You've got the wrong kid!

My Grandpa and I had a very effective system for after school pickup. Pampa would arrive a little earlier than most parents and other pickup personnel in order to secure a prime parking location near the entrance of the gate that I would exit the school premises from. In order to pass the time, Pampa would shut off the car, read the newspaper and daily specials at the markets, or he would get out of the car to socialize with the crossing duty. My role in our system was to pack up as quickly and efficiently as possible so that I could be one of the first students to emerge and make my way to the station wagon. The sooner I would get out, the greater our chances of avoiding the after school traffic jam.

He would keep an eye out for me so that as soon as he saw me, he could start the engine. I tended to make it easy for him to spot me, too.

Although we students were condemned to dress in uniformity, I took great pleasure in breaking the status quo with varying accessories. It was in this small way that I was able to break away from the mass and express my individuality.

Depending on the season and the month, I would accessorize with items accordingly. One October, for the whole month, I sported a bright orange pumpkin-top headband every single day. It made quite the statement. In another particular month, one in which I longed for summer and soft sand beaches, I wore a bright red, Hawaiian bucket hat. With such bright colors on top of my head, it was usually pretty difficult for Pampa to NOT pick me out amongst the crowd of white, navy and khaki.

As on any other normal day of my educational career, I made my way out of the gated entrance on Ynez Ave and onto the sidewalk in search for my grandfather. However, unlike any other normal day, what I saw when I found Pampa shocked and confused me. I was running about four and a half minutes behind schedule so I had expected to find my grandpa outside of the car, looking for me. What I had not expected to find was my grandfather trying to load another little girl into the car.

She was about my height and build, though maybe a couple of inches taller, and she wore a red baseball cap on her head. It wasn’t nearly as bright or as cool as my red bucket hat, but it still stood out from the masses. I immediately recognized the girl as Marcy, a girl of Chinese descent, from my grade. She resisted my grandpa, the older gentleman who spoke to her in Spanish, by planting her feet firmly on the ground and trying to pry her arm from my Pampa’s grip. I knew that he wasn’t holding her too tightly or in any way aggressively because that just wasn’t Pampa’s style. However, I also knew that his grip, no matter how gentle, was ironclad. Marcy wasn’t going anywhere.

“Pampa! PAMPA!” I shouted after him, but it did not matter at that time how loudly I tried to get his attention. The energy on that sidewalk was electric with excitement, the students eager to run to their freedom. The air was filled with rambunctious shouts of delight and celebration.

A few of the parents nearby started to take notice as I weaved my way through the clusters of people on the sidewalk and a petite older Chinese woman made her way hastily over to my grandfather. I recognized her immediately as well; Marcy’s grandmother.

I shouted again, “PAMPA! APA! DADDY!” At the same time that Marcy’s grandmother started shouting at Grandpa in Mandarin.

“¡Es la mía! ¡Suéltanos!” “She’s mine! Let go of us!”, my grandpa was saying as I approached closer to where he stood.

By then, a crowd was starting to gather around the duo-lingo debacle and I could sense that some parents and some kids, too, were getting a little bit nervous about the events unfolding before them. Even some of the yard duties in orange vests were making their way over to the scandal. There was confusion on the faces that surrounded us but none were as perplexed as my grandpa. I could see the frustration etched into the lines of his face, deepening the crease in between his salt and pepper eyebrows.

“PAMPA! ¡AQUI ESTOY! ¡ESA NO ES LA SUYA! PAMPA!”, I shouted as I closed the last few of feet of gap between us. “I’m right here, Abuelito! That’s not your kid!”

This time, he heard me! His head snapped up and then it whipped quickly from me to Marcy. His hand released Marcy’s instantly, nearly throwing it away from him in the process. He quickly turned to Marcy’s grandmother and threw up his hands and eyebrows and gave a nervous laugh.

“Ha! HA! So sorry! ¡Discúlpame, Señora! Yo pensaba que era la mía. ¡Ha!”

Then to me, “ ¡Hija! ¿Donde estabas, que ya me llevaba otra?”

As we sat in the car, in the thick of the after school traffic, Pampa explained to me why it was my hat’s fault for him almost taking home the wrong child.

“HAHA! Con razón no me entendía, la muchacha. Pobrecita.” “No wonder she couldn’t understand me, the poor girl,” he said. “And there I was thinking that little lady was trying to take MY grandchild. HAHA! Ooof.”