Pablo heard and then saw Gaspar and his bike rounding the corner. As always, the sight of his friend brought an automatic smile to his face, then he forced himself to be serious: he was ashamed to show how happy he was to see Gaspar. He wasn’t the only one who reacted like that. Everyone loved Gaspar, from the kiosk attendant to the corner grocer to the mechanic, not to mention almost all the parents and the girls who laughed when they saw him go by. Gaspar lived in a mansion and went to the most expensive school in the neighborhood, which was bilingual and had its own pool, but he didn’t act arrogant or make you feel like he had money, he was normal and generous and he’d lend you anything, clothes, a VCR, his video rental card, books. Gaspar’s life was very different from the others”: his father, who was sick and almost never left the house, didn’t work. A woman came to clean and cook for them: she left their food ready while Gaspar was at school, and he almost never saw her. Other visitors—lawyers and accountants, according to Gaspar—brought money and took care of the school tuition fees and the bills. No one lived like that, with everything just taken care of, at least no one Pablo knew. Even though the Petersons were rich, they didn’t live like rich people: they hardly had any things. But they never lacked for money, and if they ever needed something, those strange employees would appear right away, as if they were standing guard.

Plus, Gaspar is really cute, thought Pablo, but then he bit his lower lip because he knew he wasn’t supposed to think about that. Just last week his father had grabbed him by the hair, all because Pablo had taken a long time choosing what he was going to wear to his uncle’s birthday party. His dad had never done such a thing before: his mouth reeked of mate when he said: “You wouldn’t be a little bit faggy now, would you?” Pablo liked to dress well. He’d said as much to his father, who had nearly hit him for it. When they got home from the birthday party he’d come up with a plan: he listed all his clothes on the last page of a school notebook, in three columns, and then he linked everything with arrows, a kind of summary chart using different colored pens, the way he’d learned to link sentences in class. He had to memorize the combinations or check them quickly before going out, and that way he wouldn’t waste any more time trying to see if the brown corduroy pants went with the green shirt or not.