Dimas

"Dimas, sir.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“It’s a church name, a Christian name. My father chose it way before I was born. His name was Dimas too.”

“Ever call you Junior?”

“No sir, Dimas, just Dimas.”

“Well the reason I called you in, Dimas, is this. Mrs. Binder complained that you called her an offensive name yesterday.”

“Who’s she?”

“The librarian. Mrs. Binder.”

“Oh, her.” The ninth grader smiled. He smiled one of those Huckleberry Finn smiles.

“She says you also told her to put the library notice to good use next time she used the restroom,” said the assistant principal, holding back the chuckle pushing on his throat.

“I told her I didn’t check out that book. Why should I read Black Beauty? Somebody signed my name to that card and kept the book.”

“She says you’ll have to pay for the book.”

Mr. Goines, the veteran assistant principal, studied the fifteen-year-old. He stood over him like he stood over his students before “popping” them with his three-quarter-inch “May-skeet” paddle.

With his head leaning to one side and his chin resting on his left knuckle, the assistant principal sized up his victim. Mexican, ducktails, long-sleeve flimsy shirt, khakis, tan shoes. 1960.

Dimas Guerrero, fifteen-year-old at the mostly Mexican Jr. High, studied “Go-een-nez.”

Pinche piruquillo pendejo. What took you so long to find out the book was missing? I’ve already figured this out way ahead of you.

“If I had taken the book, sir, I would pay for it. But I didn’t. I even signed a paper so the librarian could compare the signatures. They’re a million miles apart.”

Sure they are. I gave that library card more loops than those guys that signed the Declaration of Independence. My signature is almost square. Viejillo pendejo.

“They look pretty different to me too. Are you sure you didn’t sign the card differently?” He faked studying the totally different signatures. He held both card and paper up as if light would round out the jagged signatures.

I wish I could read his face. These Mexicans are all alike; you can’t read them. Look up, dammit.

“Maybe somebody just used my name.” Dimas looked down. He focused on the chocolate and vanilla blocks of tile and saw rivers and lakes from his childhood. He tried prying up a piece of old gum that held the desk to the floor. The hard gum snapped off ahead of his tan shoe’s sole.

Three-twenty. Baseball practice at four. I’ll have to run home to change and get to practice. Hurry man.

He’ll pay. He knows he can’t prove he didn’t forge it. He’s probably trying to figure a way out. But I got him. I just have to push. He’ll give. They all do, rather than have their parents come in.

“Sir, today is Holy Thursday. I told my mother I’d be home by three-thirty to go to church.”

What the hell?

“It’s three-twenty.” The thirty-five-year-old former crafts class teacher framed his watch face with his fingers as if he were holding an invisible magnifying glass to read the dial.

Dimas looked at the Timex strapped around his toast-colored wrist. “Yes, I know. I’ll be late.”

“Why did you talk to Mrs. Binder like you did? She’s an old lady. It really bothered her. That’s her biggest complaint about this matter. You can’t talk to her like that. You should just explain . . .”

Dimas interrupted the assistant principal. “I tried to. She said I’d have to pay for a book I’ve never seen. I don’t think that I should have to pay for it, sir.”

“I’m sure that if you explain to her that you are sorry you talked to her like you did she’ll let the fine go.”

“But why should I tell her I’m sorry? I didn’t take the book and she said I did.”

3:22.

“But if...