The complete “Miss Suarez”

The story about two boys and the schoolteacher that came between them, in one post.

The other day I passed through Mayfield, a black neighborhood in Thurber, Ohio, where I live, and I heard Run DMC’s “King of Rock” blasting through a car radio. I stopped to listen. For the first time in decades, I thought of George. Did he remember me?

Did he ever forgive me?

He and I spent sixth grade together. We were twelve. Hip hop had begun to take off back then. I learned the words to rap songs like “Rock Box” or “The Breaks” from him. At Halloween and Christmas parties, or whenever we felt like entertaining, we made like we were a couple of fresh MCs, but everyone knew who was the better rapper. George was the center of attention everywhere we went.

I taught him how to win at Donkey Kong. If you stood on a certain ladder and timed the movement of the falling barrels a certain way, you could get more points. No one else at the Aladdin’s Castle arcade knew that except us—not that it was a big deal to other kids in our school.

Not that I was a big deal—except when I performed with George.

A black kid rapping with a white kid was unusual, but he and I had each other’s backs. The belief that I stood in his shadow, though, lurked within my mind. I pretended it didn’t matter, but I would’ve given my all-time high score on Donkey Kong to be as popular as him.

Just once.

We went to John Glenn Middle School. We’d go to the Roy Rogers on Pekar Boulevard after school, eating fried chicken and playing video games in their game room.

The spring semester had started. It was a half day, so we were let out around twelve-thirty. Doctors and nurses from the hospital across the street congregated inside the Roy’s for lunch.

“Andy, you seen that new Spanish teacher yet?” George munched on a roast beef sandwich while watching me play Time Pilot. “Miss Suarez?”

I shot down little helicopters all over the screen when the big helicopter appeared.

“Yeah. What about her?”

“Her hair is so… red. The way she wears it, with that part on one side and how it falls down to, like, just above her right eye…”

I dive-bombed towards the big helicopter and fired on it.

“Yeah, she’s pretty.”

“I wish I was in her class. I got stuck with Mrs. Ulrich. You know she has a mustache? You can’t see it unless you’re, like, up close to her, but ew.” He took another bite.

The big helicopter blew up and my ship entered the time warp into the next level of the game. I was in Miss Suarez’ class, but I didn’t tell George. Why? Because I noticed her too: the small beauty mark on her chin and the way she pronounced words like “churro” and “mañana” and how she smiled at people when she walked down the hallway. I noticed her for sure.

But I kept that to myself.

February dragged. Snow remained on the ground. The wind blew leaves in my face as I walked to school and it reached inside my coat to chill my blood.

George and I had to pass her room on our way to third period Social Studies. He always touched up his Afro before saying hi to her, like his day wouldn’t be complete unless he reminded her he existed. She always said “Hola, Jorge” back. (He wasn’t one of her students. Why couldn’t she call him George?) Still, he only saw her for a few moments a day at the most.

I saw her for forty whole minutes a day. Who knew conjugating verbs and putting words together in Spanish sentences could be worthwhile? “Please pass the rice.” Por favor pasa el arroz. “The bathroom is to the right.” El baño está a la derecha.

Whenever she called on me and I knew the answer to a question, she’d say “¡Correcta, Andrés!” She seemed so pleased—and I didn’t have to share the moment with George.

She told us she was born in Guatemala. She pointed it out in an atlas. She grew up eating antojitos, which meant street food—tacos and empanadas and stuff like that. Guatemala had a volcano which was the highest mountain in Central America. Their rainforest contained the ruins of an ancient Mayan city.

George would’ve killed for this information. At times, my guts twisted over not telling him she was my teacher.

But the feeling would pass.

In March, she had her first week of lunchroom duty. George would make up any excuse to talk to her. When she mentioned The Sugarhill Gang was her favorite rap group, he’d perform “Rapper’s Delight” for her, which would draw a crowd.

I’d sit at our table while my mashed potatoes turned cold, until he finished, then he’d come over with four or five other kids. Miss Suarez would wave to him. I had to look away when she did that.

Kids paid attention to George because he knew how to rap. We began creating original rhymes. He included me even though I wasn’t as good as him—but why did he have to add Miss Suarez to his list of sycophants?

Why couldn’t he let me have this one thing?

April strolled in. When we went to the playground during lunch, I took my jacket off more often. We played handball and I’d tie it onto my waist.

At the Buckeye Theater towards the end of the month, I saw a trailer for a movie called Breakin’. A hip hop movie! With b-boys and breakdancing and funky-fresh gear and everything. As much as I tried, I couldn’t master any of those moves—George wasn’t interested in being a b-boy—but he and I had to be first in line to see this.

He came down with mono though, so I went to the downtown movie palace alone. I wore my Adidas sweatpants and my imitation Kangol hat. I probably looked like a dork, but I didn’t care. The movie was great.

Afterwards, I threw my empty box of Whoppers in the trash. Across the lobby, Miss Suarez stood, outside the bathrooms. I went over and said hi to her, my heart thumping.

“I just saw Breakin’. You see it yet?”

“Not yet, querido. I’m here for Police Academy.”

“Oh yeah. That one was good too.” I clutched my hands behind my back, my foot tracing patterns on the carpet. “I saw Return of the Jedi six times. That’s more than anybody else at school.”

“No kidding?”

“Nope. I started delivering the Sentinel last year on my bike. That’s how I can afford to see so many movies. I come here ‘cause I like dangling my feet from the balcony. Hey, you wanna go see Breakin’ together?”

She loosened her collar.

“Me?”

“I’ll buy you a popcorn.”

She looked around the lobby.

“Oh, that’s uh, sweet of you to offer.” A man exited the bathroom.

“So will you?”

The man wrapped her in his arms from behind and kissed her. They exchanged words in Spanish, then she looked at me again.

“Um, Andy, this is Felix. Felix, this is Andy, one of my students. He was here for a different movie.”

Andrés. I thought I was Andrés.

“Hello there,” he said.

“Listen, we have to get going. I’ll see you in class next week, okay?”

I couldn’t look at her.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Bye.” They walked out of the main entrance arm in arm.

I didn’t really think she could be my girlfriend. Even though I fantasized about it, I was old enough to know that wasn’t possible, but hanging with her outside of the classroom, being her friend—that could’ve happened. It would’ve gotten me noticed among the other kids.

It would’ve given me something George didn’t have.

I still knew things about her he didn’t, though. And I saw her more often than him. That gave me a thrill whenever he flirted with her in the hall between classes.

May turned into June. I exchanged long pants for shorts. The blue skies and rays of sunlight through the classroom windows were an invitation away from textbooks and quizzes.

George got better. He continued saying hi to Miss Suarez outside her classroom.

She took my class on a field trip to her favorite bakery, on Guevin Street downtown. I already knew about churros, but there we learned about things like buñuelo, a kind of doughnut, pionono, a sweet pastry, and polvorón, a shortbread. Plus we learned words like hornear, to bake, and atender, to serve. She bought some desserts for us to share, plus bottles of Jarritos, a soft drink. We ate in Kovacs Plaza.

We left school early. I went to Roy’s to play Defender. I had been there for maybe a half hour when George came.

“You never told me you were in Miss Suarez’ class!”

I looked over my shoulder. He stood with his hands on his hips.

“You saw us?”

“Yeah, I saw you go on your little field trip with her. You have a good time?”

I lost a man. I continued the game with a new life.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“You didn’t think it mattered? You knew how I felt about her. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew how you felt about her!” I wiped my eyes. “Everybody thinks you’re cool because you can rap. I wanted her to think I was cool, too, even if she already had a boyfriend—which she does, by the way.”

“She does? What else do you know about her?”

“Plenty.”

He grunted.

“I can’t believe you’d keep that from me. I thought we were friends.”

“Yeah, well.” Words failed me.

He left. I stopped playing after a moment. I leaned against the video game, rubbing my eyes.

Over the summer George and I saw each other less. By seventh grade we barely spoke to each other. Eventually we went to different high schools and drifted apart.

If I wasn’t so jealous of him, so secretive, we’d have stayed friends. I know that now. He didn’t have to include me whenever we performed rap songs. Everyone knew I was just his sidekick.

But he did. And I never appreciated that.

Hip hop’s not the same these days. The MCs are better, but it feels angrier. Not as playful and fun as it used to be. George probably still listened to it, though. Wherever he was.

As for Miss Suarez, she probably retired from teaching. Did she marry Felix?

“King of Rock” ended. A newer song started by somebody I had never heard before. I moved on.