It felt for a moment like I was falling off a cliff, as if the perfect image I’d cultivated for years would collapse in a single moment, how this incident would follow me grade after grade, and I would be forever known not as the smart and white one but as the kid who pooped himself and was stupid enough to think he could get away with it.

“Someone stepped on dog poop and tracked it inside,” I heard Samuel say behind me.

“Yeah, that’s why it smells bad,” Don Flores said, and a couple of other boys followed. We all checked our shoes, and even though no one found anything, our social studies teacher came in, so we settled down to our lesson again. I could still smell myself, so I was sure anyone near my seat with a sensitive nose could too. But thankfully, no one brought it up again, and Grace sat a safe distance away.

As our teacher began writing on the board, I stole a glance at Samuel two seats behind me. I couldn’t see his expression, but I could tell he was looking at me too. I was sure he knew, and I wanted to mouth “thank you” but couldn’t, so I let the matter remain an unspoken secret between us. As my gaze lingered on Samuel, I became aware of something even more shameful: I was hopelessly smitten with my friend.

5.

For weeks, I refused to move into our new house. Nanay tolerated my whims, set out the seagrass mat, and stayed with me even though everyone else had started sleeping in that opulent building with its two terraces, multiple bathrooms, and beds just like the Americans. It felt cruel that I had just learned to appreciate my own upbringing when my family decided to adopt Western ways, and I was sentimental about my childhood in our wood-and-thatch home, the breeze from the gaps between the bamboo slats on the floor, the open wood flame we cooked over instead of the stove Nanay had installed, and the washer she bought for clothes.