"Then she told me I shouldn't wear that nail polish color. And guess what I said back?"
"You know I haven't been listening for the past 10 minutes."
"Yeah, but pretend you were. That way, everyone will think I'm the kind of girl who talks to weirdos because I don't care about appearances—I only care about the soul."
"Or they'll just think you're weird. Besides, I don't care what your mom says to you."
"So you were listening."
"A little."
I was about to slip away and head home, but Emilia caught us and forced us to stay.
For me, it was torture, but Maria was indifferent and just kept dozing off until she got bored of resting her face on the wooden desk.
"I think they're pretty," Maria said.
"Oh, really? Thanks, Mary!" she replied, a little excited.
"You're not like your brother. I thought you were weird, but it's just that your brother doesn't dress you right. Look at you—if you pay attention, you're actually very pretty."
Maria glanced at me. Her face remained impassive, but I knew she was smirking inside, mocking me.
"Yeah, it's his fault. Everything is his fault."
"Don't put ideas like that in her head. I'm the only one who takes care of her—otherwise, she'd be a vagrant."
"Wait… you don't have parents? Forget I said that, sorry. I had no idea."
"Don't worry," Maria said. "I'm used to living with my brother."
Emilia looked deeply troubled, realizing she'd touched a nerve. She prided herself—unconsciously—on having a calculated finesse in social interactions, but she hadn't accounted for this.
Luckily, the bell saved her when the voices of several students grew louder than our own internal thoughts.
"I already followed you on Instagram…"
"…Is it true you're releasing your first single soon?"
"Ana, you're so beautiful—what kind of hair products do you use?"
"Where can I buy your earrings?"
"Is that the new phone model…?"
"I'm sure you'll be the best student this year, Ana."
"We're recording. I'm still really impressed with the lyrics. The professional songwriters from the labels are absolute geniuses. If you get the chance, listen to my single—I'll be eternally grateful."
It seemed that from day one, this woman had already gathered a following of sycophants.
"…A following of sycophants. I wish I could be part of them."
I looked at her in disgust.
"What's your problem? It's my business if I want to be like that."
"Then you should go kiss her feet, because she's already leaving."
Too late. By the time I finished my sentence, she was already gone, surrounded by a group of excited girls and boys.
"She's really popular," I said.
"I didn't go talk to them because I'm with you—my real friends."
Maria and I held back our laughter, though I probably should've acted offended at that joke.
"It's fine. Honestly, I feel like those kinds of people are just background characters. Ana is polite to them, but I bet she'll forget their faces in a few hours. I need to be memorable and find the perfect moment to talk to her. Besides, it's not a lie—I kinda like you guys, so I can sacrifice my precious time for you."
"I can't tell if your self-esteem is too high or too low."
"Shut up."
We headed toward the school exit.
Outside, it looked like a grand theater—or maybe an open-air talent show. Many students stood on invisible stages, with their own little crowds gathered around them. Some sang, others showed off choreography. I saw some running around with cameras and lights, older students sitting on the grass or leaning against trees with sketchbooks, drawing the world around them. It was a festival of colors, and I felt like someone was secretly filming my curious reaction. This was definitely not a normal school.
We finally left campus as the music began to fade, and we managed to talk to Emilia.
"Where do you live?" she asked as we walked toward the bus stop.
"Las Flores District," Maria answered.
"Shhh!" I hurried to shut them up—after all, that place wasn't well-regarded by anyone.
"Oh, you don't have to act like that. I don't care, or honestly, I already expected it."
Las Flores doesn't appear on city postcards. It's the kind of place maps draw with thinner lines, as if hesitant to acknowledge its existence.
It's a place where even the name feels like a mockery. There are no gardens, no colors, no fragrances—just dimly lit streets and houses crammed together like rotten teeth. It's relatively unsafe, and it's not uncommon to see its name in the morning news headlines. I think that's an exaggeration—after all, I've never been robbed—but what do I know?
In recent years, it has improved a lot since my grandparents' time, when they referred to it as a kind of "Wild West." Now, I guess the district is more tolerable.
"My uncles live there. It's not like I've never been."
"So, what's it like for you?"
"For me, what?"
"How do you get home?"
"Oh, by walking."
Well, that explained everything.
"We have an hour-and-a-half trip. An hour if there's no traffic."
"Oh, my condolences."
"Don't worry about it. It's the life we were given."
With that, I boarded the nearly empty bus (since it seemed like everyone else lived close to school except us) with Maria, waving goodbye to Emilia through the window—though she probably couldn't hear me anymore. I saw her waving both hands like she was cheering on her favorite soccer team rather than just saying goodbye.
"What do you think of Emilia?" I asked Maria.
"She's weird like us, I guess." I agreed.
"Yeah, a total maniac and a social schemer."
"But she's not a bad person," Maria finished.
Again, I couldn't agree more. She didn't care that we lived in that district, even though most people would look down on us for it.
It didn't matter anymore. For the next hour and a half, my mind would be fixed on the people crossing the street, the cars—maybe spotting a nice model to kill time on the bus. That reminded me how badly I wanted a car, but I was afraid I'd wake up one day to find it stripped for parts.
Emilia Taboada—a girl who worked hard to build relationships with those more talented than her, fully aware of her own lack of ability. That was kind of sad. Years later, I realized Emilia's talent was something else entirely, far more unexpected than anyone could've imagined. Of course, she'd also become one of my and Maria's closest friends.
They say that in the future, she owns one of the most famous record labels in the the entire American continent, producing major artists.
Emilia Taboada, first member of Group Vilcanoba: The Social Harpy.
Though their bond wasn't official yet—in fact, it would be months before they could call themselves a group or consider each other real friends. For now, everyone's reality was to return home and prepare for Tuesday. This was no ordinary school, and no one could anticipate what was to come.