The Stranger

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Ernesto Sandoval passed his aunt’s restaurant every morning on his way to Cesar Chavez High School, where he was beginning his junior year. Tía Hortencia’s homemade tamales were the toast of the barrio. Everybody knew that Hortencia made the best tamales in the world. Ernesto’s one and only friend at his new school, Abel Ruiz, said, “She must make a fortune in there. There’s always a crowd of people wanting to get in.”

Ernesto’s extended family had lived in this barrio for generations. But Ernesto, his parents, and his two sisters had been living in Los Angeles for ten years. They’d just moved back. Luis Sandoval, Ernesto’s father, taught history at a high school in Los Angeles. He was laid off because of budget cuts. When he got the offer to teach at Chavez, he jumped at the chance. Ernesto remembered many nights when his parents would be up late in Los Angeles. They’d be talking about finances and what to do if Luis couldn’t find another job. “My sister Hortencia joked with me,” Dad said one night. “She said if all else fails, I can work with her at the restaurant making tamales, preparing the masa to put the filling in.” Dad had laughed nervously at that prospect. He loved teaching. It was his life.

Ernesto also loved his high school in Los Angeles. He had friends there he’d known since first grade. He had a nice girlfriend, Gabriella. The relationship was not serious, but she was fun to hang out with. Ernesto had felt comfortable in the LA high school. He had not lived here since he was six years old.

There were a lot of cliques at Chavez High. Each clique seemed impenetrable to outsiders. A stranger like Ernesto was not welcome inside them. Ernesto had played some baseball in middle school, but he wasn’t a jock. The only sport he really liked was running. But, even so, he had been turned down when he tried to join the track team in LA.

“You used to live around here when you were a little kid, huh Ernie?” Abel asked as they walked together to school.

“Yeah,” Ernesto replied ruefully. “I was six when we moved. Dad was still in college. My mom worked in a haircutting store to pay the bills. Then Dad graduated and got this teaching job at a high school in Los Angeles. So we moved there. It was great. Dad loved his job, and Mom was able to quit working and stay home. My little sisters were born up there. Now Dad is trying to fit in teaching at Chavez. He’s a stranger too, like me.”

Ernesto was grateful that he didn’t have any classes that Dad taught. He figured having his father as the teacher would be awkward. Luis Sandoval was a tall, thin, dark-skinned man, very handsome and dignified looking. He was much darker than Mom. Mom told Ernesto once that her own grandmother had laughed and said Mom’s fiancé was Indio. “Indio” was a prejudiced word. Mom told Ernesto she didn’t care about that. She fell madly in love with Dad when they were only teenagers.

Ernesto worried that maybe his serious father would not fit in at Chavez High anymore than he, Ernesto, was fitting in. Luis Sandoval did not make jokes and banter with his students, as some of the other teachers did. Ernesto worried that the kids wouldn’t like him and that maybe he wouldn’t be asked back next year. The move from LA had been expensive. A lot of bills had piled up.

The boys passed a high fence covered with graffiti and some graphic art too. The art looked pretty good to Ernesto. The fence had a fire-breathing dragon and a fierce-looking eagle reaching out with its talons.

“Dudes who drop out of Chavez come around here at night and decorate the fences and the walls of buildings,” Abel explained. “We got a lotta kids dropping outta Chavez. It’s a big problem. Teachers always griping about it. Sometimes they’re just taggers, but lotta them join gangs too.” Abel shrugged. “What’re you gonna do?”

As they neared the school, Ernesto glanced at the stream of students. Maybe ten years ago he played with some of them, but he didn’t remember. What does a six-year-old kid remember? Most of the students were texting or talking on their phones. They were in a world of their own. They didn’t even seem to notice the people around them. Ernesto had a phone too, but whom was he going to text? Abel, his only friend, who was walking beside him?

Ernesto felt invisible as he drew closer to the school. The buildings looked cold and block-like—like blocks of ice. The only appealing feature was a mural out front bearing the kindly face of Cesar Chavez. In the mural, Chavez was standing in a field surrounded by weary-looking farm workers. Ernesto remembered reading a short biography of Chavez. He was a good man who spent his short life helping farm workers earn a living wage. He died, probably of exhaustion, when he was sixty-six.

Yesterday Ernesto noticed a really pretty girl in his English class. She was wearing a pink sweater and jeans that fit awfully good. Seeing her was the only good thing that happened in English class. Ernesto could hardly keep his eyes off her. She looked up from texting once before class began, and Ernesto tried to smile at her. But he was so nervous that his smile came off as a grimace, and the girl looked away. He didn’t blame her.

Now as Ernesto and Abel walked into English class and took their seats, Ernesto looked for her again. There she was, this time in a bright red T-shirt. Abel saw Ernesto staring at her, and he said, “That’s one hot chili pepper, eh man?”

“Yeah!” Ernesto agreed. “You know her?” For a minute, Ernesto thought she might be Abel’s girl. He sure didn’t want to tick off the only friend he had at Chavez.

“That’s Naomi Martinez,” Abel replied. “I know her to say ‘hi’ to her, but I don’t mess with her. She’s got a boyfriend, and he’s real possessive. She’s a cheerleader and he’s a jock. It’s the same old story, man.”

Ernesto decided he wouldn’t smile at her anymore.

“Her boyfriend plays for the Chavez Cougars,” Abel went on. “Pretty good linebacker and good-looking, but stupid. Hanging on to a C in most classes and worrying about losing his eligibility to play. Clay Aguirre. First-class creep.”

Ernesto thought back fondly to his school in Los Angeles and Gabriella. She was easy to be with. She and Ernesto had nothing heavy going, just holding hands sometimes and a few pecks on the lips. Ernesto wondered whether there was anybody like Gabriella around at Chavez High.

The English teacher, Ms. Hunt, came in. She was an Anglo, young and cool and sort of pretty. She made some lame jokes about how excited everybody must be about studying good old Shakespeare. Most of the students were Latino, but there were a few Asians, African Americans, and Filipinos, along with some Anglos. Ernesto could see that the kids liked Ms. Hunt. He hoped that the kids in American History I were liking his dad as much. He wouldn’t be making jokes, though. He’d be teaching very seriously about the explorers coming to the New World. Luis Sandoval was a serious man. He was kind and dedicated but not out to win a popularity contest.

Ernesto’s father graduated from California State at Northridge. He graduated magna c*m laude, and then he got his master’s degree. Ernesto was only seven when he watched Dad get his master’s. Luis Sandoval was the first in his family to graduate from college, and graduating with honors was awesome. Ernesto remembered the day, watching his father marching in the solemn procession of scholars. Ernesto’s grandparents, Abuela Lena and Abuelo Luis Senior, wept tears of joy as their boy’s name was called out. Ernesto remembered his grandmother turning to him, squeezing his arm, and whispering, “Mi hijo! Mi hijo! Su padre!”

Now, Ernesto was thinking, Luis Sandoval was standing before a class of teenagers here at Chavez High School. Maybe they didn’t like the serious, dignified man who didn’t crack jokes. Maybe word of their dissatisfaction would reach the administration office. Maybe the administration would think that this new teacher, who had lost his job in Los Angeles, was not very good. Maybe they would tell him that he should move on. The thought sent a shudder through Ernesto’s body, not only because the family was in a shaky financial situation and his Dad needed the job. More important, Ernesto loved his Dad, and the thought that his proud father would be so humiliated hurt him. Ernesto felt sorry for his father. He felt sorry for himself too.

“We’re starting with something fun,” Ms. Hunt chortled. “A lovely story of a bloody impending murder!”

Everybody laughed. Ms. Hunt asked, “What is the story of Macbeth about?”

Naomi Martinez raised her hand. When Ms. Hunt nodded toward her, she answered, “It’s about Lady Macbeth and how she pushes her husband to do violence.”

“Exactly,” Ms. Hunt said. “Let’s face it. Isn’t that just the sort of story we love? Look at what we watch on television. Stories about murders, detectives, plotting. If there’s not at least one dead body on the screen, we feel cheated. When those gory images appear, don’t we widen our eyes a little bit?”

Everyone laughed again. “How do we find out right away that horrible events are coming?” Ms. Hunt asked.

A handsome boy replied, “The witches are there cackling about fair is foul and saying stuff about the fog and filthy air.”

Abel nudged Ernesto and whispered, “Clay Aguirre.”

Ernesto looked more closely at the boy. He had thick, blue-black hair and perfect features. He was built too. Ernesto figured Clay was way better-looking than he was. Mom told Ernesto all the time how handsome he was, but Ernesto figured that was bull. He was too skinny for one thing, only about a hundred and fifty pounds on a frame reaching over six feet now. Aguirre looked like he was about one-eighty at least.

“Right, Clay,” Ms. Hunt responded. “That is a portent of things to come.” She smiled at Clay. She probably liked him. She was thirty-something, young enough to notice a good-looking guy, but much too professional to go over that firm line between teacher and student.

Clay enjoyed the teacher’s approval. He glanced over at Naomi, expecting that she had noticed his moment in the sun. But Naomi’s smile was only an afterthought, and Clay looked annoyed. Clearly he expected her to focus on him every minute.

“What a jerk,” Ernesto thought to himself.

“Ernesto,” Ms. Hunt said, “would you read the first quote of scene two and tell us what it means to you?”

Ernesto looked down at his open book. He hated speaking out in class. “Uh, it says—uh, he says,” Ernesto began.

“Who says, Ernesto?” Ms. Hunt asked. Her tone was sympathetic. She seemed like a nice lady, but she probably thought Ernesto was stupid. He wasn’t. He made excellent grades in his high school in Los Angeles. He even aced the hard science and math classes.

“Uh, the king, Duncan,” Ernesto replied. His voice cracked a little. A few students seemed about to laugh, but Ms. Hunt discouraged them with a stern look. She was good—cool but able to control a class.

“King Duncan,” Ernesto continued, “he asks ‘what bloody man is that?’And they’re talking about a revolt.”

“Right,” Ms. Hunt affirmed, smiling at Ernesto. She seemed glad he’d pulled it off.

“She probably thinks I’m some pathetic loser,” Ernesto thought. “And she wants to encourage me.”

The class continued, and Ernesto had to admit Ms. Hunt made it interesting. She was a better teacher than his English teacher in LA. Ernesto liked Ms. Hunt. He figured he would do okay in her class. When the bell rang, everybody left the classroom in an orderly fashion. Ernesto had been in a few classrooms where the ringing of the bell launched a stampede for the door. As Naomi Martinez was walking out, some papers fluttered from her binder to the floor. Since her papers landed at Ernesto’s feet, he stooped to pick them up and handed them to her.

“Thanks,” Naomi said with a bright smile. She wore cherry-red lipstick that stood out gloriously against her lovely mocha skin.

Clay Aguirre was right there, giving Ernesto a look that sent a chill through him. “Who’re you, punk?” he demanded.

“Clay,” Naomi said softly, “he just picked up my papers. They slipped from my binder and—”

“Just so you know, punk,” Clay went on, stabbing a finger into Ernesto’s chest, “she’s taken. Okay?”

Ernesto stared at the guy. He was handsome, but right now his features were hard and ugly. Ernesto was amazed that a beautiful girl like Naomi found him appealing.

Clay put his arm around Naomi’s shoulders. Then they walked out of the classroom together and into the flow of students. When they were out of earshot, Abel said, “You see what I mean, man?”

Ernesto nodded. “What’s she need somebody like that for?” he mused.

“Chicks,” Abel asserted. “Go figure. They go for the bad boys every time.”

Ernesto looked at Abel. He was a tall, skinny kid too, like Ernesto. He had the added problem of a bad complexion. Ernie thought he had problems getting girls too, but maybe even worse. That common problem was why they bonded that first day. Maybe, Ernesto thought gloomily, they were two losers who found each other.

Ernesto’s father had told him often that, as a young man, he too was dateless most of the time. He remained that way until his senior year in high school. He was on the dean’s list, and he was a favorite of all the teachers. But his social life was dismal. Luis Sandoval was tall and skinny, like Ernesto. He also wore glasses. He was serious and quiet, and the girls acted as though he was a piece of the school furniture.

Then there was a talent show. Luis entered it because he had spotted a beautiful girl named Maria Vasquez. She had cascading reddish brown hair and a sweet personality. Luis didn’t think he had a chance with such a girl, but he needed to be close to her, to try at least to gain her attention.

At the audition, Luis Sandoval sang a song from Oklahoma, and Maria Vasquez sang a song from The Sound of Music. They were both so good that they were paired in a duet that brought down the house. For the first time in the history of the school, two students won the talent show: Luis and Maria. They began dating and fell in love quickly. Ernesto’s father always said he fell in love first, but his mother insisted she loved Luis before he loved her. They were married seventeen years ago, when they were both barely twenty. Even all these years later, Ernesto thought his mother was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

“Don’t worry Ernesto,” Dad said consolingly, “there is a special girl for you too. Some boys have a lot of girlfriends, but they don’t mean anything. They are shallow. It’s all about having fun, and the heart is not involved. Your mother and I, we knew we were right for each other. When the time comes, you will know too.”

Ernesto texted Gabriella.

“How RU? I don’t like it here. MUSM.”

Gabriella texted back. “Hang in there. MU2.”

Ernesto figured Gabriella was doing a lot better than he was. She still had all her friends. Gabriella was cute. She probably had another boyfriend already. Some other dude had taken Ernesto’s place. But Ernesto was a stranger in town. Except for Abel, he didn’t know anybody.

Ernesto spotted his father walking across the campus of Cesar Chavez High. His shoulders seemed to be slumping. Maybe his students had given him a hard time. Ernesto started worrying again. Poor Dad! Maybe Chavez High was as unwelcoming to Dad as it was to Ernesto. Maybe they were both treading water.

Ernesto’s parents wanted four children when they were first married, two boys and two girls. They had a boy right away. Then, for eight years, no more came. Mom badly wanted another child. She had grown up an only child, and she had been lonely. Mom prayed and lit candles in church. Mom’s parents said having just one child was maybe just as well. They didn’t think much of Dad’s prospects as a provider. Teachers were not well paid. But Abuela Lena Sandoval understood. Ernesto’s father’s mother prayed, said rosaries, and made novenas. She was sure her prayers would be answered. “There will be more niños,” she foretold.

Then, when Ernesto was eight years old, Katalina arrived, a beautiful baby girl. Ernesto remembered the great joy in the Sandoval household. He remembered the explosion of pink balloons, pink blankets, even a pink teddy bear. Katalina was now a bright, bubbly eight-year-old. Then, two years later, came Juanita, who was more quiet and lovely. She was now six. Ernesto’s father worried about providing for his wife and three children. He didn’t want Ernesto’s mother to work. She also wanted to stay home with her children, to greet them when they came home from school.

But Luis Sandoval worried. And sometimes Mom gently suggested that, now that the girls were now in school, she should work part-time. But Dad always smiled and said, “Maybe, if it comes to that, but not yet . . . not yet . . .”

Ernesto hoped Mom would not have to work. Not that Mom’s working would be such a terrible thing, but Dad’s pride would be hurt.

As Ernesto walked to his next class, he looked at the stream of students around him. They all looked like strange aliens from a very distant planet. They looked weird even though they dressed just like Ernesto did, in T-shirts and jeans. And they looked mean. He knew that they couldn’t all be mean, but that’s how they looked to him. Some of them were laughing. Ernesto felt as though they were laughing at him, but, of course, they weren’t.

Ernesto did not feel like he belonged at Chavez High. He looked around desperately for Abel Ruiz. He needed to find Abel. Abel was like a lifeline reaching out to him. Ernesto felt as though he was drowning in an angry, dark, swirling sea. As long as Abel was near, he could cling to his hand. He’d be okay.

Ernesto wondered whether his father felt as he did right now—like a stranger in a strange land where the people didn’t like him very much. He wondered if his father was afraid too.