ood morning Isabel,” I said to the short and oddly proportioned, brace faced freshman passing by. She was shocked that a senior was actually talking to a freshman.

“Hi,” she said back timidly and scurried off to the locker bay.

I then turned to Barba and said, with a gay face, “Every vote counts.”

“Jiiiiiiiiim,” she said as she smacked me on the shoulder. Barba, which is Spanish for “beard,” was exactly that, my beard. She was the closest thing I ever had to a high school sweetheart. We were like a couple minus the intimacy. “You’re terrible,” she said as she wrapped her arm around mine.

It was Homecoming week and I was nominated for King. As much as I played it off, this was a big deal. The Marti’s were notorious for winning the crown. I remember going to the Homecoming game when I was just a little boy, standing on the sidelines watching as my Sister Twin waved to the crowd from the back of a red convertible. Atop her head sat a sparkling crown. I wanted that crown. I wanted to be in that convertible. I wanted to wave to the adoring crowd. [click to continue…]

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