Pastel de Chocolate Picante

I was born in Guadalajara, Mexico. We moved to Toledo, Ohio when I was 11 because my father took a job with Owens Corning. It was sad saying goodbye to my friends, and I was nervous about moving to a country I had never even visited. That, and my English wasn’t the best.

Once we had unpacked, my mother enrolled me in school. Although I was old enough to be in fifth grade, because my English needed improvement, they put me in fourth - and also in a class that focused on learning the language.

When the first day arrived, my mother waited with me for the bus. She introduced me to Mr. Landry, the driver, and he greeted me with a smile.

“Climb on up, Gabriella.” He motioned toward the steps. “Sit anywhere you like. Two to a seat.”

As I started down the aisle, two girls were beckoning me. The red-haired girl smiled and said, “You can sit here.” She pointed to the empty seat across from them. “I’m Annie.”

The Sandy-haired girl said, “…and I’m Kathy. What’s your name?”

I said, “Me llamo, I mean, my name is Gabriella, but you can call me Gabi.”

Annie asked with a grin, “Are you really gabby?”

I felt my eyebrows crinkle. I was confused. “Of course, that is my name.”

Kathy giggled, “No, I meant do you talk a lot?”

“My dad thinks I talk too much.”

We talked all the way to school about where I was from, what we all liked to do, and music. I told them that I play soccer. Kathy informed me that she plays basketball, and Annie plays volleyball. I had been so nervous, but I was feeling better now that I was making friends so quickly.

I was relieved to find out that Annie and Kathy are also in fourth grade. I asked, “Do you think we’ll have the same teacher?”

Kathy said, “Yes, it’s a small school, so there’s only one fourth grade class, but don’t worry, Mrs. McDowell is great.”

The bus pulled up at the school. I had been there once before since my mom had brought me for registration. Annie pointed, “There’s Mrs. McDowell right there. She likes to greet new students, so she must be here for you.”

Their teacher was a thin woman in a black pant suit and wore glasses. She had a warm, welcoming smile. As I got off the bus, Annie said, “Mrs. McDowell, this is Gabi.”

As she shook my hand, Mrs. McDowell said, “Very nice to meet you, Gabi. Do you prefer that to Gabriella?”

I said as clearly as I could, “Nice to be meeting you. Yes, my name Gabi. It is what my parents call.”

She smiled, then looked from Annie to Kathy. “Will you girls show her around the school before the bell rings? I have one thing to do in the office.”

The girls gave me a tour of the place and then lead me to the playground. I was happy having Annie and Kathy to play with, as the crowd of students ranging from kindergarten to eighth grade would have been overwhelming without them. We went down the slide until the bell rang, at which point I followed them to our line up spot.

Mrs. McDowell came out with a stack of papers and lead us to the room. When I entered, I saw on the white board, “Please welcome our newest student.”

Everyone else sat down, and Mrs. McDowell asked me to stand with her at the front of the room. She said, “Introduce yourself and tell us where you’re from.”

I said, “My name is Gabi. I am from Guadalajara, May-hee-co.”

A voice shouted, “You mean Mexico?” It was a snarling boy in the back row.

Mrs. McDowell said, “Steve, she’s from there. I think she knows how it’s pronounced.”

Gabi asked, “How would you like it if I called this ‘Los Estados Unidos,’ instead of ‘The United States?’ That’s what we call it in May-hee-co.”

Another boy, in front of Steve said, “But we’re not in Mexico. We’re in the United States.” Then he chanted, “U.S.A., U.S.A.” A handful of students joined the chant.

Mrs. McDowell said, “Stop right there. No one needs to be disrespectful to anyone else.” She turned to me and said, “I’d love to hear you say something in your native language.”

I smirked and said, “Creo que los chicos del fondo de la sala necesitan mejores modales.” Translation: I think the guys in the back of the room need better manners.

To my surprise, Mrs. McDowell said, “Yo también.”

Another student raised her hand and said, “It’s beautiful. What does it mean?”

Mrs. McDowell said, “Let’s just say Gabi hopes everyone will treat each other fairly. I said that I agree.”

Things quieted down after that.

That is, until recess after lunch. The school had a paved area, and then a grassy field. Annie, Kathy and I were getting to know each other better. Kathy’s favorite subject was math. Annie’s was English. I told them I liked Social Studies best.

Then the rude boys from the last row of the class approach. Annie grabbed my arm and said sternly: “ignore them.”

As they approached, Steve hollered, “get out of here, you dumb spic!”

“Yeah, another of the trio said. “Go home, beaner.”

Annie said, “I’ll go get Mrs. Davis,” who was the recess duty teacher.

They continued with a seemingly endless barrage of insults.

“You’re nothing but a worthless wetback!”

Kathy stepped between me and them and pointed at their faces. “Shut up you idiots!”

“Yeah,” Steve said smarmily. “What are you going to do about it?”

“She’s not going to do anything about it,” said Mrs. Davis from behind. “I am.”

They whirled around with stunned looks.

“To the principal’s office, right now,” she said, pointing toward the school. They hung their heads down and complied.

She called on her walkie talkie, “Office, this is Mrs Davis, and I am sending three boys your way. And Mrs. Cranston, will you make sure they get there.”

“Will do” a voice replied.

I was looking forward to my first day of school in a new country. This definitely wasn’t what I was expecting.

Tears streamed down my face. Mrs. Davis put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be all right,” she comforted. “Let’s go to the Office.” She told the other duty teacher she’d be right back.

On the way to the office in the hallway, I felt so embarrassed as I knew the other students were staring at me. Mrs. Davis led me in and took me to the Vice Principal, Ms. Miller. She knocked on the door frame. A middle-aged woman with blond hair looked up.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Mrs. Davis explained what had transpire and asked that I be given some time to collect myself.

The Vice Principal asked me if my mother was home. I responded said, “I think so..”

“Okay,” Ms. Miller replied. She looked up at Mrs. Davis and said, “Thank you, for bringing her in. With only a couple of hours to go, I’m going to send her home, and tomorrow will be a brand-new start.”

She left. Ms. Miller called my mother and she was there in ten minutes.

On the way home, my mother asked me what had happened, but I did not answer. When we got home, I plopped my bookbag on the entryway floor and ran up to my room. I flopped on my bed, clutched my pillow, and sobbed. I was looking forward to school, made friends right away, and then everything went haywire.

I could hear clanging down in the kitchen, and soon a delicious aroma wafted upstairs. The cooking timer dinged, and I heard the scrape of a pan being removed.

Next, I heard my mother’s footsteps coming up the stairs. “Gabi,” she said. “I have something for you. Your favorite, spicy chocolate cake topped with fresh raspberries, and some vanilla ice cream.” The recipe had been handed down for generations and used real chocolate, not candy bars or pudding.

I sat up and took the plate. “Gracias, Mama,” I said. She kissed the top of my head as I took my first bite. After a day like today, never had chocolate cake tasted so good.