I wandered into the dining hall, which looked like someone had crossed a Costco with an airport lounge and decided to add fluorescent lighting that could blind pilots. People were demolishing giant trays of food, sitting in groups that seemed surgically attached since kindergarten. I clutched my tray like a confused camarero and scanned the room for anyone radiating "Lost Soul" energy. Maybe Jeff. Maybe anyone who wouldn't judge my tragic fashion choices.
Then I saw her. Isabel. Por supuesto. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor. She was laughing with some girls at a corner table, her hoop earrings catching the harsh lights like tiny disco balls of my doom. I felt the cologne on my neck evaporate into pure shame.
"Crazy how people make new friends when un pendejo like me is still eating alone like some reject," I muttered, pretending to study the nutritional information on my burger wrapper.
I walked past her table—casually, you know, just looking for napkins that I absolutely didn't need—and accidentally caught her eye. She smirked. Just fucking smirked. Like she could see right through my European mystique bullshit. Then one of her friends said, loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear:
"Madrid thinks he's starring in his own reggaetón video."
They cackled. I'm talking full-blown bruja-level evil laughter. Well, most of them. Isabel just looked embarrassed, but the damage was done. My ego didn't just crack—it shattered into a million pieces, rolled off the table, and got stomped on by some guy wearing socks with Birkenstocks like that was a reasonable life choice.
I found an empty table in the furthest corner, practically in the next county, and tried to eat a burger the size of my face. It tasted like disappointment and BBQ-flavored regret. The ranch dressing was an insult to sauces everywhere. Dios mío, I missed olive oil. I missed tortilla de patatas. I missed people who actually asked "¿Cómo estás?" before deciding whether you were worth their time.
But then, like a miracle wrapped in cultural confusion, I saw him. Tariq. This absolute loco was strutting across the dining hall wearing full traditional Moroccan wear—ornate kaftan, embroidered everything, looking like he'd stepped out of a National Geographic documentary. And he was walking straight toward my table like he owned the place.
"No, no, no. Please don't come this side."
Cristo Jesús, I started laughing. Actually laughing. Because suddenly I could see exactly how the other students saw me—like we were both cosplaying our entire countries instead of just trying to eat lunch.
But my dude gave absolutely zero fucks. He slid into the seat across from me like we'd been planning this cultural disaster meetup all along.
"Hermano," I said, still grinning, "we are so fucked."
Then he sat down, and joder, I love Africans. They just don't give a shit about anything. This cabrón was carrying four burgers like he was preparing for the apocalypse.
"I didn't see you in class today, habibi," he said in that thick Arabic accent that made every word sound like a question wrapped in a declaration. Have you ever heard Arabs speak English? Dios mío, it's like listening to someone try to explain quantum physics while gargling marbles. But hell, we were in the same boat—two guys butchering the English language one sentence at a time.
"Hermano, I've had the worst fucking day," I replied, and that's when he spotted Isabel's table.
"Yalla, isn't that girl your girlfriend?" he asked, loud enough for NASA to hear.
The girls were all looking at our table now, and I can fucking guarantee you that every single pair of eyes was locked on us like we were the featured entertainment at a freak show. "God, this fool just made everything ten times worse," I thought, watching Isabel's friends lean in like vultures circling fresh roadkill.
But here's the thing about perspective—it's completely insane how people see the same situation differently.
"Wallah! They are all in love with your swagger, bro," Tariq said, completely serious, like he'd just discovered the secret to the universe. This *idiota* thought people were staring because we looked cool and mysterious instead of like two walking cultural disasters.
"Jeff, hijo de puta," I muttered under my breath. That bastard could have warned me about the campus dress code before I left the house looking like I was auditioning for a Spanish soap opera.
"I think so too," I replied to Tariq, because here's Hugo's Rule Number One: When everyone thinks you're a complete pendejo and you find one fool who still believes in your bullshit, don't screw that up.
"Mashallah, you have good taste, akhi," Tariq said, nodding toward Isabel's table with approval.
So I had to lie to Tariq. I had to sell him the fantasy that I was actually that guy—the mysterious European who had American girls fighting over him instead of laughing at his tight jeans and cologne overdose. Because sometimes you need someone to believe in your bullshit before you can believe in it yourself.
The most painful part of this whole disaster wasn't the staring or the laughing or even Isabel's friends treating me like a walking meme. No, the real kick in the balls was seeing Jeff—the guy I thought was a complete pendejo—sitting with two actual nerd friends, looking perfectly at home in his ratty hoodie and basketball shorts.
They were nerds, sure. But we were the nerdiest (if that's even a fucking word), and that's when it hit me like a brick to the face: I didn't hide from Jeff when he dropped me off at campus. He hid from me.
So I was an idiot who didn't even know I was an idiot. ¡Qué jodido! And you, dumbass reading this, probably didn't see it coming either, so don't feel too smart about it.
After school, I didn't get to walk Isabel home. Mr. García picked her up in his sensible dad car while I watched through the window like some creepy stalker. When Jeff and I were riding back home in awkward silence, I knew I had a mountain of work ahead of me. First impressions matter, and this trainwreck wasn't going to change easily. This was probably how Westbridge was going to see me for the rest of my days—the overdressed Spanish kid who thought he was starring in his own music video.
Jeff seemed unusually happy, humming along to some pop song on the radio like he'd just won the lottery.
"So this cabrón set me up," I realized, staring at his smug profile. He'd been the nerd his whole life, and maybe he just couldn't fucking change who he was. So when he saw that I was about to out-nerd him by a thousand percent, he didn't say shit. Let me walk into that campus looking like a peacock at a penguin convention.
Am I even writing in proper English anymore? No me importa. Because the truth was crystal clear: I was officially the biggest nerd at Westbridge University, and my own host brother had thrown me to the wolves. Gracias, Jeff. Really. Thanks for nothing, hermano.