Falling Short: Chapters 1–13

I try to open my eyes, but my left one is being stubborn and refuses to obey.

Hates hearing how “cute” he is. Unless, of course, you are his dad, who refers to him as his own little “Juju-bean,” after the amazing Jujubes candy—on account of Marco being half-Jewish, half-Mexican.

Marco shortens the length on the telescoping handlebar and wheels it over to me.

“Marco doesn’t mind my hugs. Do you?”
Apparently, she’s still bitter after I told her I was too big for hugs now that I’m starting sixth grade.

“Sweetie, you practically live here. When are you going to stop asking?”

Suddenly, we hear a screech, which I assume is coming from Abuelita, who moved in with us after Abuelito passed away.

Apá says basketball is teaching me all about discipline and responsibility, while Amá argues it’s an added distraction.

Again, I peek over at Isaac’s window. No sign of him this time—just the glare coming from the massive MVP basketball trophy beside his bed.

I turn to the trophies in my room. Spelling bee champion, Principal’s Honor Roll, Top Reader, Times Table Titan, Principal’s Choice Award—all geek awards, nothing my dad can brag about.

My stomach tightens. Feels like someone just slugged me in the gut.

It gives me time to get through a pile of invoices for the restaurant.

Finally, he wheels over next to me, only to have his mom go all paparazzi with her cell phone. “Say cheese!” she calls out.

Marco and I look up and see this giant of a boy with a jutted chin and chiseled chest, sporting frosted hair tips.

Frostboy walks away oblivious to any contact.

First, you’ve got the aggressive kids—total bettas that don’t get along with others and are very likely to go seek out smaller fish to feast on.

Next thing I knew, I was hearing all sorts of gripes and moans as Marco went on a one-man rampage, answering every question all by himself.

Marco and I approach the tables handing out printed student schedules and agendas, which I’m guessing is a fancy word for organizers.

“Nice vest. Makes you look all studious.”

Mauricio takes my schedule and gawks. “Dude, you’ve got all honors classes!”

Now that I think about it, being in honors classes may be better suited for someone like me.

Suddenly, a pair of giant-sized loafers stop in front of me.

Somewhere between jokes, she also goes over her classroom expectations and grading policy.

Then, just as class is about to end, she casually adds one more piece.

Mr. Widén goes over his class syllabus, only he never cracks a single joke, except when he introduces Skellington Boneapart III, his model skeleton.

The loud one with the frosted hair is that same kid who tried making fun of me earlier in the restroom. I try not to hyperventilate.

“Most of you should have figured out which lockers belong to you. And since everyone but one of you”—he gives a dirty look to a kid standing beside him—“came in for orientation and picked up your uniforms, we’re gonna have you guys change out. From there, you will be assigned numbers for attendance purposes.”

I can picture my cargo pants crumpled up into a ball on the floor—next to my bed—not folded neatly in my hamper like Amá asked me to do...over and over again.

Like hummingbird wings, his arms pump up and down in a frenzy.

“Hey,” a snarky, scratchy voice calls out.

Marco’s arms stop pumping, and his head slumps down—and so do his shoulders.

The smiles and cheers now become frowns and jeers. A few literally boo me.

My gut tightens and churns.

Right there, in front of Isaac, he gave out a sort of guttural grunt and kicked my legs apart.

The amount of information is overwhelming.

Apá ruffles my hair and smiles.