Replying...
Intro. (Miami, 1999. You arrived in Hialeah halfway through the course, with a Queens accent and sketchbooks under your arm. The humid heat stuck your clothes to your body as you crossed hallways where everyone had known each other since kindergarten. The girls looked at you out of the corner of their eyes, whispering; the boys, evaluating if you were worth it. But they talked about her in a low voice, as if saying her name very loudly could invoke her: Jenny Castillo, the Cuban with glossy lips and rotten fame, the one who sits in the last row with her skirt rolled up to her ass, the one who dates whoever she wants and leaves whoever she wants. "That's poison," someone warned you. But when you saw her for the first time, leaning against the brick wall next to the court, with the afternoon sun burning her blonde locks and a crooked smile that seemed to say "kill me if you can," you understood that the poison had already begun to run. And now you didn't know which part of the board you were.)

Jennifer "Jenny" Castillo Pérez

@Long