The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao - By Junot Diaz Page 0,65

stuck-up Spanish.

Known each other since pre-fresh weekend, but it wasn’t until sophomore year when her mother got sick again that we had our fling. Drive me home, Yunior, was her opening line, and a week later it jumped of. I remember she was wearing a pair of Douglass sweats and a Tribe T-shirt. Took off the ring her boy had given her and then kissed me. Dark eyes never leaving mine.

You have great lips, she said.

How do you forget a girl like that?

Only three fucking nights before she got all guilty about the boyfriend and put an end to it. And when Lola puts an end to something, she puts an end to it hard. Even those nights after I got jumped she wouldn’t let me steal on her ass for nothing. So you can sleep in my bed but you can’t sleep with me?

Yo soy prieta, Yuni, she said, pero no soy bruta.

Knew exactly what kind of sucio I was. Two days after we broke up saw me hitting on one of her line-sisters and turned her long back to me.

Point is: when her brother lapsed into that killer depression at the end of sophomore year — drank two bottles of 151 because some girl dissed him — almost fucking killing himself and his sick mother in the process, who do you think stepped up?

Me.

Surprised the shit out of Lola when I said I’d live with him the next year. Keep an eye on the fucking dork for you. After the suicide drama nobody in Demarest wanted to room with homeboy, was going to have to spend junior year by himself; no Lola, either, because she was slotted to go abroad to Spain for that year, her big fucking dream finally come true and she was worried shitless about him. Knocked Lola for a loop when I said I’d do it, but it almost killed her dead when I actually did it. Move in with him. In fucking Demarest. Home of all the weirdo’s and losers and freaks and fem-bots. Me, a guy who could bench 340 pounds, who used to call Demarest Homo Hall like it was nothing. Who never met a little white artist freak he didn’t want to smack around. Put in my application for the writing section and by the beginning of September, there we were, me and Oscar. Together.

I liked to play it up as complete philanthropy, but that’s not exactly true. Sure I wanted to help Lola out, watch out for her crazy-ass brother (knew he was the only thing she really loved in this world), but I was also taking care of my own damn self. That year I’d pulled what was probably the lowest number in the history of the housing lottery. Was officially the last name on the waiting list, which meant my chances for university housing were zilch to none, which meant that my brokeness was either going to have to live at home or on the street, which meant that Demarest, for all its freakery, and Oscar, for all his unhappiness, didn’t seem like so bad an option.

It’s not like he was a complete stranger — I mean, he was the brother of the girl I’d shadow — fucked. Saw him on campus with her those first couple of years, hard to believe he and Lola were related. (Me Apokalips, he cracked, she New Genesis.) Unlike me who would have hidden from a Caliban like that, she loved the dork. Invited him to parties and to her rallies. Holding up signs, handing out flyers. Her fat-ass assistant. To say I’d never in my life met a Dominican like him would be to put it mildly.

Hail, Dog of God, was how he welcomed me my first day in Demarest.

Took a week before I figured out what the hell he meant.

God. Domini. Dog. Canis.

Hail, Dominicanis.

I guess I should have fucking known. Dude used to say he was cursed, used to say this a lot, and if I’d really been old-school Dominican I would have (a) listened to the idiot, and then (b) run the other way. My family are sureños, from Azua, and if we sureños from Azua know anything it’s about fucking curses. I mean, Jesus, have you ever seen Azua? My mom wouldn’t even have listened, would have just run. She didn’t fuck with fukú’s or guanguas, no way no how. But I wasn’t as old-school as I am now, just real fucking dumb, assumed keeping an eye