Chapter 5 - Fiery Skipper
STILL STILL STILL AUGUST 27. Man, I wanna go home (to my van).

Tiny responsible portions of my brain have driven me to rectify something caused by my semi-unusual existence. I only ever say this to myself and only whenever groups of people have cast judgment over my head that later extends to strangers that have nothing to do with me. Here’s the thing. Not every person who dresses the way I do is comfortable being disliked. If I fight, spit, scratch, and hiss in the street, then it’s a me thing, not an "alternative lifestyle" thing. Chalking up my temperament to the tightness of my piercings really gets me encachimbada, which, for all of you experts inside Dora the Explorer academia, means I get mad and I get mad quickly.

“She wants her attention. I’ve seen her around. Just another goth.”

Four boys in a plain white classroom huddle around a desk that belongs to a teacher’s assistant. Argus sits where the chair would be, and on the desk’s surface rest three others. Two have almost identical faces, only their hair styled differently, and both are brown like me.

One other member sits on the front of the desk with his chest facing my way. A black guy with a chin that’s motionless, tilted upward and to the side, challenging me. He’s the one who made the comment. He’s the one I don’t blink at.

“Got business here?” One of los gemelos, the twins, speaks up. 

He’s a bit larger than his brother, sporting a military buzzcut with a bad fade, a faint eyeliner on both lower lids, and a white tank messily tucked into wrinkled black jeans. His aesthetic — if you could call it that — is caught somewhere between a cholo and an emo magician. When he blinks, I catch glimpses of tattoos on both his eyelids, but I can’t determine their design.

I don’t answer Buzzcut. Instead, I drop a dead gaze down to the ashy-brown haired boy in the wheelchair.

“I’m joining your club,” I say.

“Uh—" He squirms. “That’s a cool thing? Right?”

“Why are you joining?” says Angry Chin sitting by his side.

“I wanna.”

“You wanna?” He digs again. His voice is not as deep as Buzzcut’s, but it is lower than Argus’, which dances on a fake saccharine charm.

“Tigo, does it matter? She wants to be a member.” Twin number two interferes, voice kinder but not any less loud. Unlike his brother, twin two looks pretty normal. He has curly black hair that sits neatly at the top of his head. He wears dark blue shorts and a clean orange t-shirt with the words DARE on it. (I note Argus wears the same logo in red, but his shirt is faded old like mine.)

“You are a she, right?”

“Nice," says Buzzcut.

“I’m being serious, not mean.”

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “Do I gotta sign something?” I want to move this encounter along. I wouldn’t mind leaving until someone more competent joins the club. It’s like watching prairie dogs swing their heads right and left. 

Their silent looks communicate multiple things that I’m not privy to, but I don’t think they even know what they mean with their shifting eyes.

Idiotas.