Signal to Noise by Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page A

front door opening, her mother and her sisters’ voices heralding their arrival. Whatever uncertain power still remained in the room now definitely dissipated with the intrusion of the women.
    Meche began gathering her records, putting them back in her bag.
     
     
    “A SIX PAGE essay on Cervantes and his connection with modern realist literature,” she told him as they walked home.
    She was wearing a heavy, green jacket which made her look like a bag lady. He’d told her that one time and Meche had punched him, but it was true. It was a formless sack. Meche resembled a very large, very green jellyfish from behind. She drowned in that jacket, but then again she seemed to drown in all her clothes. Only the fingertips peeking out from the sleeves, the neck erased by folds of clothing. Beneath the jacket she tended to wear oversized t-shirts with names like Iron Maiden, Queen and The Who emblazoned on them.
    “He must be very mad at you.”
    “It’s a scam. He wanted me to take this tutoring session with him. All he wants is to make extra money.”
    “You could use some tutoring.”
    “Not with Rodriguez. He is such a dick.”
    Sebastian was carrying the portable record player, Meche had the bag. They walked down the narrow streets, side by side. It seemed to Sebastian they were always walking, going from or to school, going to the market together, stopping at the store to buy a soft drink. Except, that was, when he took the motorcycle out for a spin.
    The motorcycle had belonged to his older brother, but his brother had given up on it. He’d called it a piece of crap and left it to rot. Sebastian tried to get it going again, and it sputtered to life now and then, though it was an unreliable creature. He liked riding it, when he could, because he thought the leather jacket he had found at the tianguis —used, Sebastian could never buy new stuff—coupled with the sunglasses made him look more masculine.
    The boys called him Sebastian Soto el Joto and Sebastian Puto, and sometimes, to be creative and not rhyme, Sebastian Pansy. No matter what the nickname was, the crude conclusion was always the same: he was gay. Sebastian was straight, but accuracy did not have much say when it came to these things. Marking him as effeminate was just a way to toss him into the pile of the undesirables, to mock his everything, to serve as an excuse for their rudeness.
    He remembered one time when Constantino caught him looking at Isadora and snapped, “What are you looking at, faggot?” Sebastian had wanted to beat the crap out of him, to paint the pavement red with the guy’s blood.
    Sebastian wondered if the magic would fix this. If he might grow more muscled, leaving his scrawniness behind. Maybe Isadora would look at him if he looked tougher, if he had nicer clothes, new sneakers. Sneakers that weren’t painted with a black marker.
    They stopped by the bakery and stared at the confectionery for the Day of the Dead: the little candy skulls glittering in the twilight, the sugar looking like tiny diamonds. He liked this time of year. The end of October, the appearance of the orange and yellow flowers, the papel picado and the colourful skeletons which heralded the arrival of the festival, and with it, the end of the rainy season and the beginning of the cold months of the year.
    “Is your grandma going to bake bread for the Day of the Dead?” he asked.
    “Yeah. Next week.”
    “Can I come and eat some?”
    “Sure.”
    Meche entered the shop and bought two pieces of sweet bread. Sebastian didn’t have any money. One more reason why he walked everywhere. She gave him one of the breads and they sat on the steps of a nearby building, eating and watching the few people go by as it got dark and the street lights bloomed into life.
    “Do you think it’ll all be different in the morning?” he asked.
    “You still do not believe me?” she asked.
    He licked some cream which was spilling from the bread onto his hand and shrugged,