The auditorium smelled like expired dreams, teenage anxiety, and whatever químicos they use to sanitize American carpets. I had barely slept the night before because my stupid brain wouldn't shut the fuck up about Isabel... and now I was trapped in a room full of strangers, pretending to give a damn while my stomach was doing backflips like a borracho at a fútbol match.
"Welcome to Westbridge University!" screeched a woman whose teeth were so blindingly white I swear NASA could use them as emergency landing lights. "We're SO thrilled you're here!"
Joder, this señora was more caffeinated than my tío Paco during Christmas dinner. She was vibrating at frequencies only dogs could hear.
I looked around at my fellow victims in this academic torture chamber. Some kid from Nigeria was nodding like a marioneta, probably wondering what fresh infierno he'd signed up for. The girl from Korea looked like she was mentally planning everyone's assassination, starting with Miss Sunshine up front. Honestly? Respeto. I felt that energy in my soul.
The Arab guy beside me leaned over and whispered, "Wallah, brother, she's like human cocaine mixed with rainbow unicorns, see."
I had to bite my tongue to keep from dying laughing. "Más like crystal meth with a motivational speaker complex," I whispered back.
Finally, someone who understood that this was straight-up psychological warfare disguised as orientation.
The woman who was definitely named something aggressively American like Brittany or Skylar—launched into her PowerPoint presentation from the deepest pits of educational hell.
Slide one: "Your New Home!" (Complete with stock photo of students who looked like they were being held at gunpoint to smile)
Slide two: "Community, Connection, Culture!" (The holy trinity of administrative bullshit)
Slide three: Diverse students high-fiving under a tree like they're in some weird Scientology recruitment video.
Madre de Dios, someone please put me out of my misery and bury me with my dignity still semi-intact. They passed out name tags that looked like they were crafted by kindergarteners having an arts and crafts seizure. Mine said: Hugo González (Spain )
They even drew the goddamn flag with what appeared to be a crayon. How fucking adorable. I felt like a walking geography textbook with anxiety issues.
"Alright, beautiful people! Let's shatter that ice with a super-duper fun activity!" Brittany/Skylar spoke like she was announcing the Second Coming.
Super-duper fun. Those words should be classified as crimes against humanity.
"Turn to your gorgeous neighbor and share two truths and a lie! Ready, set, let's make magic happen!"
The guy next to me looked like he'd rather perform surgery on himself with a spoon than participate in this social waterboarding. Same wavelength, hermano. Same frequency.
"I'm Hugo," I said, extending my hand like a civilized human. "From España. And I'm already plotting seventeen different escape routes from this nightmare."
He burst out laughing. "Tariq. From Morocco. Habibi, I think this is some CIA mind-control experiment to see how much cringe the human brain can process before complete system shutdown."
"Bro, if that's their plan, I'm about to be their most spectacular failure since New Coke."
We reluctantly participated in that fucking stupid activity because, you know, survival instincts and shit. My two truths and a lie:
1. I once meó on a police car during Las Fallas and nearly got my ass thrown in Spanish jail
2. I almost follé my host sister this morning but chickened out like the world's biggest cobarde
3. I made out with a monja at my primo's wedding after she'd had too much vino
Guess which one's the mentira. (Hint: holy women are surprisingly good kissers when they're properly intoxicated.)
Tariq's truths and lie were even better:
1. He once accidentally joined a protest in Rabat because he thought they were giving out free food
2. His madre still cuts his hair with a bowl
3. He can speak seven languages but still can't order pizza without fucking it up
The day dragged on like a telenovela that refuses to end. Panel after panel of "academic integrity" (translation: don't cheat or we'll destroy your future), "finding your voice" (speak up, but not too loud, you little foreign peasant), and "embracing multicultural perspectives" (try not to be racist while we barely tolerate your existence).
I zoned out harder than my abuelo during family dinners and started daydreaming about real food—croquetas, jamón, tortilla española. At least Spanish cuisine didn't expect me to pretend that forced enthusiasm was my natural state of being.
Tariq was sketching what looked like escape routes on his orientation packet. "Yalla, this is worse than Ramadan in the Sahara," he muttered.
Just when I was mentally composing my resignation letter from life itself...
¡No jodas! There she was. Isabel García Hernández. The walking, breathing, absolutely devastating reason my cerebro had transformed into scrambled huevos with a side of sexual frustration.
She was casually standing by the juice table like she owned the entire fucking universe, swirling a paper cup like she was conducting a wine tasting at some fancy French château.
Of course. Of fucking course the cosmos decided to drop the most hermosa mujer in existence directly into my personal hell. Because apparently, my life is a romantic comedy written by someone with a seriously twisted sense of humor and a grudge against Spanish teenagers.
She was wearing this simple white camiseta and black jeans—nothing fancy, nothing trying too hard—but somehow she looked more put-together than everyone else wearing their finest "I'm trying to impress college administrators" outfits. Her pelo was up in one of those perfectly imperfect messy buns that probably took thirty minutes and seventeen YouTube tutorials to achieve. The kind that makes guys like me write terrible poetry about hair accessories.
Then the universe decided to really fuck with me. She looked up from her cup, scanned the room like a gorgeous depredador surveying her territory, and—no mames, no puede ser—her eyes locked directly with mine.
Time stopped. Physics paused. My corazón forgot how to function like a normal human organ and started beating some kind of flamenco rhythm against my ribcage.
She raised one perfect ceja. The universal female gesture for "You? Seriously? This pathetic specimen again?"
What did I do? Did I play it cool like the suave Spanish conquistador I pretend to be in my fantasies? Did I nod casually with that mysterious European charm?
Nah. I waved. Like a fucking turista at a Disney parade. Not just any wave but a full-arm, enthusiastic, "HEY THERE BEAUTIFUL PERSON I'M DEFINITELY NOT OBSESSED WITH" wave that probably violated several international treaties on public embarrassment.
She didn't wave back. Instead, she gave me this look—part amused, part "this poor niño is absolutely hopeless," part "should I call security?"—and turned back to her juice with what might have been the tiniest sonrisa.
Brutal. But somehow still better than being completely ignored.
Tariq, who'd been watching this trainwreck unfold in real time like some kind of romantic disaster documentary, leaned over with a shit-eating grin wider than the Strait of Gibraltar.
"Khalas, brother! You know that absolute goddess? That malaka who just made you look like a broken robot?"
"Define 'know,'" I muttered, trying to salvage what remained of my already shattered dignity.
"She's fine as hell, habibi. Don't tell me you're gonna choke like a fish out of water."
"She's my vecina," I said, puffing out my chest like I was some kind of international playboy instead of a sexually frustrated teenager with commitment issues. "I've been... working on that situation at casa, if you catch my drift."
Complete and utter bullshit, but hey—fake it till you make it or die trying, ¿verdad?
Tariq's eyes widened like I'd just told him I was secretly related to Messi. "La hawla! No shit? Mad respect, hermano. So what's the strategy? What's the master plan?"
The plan? *¿Cuál plan? I didn't have a strategy. I had anxiety, sexual frustration, approximately zero game, and a pathological tendency to self-sabotage at crucial moments. But Isabel was right there, looking like a whole-ass five-course meal with dessert included, and I'd rather die a thousand deaths than admit to Tariq that I was basically a walking disaster when it came to girls.
"Watch and learn, cabrón," I said, trying to channel every confident guy I'd ever seen in Hollywood movies and failing spectacularly.
Time to fake it till I either make it or create such an epic failure that it becomes legendary. Spoiler alert: based on my track record, it was definitely gonna be the second option. But hey, at least it would be entertaining for everyone involved.
"Yalla, let's see this Spanish magic," Tariq whispered, settling back like he was about to watch the greatest show on earth.
Dios mío, what the hell had I gotten myself into?