The following narrative is recounted by: NORA ORELLANA
So, first off, before I start this thing, I just want to say that if it seems like my writing is dragging on, blame it on nerves. I've never done this kind of "autobiography of some sorts" – West's words, not mine – before despite being enthusiastic about it when he brought it up to me.
Although, this really isn't about me, so, I guess I have no excuse.
Let me introduce myself. My name is Nora Orellana. I was born November 12th, 1996 in San Francisco, California, raised to be a strong, independent Latina. I was a rather quiet and meek girl before my mother moved my two younger sisters and me to Tuct Side in light of my dad's death. St. Augustine Charter School was basically my safe space from the rough-and-tumble streets of the Golden State. Being surrounded by caring and compassionate personalities buttered me up a bit too much for reality. My dad succumbing to cancer should have taught me a good lesson, but it went right over my silly eight-year-old head.
Tuct Side wouldn't allow me the luxury of ignorance. It made sure to hammer the ugly truth into my brain over and over until it stuck. And the wielder of the mallet came in the form of a moody, tetchy ten-year-old boy by the name of Nigel Morterero.
Don't call him that to his face, though. He might've been a little shit like the rest of us, but the kid could get very creative when the vindictive wheel in his mind spun. He hated his real name, and I unknowingly made the mistake of reminding him of that fact.
Before my arrival in Wildwood Elementary, Neil was already an evil little bastard who delighted in causing trouble, a packaged deal of unlawful behavior and disrespectful attitudes toward authority in western Tuct Side. Look up "thug" or "bully" in the dictionary, and you find Neil Morterero, his preferred name, as a visual.
From shattering windows with rocks to stabbing the tires of his teachers' cars, the cold-eyed niño was an utter menace. Thievery, vandalism, and dealing out beatings to fellow classmates had numerous tally marks on the checklist of his offenses. Either he'd cause distress for kicks or revenge, one or the other. At one point during sixth grade, he stuffed a stack of pornography magazines inside his homeroom teacher's desk and forced another kid to rat him out to the principal just to avoid doing a science project. Of course, the teacher was innocent, but a publicized investigation and cooked-up rumors had him scrambling out of town for good.
The science fair itself was canceled (the only thing I'm thankful for since I hate presentations), but we still had to turn something in, and the asshole hadn't bothered.
It was just so odd how he could get away with so many missing assignments, tardies, absences, and misdeeds and not be held back or punished severely. He wasn't just a prince, but a king. A small, young king using and abusing us toys on his personal playground.
I was unfortunate (at the time) to become one of his most prized possessions.
On the second day of my first year at Wildwood, out of spite for calling him by his real name, Neil declared that I be addressed as "Tostada," which was Spanish for "parched." A dig at my Californian origins. Clever.
In fifth grade, verbal jabs and unpleasant quips upgraded to pranks. During our lunch break, he beckoned me to sit with him and his friends at the designated "cool table." Me, being a naïve eleven-year-old girl and a total believer in that whole 'boys who pull your pigtails actually like you' schtick thought he was suddenly being nice for once because he was secretly infatuated with me. Then, he would take me to a secluded corner at recess to apologize for all the mean things he said, and reform his conduct as a grand gesture of love.
I'm so glad I have the excuse of being eleven at that time. I mean, it wasn't often you got a genuine, friendly smile thrown your way by Neil Morterero. In fact, it never happened as far as I know.
I believe I was just so happy and relieved to be acknowledged kindly by him for once that I didn't notice the slightly darker red coloring on the already red lunch seat. I was clueless until one of the girls asked me to go get an extra pack of ketchup. When the boisterous round of laughter started up, the romantic in me died a little. My jeans were stained for the rest of the day, not wanting to further embarrass myself by calling my mom for a new pair. Insert early period jokes here.
In seventh grade, Neil had somehow discovered my fear of spiders (who wasn't scared of them?) and "misplaced" the class pet tarantula in my backpack. My screech was dubbed "the squeal heard 'round the world." Neil would later admit that spiders creeped him out, too. The need for revenge was tempting, indeed.
Through the jeers and tricks, I was able to toughen up and realize the world wasn't all sunshine and beaches. Despite all that I've revealed, Neil wasn't too bad to me. Well, compared to others. As we got older, there were moments where he would reveal a heart underneath all that viciousness and defend me when things were on the verge of going overboard.
On the last day of seventh grade, Sara Winchester, a popular girl and Neil-fanatic put thumbtacks in my sneakers as we changed after gym class. Either she blabbered on to Neil or bragged aloud her plans when he was nearby because, before I put on my shoes, my main tormentor burst into the girls' locker room, snatched my sneakers, and shook out the thumbtacks. That was shocking enough, but the real eye-opener was when he sent Sara a glare so frigid, it had her and her posse literally shaking at the knees, and snarled, "Puta," before kicking the pins in her direction and stomping out. Not another word to me or anyone else.
She didn't bother me again until the month of the junior high dance when she mysteriously obtained my phone number and masqueraded as one of my crushes and Neil's best friend: Shaun McMann. Despite the two being thicker than thieves, he wasn't as terrible. Sure, he beat up a couple of classmates at the snap of Neil's fingers, but he was handsome, very tall, and had auburn hair that was the longest of all the males in their grade. It was a classic move and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. My mom drove me to the dance so I could meet my "date" there. When I made it to the cafeteria (Wildwood didn't have the kind of money for an actual gymnasium), I was a sitting, a lonely duck, with Sara and her gaggle of cake faces cackling away as I stared back at a confused Shaun. I should have realized it was a joke since he would never look my way without Neil there to direct his sights.
It was humiliating, to say the least, but what was shaping up to be the worst day of my life flipped right-side-up when my black-haired adversary sauntered up and pretty much demanded to dance with him. That shut the squawking right up.
Remember that inner romantic that deceased back in fifth grade? "What the lord taketh with one hand, he giveth back with the other."
The times of "Tostada" had come to end.
It was that night that I thought of the duality of the youngest Morterero boy.
On one side, there was the cold-hearted, uncouth "Neil." The side he makes known to everyone to showcase his dominance, his power, and invulnerability. These traits erected walls tall and sturdy enough to hide the "weaker" half of himself.
Nigel.
And on that night, the person who stepped up and saved me from total disgrace, who swayed along with me to the love songs, who stayed by my side until my mom returned to pick me up… was most definitely Nigel.