The Accidental Native Read Online Free Page B

souvenirs really: a porcelain coquí, a
güiro
musical scraper and bookends resembling hands in prayer.
    He extended a large, but soft hand with manicured, unpolished nails. A crisp, long green folder, my personnel file, graced his otherwise clean blotter and empty desktop.
    â€œI’m supposed to introduce you to the rector, Dr. Vigo. Pro forma,” he said, head slanted, staring at me with deep-set black eyes topped by thick, arching eyebrows.
    â€œI’m sorry about your parents,” he said, softly. He meant well, I understood, but it didn’t seem right or even his business, and the anger showed on my face.
    My mother used to always tell me I wore my emotions on my face. “You really need to learn how to disimular, Rennie,” she advised, one day while walking with her at a mall, when lust had captured my adolescent face and I ogled a pretty girl walking by. Learn to feign, dissemble.
    â€œI don’t mean to intrude, but it’s difficult to know something like that and not feel obligated to say something comforting.”
    It’s not comforting, I thought, when you’re trying to forget.
    â€œPersonally, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I think the unfortunate incident may have helped sway the dean in your favor. In my opinion, there were stronger candidates right here on the island.” He smiled as if he had just given me the biggest compliment in the world.
    â€œWell, Dr. Roque, I appreciate the honesty.”
    â€œThen we’ll get along just fine,” he said looking straight into my eyes. I looked at this stooped, lanky man sneering at me, with pasty white skin pockmarked from scarring teenage acne, unflappable gray hair, wearing baggy brown pants, beige guayabera and sandals that made him look like a walking cardboard box. I felt this deep, impending doom.
    He sensed the awkwardness and stood up.
    â€œLet’s take you to Dr. Vigo.”
    We walked from the office building without a name in silence, passing the flowerbeds, the fountain in front of Betances Hall, which housed the administrative offices, and across the vast openfield where students took naps or read. We walked by the broken pool and the tennis court, where two older professors played a match, until we arrived at a flat, corner building, the Rectoría.
    In his office, which in contrast to Dr. Roque’s was decorated with many personal artifacts and lithographs done by local artists, Dr. Vigo took my file from Roque and reviewed it.
    â€œAh, you’re Nuyorican,” Vigo stated with a smile on his face. Roque rolled his eyes.
    â€œWell, I grew up in Jersey, but yes, I lived in New York City for a while.”
    â€œBien interesante,” he commented, looking up from the folder. “This return migration of Puerto Ricans—I’m a sociologist,” he offered. “Very under-studied.” I stared at him, and he looked like a walrus with glasses. The Beatles’ “I am the walrus” ran through my mind. His face turned serious, a studied gravity.
    â€œI heard about your parents.” I tensed up. “My heart goes to you,
de verdad, una tragedia
.”
    â€œBut, we all have to move on to business. I welcome you to our college and hope you serve with us for many years to come.” The little smile on his face disappeared, and he leaned toward me. “You’re not involved in any politics, right?”
    I turned to Roque, who sat lips pursed.
    â€œNo, I’m a writer,” I explained.
    â€œI tell all my professors, keep your nose clean, do not get into politics.” He gave me his big flipper-like hand, which I shook, and I left numb, almost not remembering Roque had accompanied me out the door. I looked at him, still stunned.
    â€œCan he ask me that?”
    â€œThat’s how things are here,” he said, bothered. I stood on the sidewalk, hands in pockets. Roque directed me toward the guest house.
    â€œYou’re free