I woke up at 6:15. On purpose. For days I'd been fucking avoiding Laura in any one-on-one situation, but today? Today was different.
Today was the day. The beginning of my new life. I was going to fucking strut into Westbridge University like I was starring in the Spanish remake of Euphoria. I had style. Swagger. European mystique that would make American girls drop their Starbucks cups. I was, in short, about to become that guy.
I wore the floral shirt—the one that made every abuela in Leganés stop and stare. The tight jeans that made my aunt literally cry when I wore them to church because "Dios mío, Hugo, your nalgas shouldn't be a public announcement."
My sneakers were pristine white, my hair was damp and artfully messy like I'd just stepped off a Calvin Klein shoot, and I sprayed just enough cologne to suggest mystery without gassing innocent bystanders.
Mirror Hugo looked hot. Mirror Hugo had edge. Mirror Hugo was about to get a reality check that would humble him for the rest of his fucking life.
When Jeff showed up to drive me, wearing some ratty hoodie and basketball shorts like he'd given up on existence, I was laughing inside.
"Este chaval va a quedar en evidencia," I muttered to myself, already planning to pretend I didn't know him once we hit campus. Poor bastard had no idea how to dress for success.
I stepped onto campus and instantly... knew I had fucked up spectacularly. Everyone—and I mean everyone—was dressed like they had just crawled out of a burning laundry basket after a three-day coma. Hoodies with mysterious stains. Flip-flops that had seen better decades. Socks and sandals combos that would get you deported from any respectable European country. One girl shuffled past in SpongeBob pajama pants and a sports bra. A guy walked by with no shoes—no fucking shoes—like he was channeling his inner caveman.
I thought I'd look like a fashion icon leading the style revolution. Instead, I looked like someone who had mistaken orientation week for the Met Gala, or worse—like I was about to sell everyone life insurance.
But I'm Spanish, goddammit. We don't back down from fashion choices, even when they're disasters. I strutted like a European peacock through a flock of hungover pigeons, head high, ignoring the side-eyes and barely contained smirks. That confidence lasted exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds.
By the time I dragged my overdressed ass to my first class—"Intro to American History," because nothing screams "¡Bienvenido!" like colonial tax policies and dead white guys—I had already been called "flamboyant," "European," and my personal favorite, "a little too into himself." That last gem was whispered by a girl in yoga pants who was clutching a venti iced matcha like it contained the meaning of life. I wasn't even mad. Chica had range.
Classroom 204 was supposed to be in Alexandria Hall. Simple, ¿verdad? Wrong. Dead wrong. I went to Alexandria Hall twice. First time? Janitor's closet that smelled like industrial bleach and someone's shattered dreams. Second time? Men's bathroom where some guy was having what sounded like a very emotional breakup via phone. Third time, a saint of a student finally pointed me toward Alexandria Annex—which, por supuesto, wasn't on the fucking campus map because why would anything be easy in this país?
"¡Joder! ¿Por qué me separé de Jeff? What the hell was I thinking?" I muttered, speed-walking across campus like la migra was chasing me.
By the time I burst through that classroom door, I was sweating bullets under my cologne and my carefully crafted "mysteriously unbuttoned" shirt had transformed into "someone help this pobre diablo, he's having a meltdown." Fifty students turned to stare at me like I was a mariachi band that had wandered into a funeral.
The professor didn't even pause his lecture. Not a fucking beat.
"—and that's why the Monroe Doctrine fundamentally reshaped hemispheric diplomacy in ways that still influence—"
No "Welcome, international student." No "Please, take a seat, hijo." Just straight-up monologuing about presidents I'd never heard of and wars that had absolutely nothing to do with España. I felt like I'd accidentally crashed someone else's Netflix documentary about the most boring shit imaginable.
I spotted an empty seat near the middle and made my move. Qué mala idea. I tripped over someone's massive backpack on the way down the aisle. Didn't face-plant completely, but did that awkward stumble-dance where you try to act like it's part of your European charm. Spoiler alert: it's not charming when you're flailing like a drunk flamingo. Nobody bought it. Especially not the guy I sat next to, who was wearing a backwards baseball cap and AirPods like they were life support devices.
"Hey," I said, trying to salvage whatever dignity I had left. Nada. Just silence, aggressive gum-chewing, and the distant sound of whatever podcast was apparently more fascinating than acknowledging that a sweaty Spanish kid had just crash-landed next to him.
I looked around and discovered my next cultural shock. Everyone was typing on laptops like they were coding the next Instagram. Meanwhile, I had... a notebook. With a pen. Like some caveman who'd time-traveled from the stone age of education. I might as well have been carving hieroglyphics on a cave wall.
I opened it and wrote: Day 1: America is a fashion wasteland. Everyone looks dead but somehow knows more than me. AirPods = anti-social force field. Jeff's casual clothes suddenly make sense. I am so jodido.
After fifty minutes of the driest history lecture known to mankind—and I'm from a country where we make kids memorize the entire Spanish Inquisition—class ended with zero fanfare. No "hasta la vista." No polite smiles. Just poof. Gone. Like cucarachas when you flip on the kitchen light at 3 AM.
Standing there in my fancy shirt, watching everyone shuffle out in their pajamas and flip-flops, I realized something profound: I wasn't the main character of some sexy Spanish exchange student movie. I was the comic relief.