KENNY
It's third period and the teacher's pairing us off for our biology projects. My name's called, and I'm paired with some girl; I don't even recognize her name. Shows how much I pay attention, huh? Someone hisses something from behind me and it sounds sort of like, "You got stuck with the gook!" but I can't be sure. I shouldn't get paranoid about this. I mean, some people get so sensitive about race that they hear things as racist when they really aren't.
But it's bothering me. Gook, chink, jap, slant-eyes. I've been called every single one of those by someone in this school. As I walk into the locker room, I get a weird feeling, like I don't belong. Never felt that way before. These guys are my friends, get it? They never made a big deal about the color of my skin or the shape of my eyes. But for some reason, I can't shake it. Almost everyone in here is White, exception claimed by Luis, Russ and Goldberg. And me.
"Hey, Ken. What's up?" Adam Banks is already at his locker, which is right next to mine. I nod at him and toss my things on the ground. For a minute, I almost think of telling Adam what happened in Bio. I mean, yeah, the kid grew up in Edina, whitest of all white, but he's no bigot. He's always stood up for Luis and Russ when things happen in the hallways. But as I open my mouth to tell him, my thoughts get the better of me. He's never stood up for me. No one has. I don't think anyone realizes I get flack too.
"Something wrong?" he asks. I shake my head.
"Nah, just thinking."
LUIS
We're exactly halfway through the hockey season now, which means we start playing opponents for a second time. Today we get Breck. Last time we beat them 5-2, and everyone seems pretty confident that we'll do it again.
At halftime, we're up 3-1, and we go out calm and collected. Charlie takes the faceoff, wins it and we're on again. Sufficed to say, we've grown up a lot. Yeah, we were good on jayvee, and last year as juniors we really got it together, but this year, things have just fallen into place. It's like no one can touch us.
"Here you go, Luis!" Fulton slots me a pass and I'm on a break. The goalie makes an error as he comes out and I shift to the right, passing it easily into the net. Simple, clean, efficient. I take the congratulatory high fives and back slaps and start to head back to our end of the ice.
"You dirty Mexican!" I whirl around and the goalie's sneering at me. His next words are a string of curses in Spanish, and they ignite something in me. I rush at him and in two seconds, I'm punching him furiously, repeatedly, yelling at him to take it back. He's still swearing at me in Spanish; where he learned it I have no idea, but he's pretty good at it. My teammates are yelling at me, trying to get me away, but if you've ever been the butt of a racist barb, you know there's no anger comparable to that. Finally, the ref drags me away and hauls my ass to the penalty box. I'm so angry I can barely register what's going on, and after two minutes in there, I'm still seething. Coach Wilson must see this because he pulls me midway through the third period and doesn't put me back in.
After the game, I don't speak to anyone as we walk into the locker room. I don't think they've ever seen me lose it like that. It's my first penalty of the season, of my high school career. Finally, Charlie breaks the deafening silence.
"What got into you, man?" he asks, sitting down next to me. I glance around the room and see that everyone's looking at me.
"What, you mean Fulton and Portman can pick fights but I can't?" I snap before I can catch myself. Charlie flinches a little.
"No, man. It's just that it wasn't exactly provoked," he replies.
"Provoked?" I'm on my feet before I realize it, "The hell it wasn't provoked. He called me a "dirty Mexican," Charlie. But I suppose you don't know how that feels, huh? Guess it never occurred to you that racism actually hurts!" He looks shocked, but doesn't retort. I tear off my jersey and gear, grab my bag and leave the room as fast as I can, because I don't want to stay in there anymore.
"Luis! Wait up, man." I half-turn around and see Kenny running to catch up with me. When he falls into step next to me, I don't say anything. I don't want to hear a lecture from him about how I shouldn't let racist remarks get to me and stuff.
"I know how you feel," he says after a moment. I glance sideways at him.
"How would you know?" I ask, perhaps more harshly than is necessary. He doesn't seem to notice.
"They're always calling me names, too. I'm just too small to take them on," he answers.
"What do they have against Asians?" I ask. He shrugs.
"We look funny. We talk funny. What do they hate so much about Hispanics?" I note his usage of Hispanics instead of Mexicans.
"We look funny. We talk funny," I echo. He smiles a little.
"We make quite a team, don't we? The Asian kid and the Hispanic kid, who look funny and talk funny," he jokes.
"Hey, man, I think I talk just fine," I reply good-naturedly. Kenny rolls his eyes.
"Whatever." He takes off down the hall and I'm after him in about two seconds.
Never realized there were kids out there who could make light of situations like this.
