So there was this chica, Isabel García Hernández, right? Total vecina from down the block who had this whole thing going on. I swear this girl knew exactly what she was doing with those damn mini skirts and the whole "oops, let me bend over right here" routine. Like, come on, Isabel – we see you.
Me and Isabel, we were both extranjeros trying to figure out this whole American thing, you know? Except I was here on some fancy international student visa, hitting the books and shit, while Isabel was straight-up immigrant life – the real deal, no safety net, just hustling to make it work. Respeto to that, honestly.
My host bro Jeff? Dude was absolutely gone over Isabel. Always running his mouth like "Bro, I'd totally hit that" and I'm like, "Jeff, cálmate, she's not some conquest, cabrón." But whatever, Jeff's gonna Jeff.
Anyway, so this one day – and I'm talking about a day that went from zero to absolute mierda real quick – this pendejo Benjamin O'Brien decides he wants to throw hands with me. Right there. In front of everybody. In front of Isabel. Now look, getting your ass kicked is bad enough, but getting your ass kicked while the girl you've been low-key crushing on is watching? That's some next-level humiliation right there. Like, universe, why you gotta do me dirty like that?
Benjamin's throwing these punches and I'm thinking, "This is it. This is how I die. Not from studying too hard or eating too much cafeteria food, but from getting murked by some dude named Benjamin while Isabel watches the whole damn show."
And Isabel? She's just standing there with this look on her face like she's watching some telenovela unfold in real time. I couldn't tell if she was horrified, entertained, or just thinking "These gringos are loco."
The whole thing was so damn cliché it hurt worse than Benjamin's actual punches. Foreign student gets beat up in front of his crush – yeah, real original, vida. What's next, am I gonna slip on a banana peel? But here's the thing about getting your ass handed to you in public – it either breaks you or it makes you realize you gotta step up your game. And me? I was tired of being the guy who just took whatever came his way. Time to figure out what the hell I was gonna do about Benjamin, about Isabel, and about this whole mess I'd somehow stumbled into.
Okay, so before you start writing some bullshit hero's journey in your head, let me back this shit up. You're probably thinking you know how this goes - small town Spanish kid gets his ass beaten, discovers hidden powers, gets the girl, saves the world, whatever. And yeah, maybe you're right about some of that, but first let me tell you who the hell I actually am.
Name's... well, doesn't matter right now. What matters is I grew up in Leganés, which is this nowhere-ass town north of Madrid that you've definitely never heard of. Not the romantic Spain with flamenco dancers and shit - more like the Spain where your mamá works three jobs and your papá drinks too much cerveza while complaining about Atlético de Madrid losing.
America? Dude, America was like this impossible dream. Like winning the lottery but harder. The kind of place you see in movies where everyone's got perfect teeth and cars that actually start when you turn the key. So when I somehow, by some miracle of paperwork and scholarships, made it to the States as an international student, I thought I'd hit the jackpot. Fresh start, new life, all that motivational poster bullshit.
But America? Holy shit, America was nothing like what I expected. And the worst part? I landed in the host home of the fucking Lees.
Now you're probably thinking they're East Asian-Americans, right? Well, congratulations, you're a complete dumbass. Sorry, but it's true. The Lee family was straight-up Anglo-American - whiter than cocaine on fresh snow. I didn't know those European motherfuckers also used Lee as their surnames. I mean, sure, I knew about Jet Li, but I'm not wasting my goddamn energy in this romantic novel explaining European surname bullshit to your ignorant ass. The Lee family was this whole circus: Mr. James Lee (some boring corporate drone), his wife who everyone just called "Mom" like she didn't have her own fucking identity, my host brother Geoffrey Lee - Jeff for short - and Jeff's two absolutely smoking hot hermanas, Katherine and Laura.
I swear to Christ himself, there was no way in hell I was gonna treat those two incredible pieces of ass like my sisters. They were Jeff's sisters, not mine - I was just some foreign exchange student pretending to belong. And based on all the American movies I'd binged growing up in shitty Leganés, I knew my time would come. One day I was gonna make my move on one of them, especially Laura. Dios mío, that girl was pure fire. Not quite Isabel-level nuclear heat, but still fire enough to melt steel.
Sorry, I think I talk too fucking much sometimes. Anyway, the Lee family seemed lovely on the surface, but man, I had never met such a goddamn disorganized group of people back in Leganés. It was like watching a house divided against itself every single day. I mean, back in España, when we say familia, we mean FAMILIA - blood, sweat, tears, and unconditional loyalty. But in America? I found this random collection of people just... existing in the same space. They ate dinner separately, watched different TVs, had their own separate lives. I don't even know how to express how fucked up that seemed to me, but it was definitely a turn-off. Not what I expected from the American dream.
But then I liked the neighborhood way more when my eyes landed on Isa. Yeah, suddenly I liked Estados Unidos just fine. Funny how a perfect ass can change your whole perspective on freedom and democracy. The problem was, I wasn't a "girl guy." Never had been, never would be. I was the nerd who got picked last for everything back home. I thought maybe a change in environment was gonna redeem me, transform me into some smooth Latino lover or whatever bullshit fantasy I'd built up. My cousin Francisco told me when I was getting ready for the flight, "Hugo, you lucky bastard. American girls go crazy for Latin lovers. They can't resist the Spanish charm. I wish I was you, cabrón."
But dude, we were talking about something we didn't know shit about. There was no way this awkward nerd was gonna transform into Don Juan in a fortnight. I was the same old Hugo González - just with a different zip code and a whole lot more sexual frustration.
Then I met Isabel García Hernández. This chica - and I mean chica in every sense of the word - lived down the block from my host family's place. And let me tell you something about Isabel: she knew exactly what kind of power she had and she wielded that shit like a goddamn weapon. Those mini skirts? Strategic. The way she'd "accidentally" drop her books right in front of you? Calculated. The little upskirt shows whenever she climbed the stairs in front of me? Isabel wasn't just teasing - she was conducting a masterclass in psychological warfare.