Bienvenido

It's the shoes that will give him away. Funny how that's always the case. Manage to come up with jeans and a t-shirt, and you think you'd be set, ready to blend in and just be a kid, just some kid, here in this high school that's full of 'em, at least while you walk down the halls. But it's always the shoes that say, "Hi, I am an exchange student from Germany," or, today, "I am a refugee from Honduras, and I have no idea what this place is, or what I am really doing here," even before, as the saying goes, the mouth opens to remove all doubt. Black dress shoes, by the way, from some Sunday long past.

Before this student arrived today, I admit to wishing he wouldn't. Flipping through his file--indeed, he had one, from the Department of Homeland Security, even--I willed him to someone better equipped, but my influence with the universe is minimal. Either that or whomever's in charge (of the universe, that is) just has too wicked a sense of humor. Too bad the joke's going to be on my new Honduran friend. Who has, best I can tell and according to his brother, never been to school before. In any language. Ever.

Doesn't mean he's not smart. Doesn't mean he's not capable. But dios mio. I so do not have the time. But that's not his fault, and, regardless, all I can do is all I can do. Which, tomorrow, first thing, will have to include a little talk between the new boy and me with the help of one of my dozens of interpreters. I've got some Spanish, but we need to get this right, and it's something those other kids know absolutely. American high school lesson number one: this place is neither what you want or need, not even remotely, but Ms. P. will try.