Benjamin O'Brien was that guy. Yeah, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The one all girls crushed on like he was some kind of walking aphrodisiac. He was a junior at Westbridge, but even senior students treated him like royalty. Probably would've carried him around on their shoulders if he asked.
And me? I was the direct fucking opposite. Known by maybe seven freshmen, and the few who actually knew my name knew me as "that overdressed Spanish nerd who thinks he's in a music video." Qué desastre.
But here's the thing—if there was any chance of taking Westbridge by storm, of redeming myself from yesterday's fashion catastrophe, that meant taking Benjamin O'Brien down. A kingdom can only have one king, ¿entiendes? And this cabrón had been sitting on the throne way too long.
So naturally, like any good strategist planning a coup, this pendejo spent hours studying the life of the Renowned Ben. And let me tell you something—there was absolutely nothing special about him. Average height, basic haircut, probably shopped at the same boring stores as every other gringo on campus. Save for one thing.
He had a girlfriend named Rebecca Ashford. A sophomore. Now you're probably asking yourself, "Who the hell is Rebecca Ashford?"
Cristo, everyone knows Becky Ash. I know that name sounds familiar, and there's a reason for that. Becky was that famous teenage singer dominating the charts all over America. You know, the one with the platinum albums and millions of Instagram followers and tour dates that sell out in thirty seconds? Yeah, that Becky Ash.
And Benjamin fucking O'Brien was her boyfriend. That's it. That's the whole secret to his popularity. He wasn't some incredible athlete or genius or charismatic leader. He was just the guy banging America's sweetheart, and that made him campus royalty by association.
Hijo de puta. All this time I thought there was something magical about him, some special quality I was missing. Turns out he just won the girlfriend lottery.
But here's where it gets interesting, hermano. I needed to be seen. I needed to matter. And now I knew exactly what to do and who to use to make that happen.
All the students in my class were practically vibrating with excitement because the Renowned Ben was going to speak to us the next day. Some bullshit motivational thing about "campus leadership" or whatever. They were acting like Jesus Christ himself was coming to give a TED talk. But I had another plan, cabrón. A plan that would either make me a legend or get me expelled. Probably both.
In my class I was visible—just don't fucking ask me how those idiots finally saw me. All you need to know is that I was seen, probably glowing like some radioactive Spanish cockroach under their fluorescent lights.
Tariq was the most talkative one, always running his mouth about something. Today it was his theory about how the cafeteria meatloaf was actually made from recycled gym mats. The Korean girl at the back—let's call her Mystery Girl because asking her actual name would require, you know, actual social skills—was always silent. Which was getting my attention more than it should have. "Does she even speak English?" I thought to myself. "Or is she just too smart to waste words on these pendejos?"
I'd been building up the courage to go speak to her for like three hours now. Had my whole approach planned out: casual lean against her desk, maybe a witty comment about the teacher's obvious toupée, smooth transition into asking about homework. Foolproof, ¿verdad?
That's when Isabel suddenly materialized at my chair like some kind of beautiful, manipulative ghost.
Tariq was sitting next to me, probably taking mental notes for his next gossip session. Don't ask me about Jeff—Jeff was just some sophomore and since you've been following I hope you know that I was a freshman.
"Oye, Hugo. ¿Cómo estás?" Isabel greeted me with that smile that could probably end wars or start them.
The mere fact that she was using fucking Spanish meant something serious was going down. Isabel only switched to Spanish for three reasons: she was about to ask a favor, she was in trouble, or someone was about to die. Since no ambulances were screaming outside, I figured it was option number one.
"Now that I'm looking good... you come to me," my traitorous thoughts whispered. Cristo, I hate my fucking thoughts. They're like that annoying friend who points out your acne right before you talk to your crush.
"¡Oye, estás hablando español y estamos en público! We need a double standard," I said, trying to play it cool while my heart was doing some kind of flamenco dance in my chest. Part of me wanted to make it difficult for her, but another part—the stupid, hopeful part—was just happy she was talking to me at all.
"¿Qué te trae por aquí, Bel?" I asked, leaning back in my chair like I was some kind of cool guy instead of a nervous Spanish disaster in designer clothes.
She launched into rapid-fire Spanish, gesturing toward the front of the class. For those of you who don't speak the language of passion and passive aggression, she was asking me about some other smart boy sitting up front. Some kid with perfect hair and probably perfect grades and definitely a perfect chance with Isabel García Hernández.
That's when it hit me like a fucking brick wrapped in a reality check—I wasn't anything special to her. Just another guy she could use for information, like a walking, talking Wikipedia with better fashion sense and worse social skills. My fucking dreams of being her knight in shining armor? More like her unpaid research assistant in overpriced jeans.
"Yeah," I said, my voice probably sounding like I'd been inhaling helium, "that boy's gay."
Don't judge me, cabrón. Sometimes when your ego is getting curb-stomped by reality, you say whatever comes to mind. Was it true? Probably not. Was it petty? Absolutely. Did it make me feel better about being friendzoned in two languages? Not even a little bit. But hey, at least I was visible now. Even if it was for all the wrong reasons.