. But I have eyes at this school, and I’m watching your every move. I don’t want to see you back in my office.” Just as I get up, he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Just so you know, my goal is for every student in this school to succeed. Every student, Alex. Including you, so whatever biases you have about me you can throw them out the window. ¿Me entiendes?”

“Si. Entiendo,” I say, wondering how much I can believe him. In the hallway, a sea of students are rushing to their next class. I have no clue where I’m supposed to be and I’m still in my gym clothes.

In the locker room after I change, a song plays on the loudspeaker indicating it’s now sixth period. I pull the schedule out of my back pocket. Chemistry with Mrs. Peterson. Great, another hard-ass to deal with.