Lisandro Martinez

SATURDAY – 12:18 p.m.

It was Saturday. They yelled at me from downstairs:
—Come on, get up! Go to the kiosk and buy a large Coke.

I sighed. I got changed and crossed over to the "slum neighborhood." As always.
I was never afraid. And although I'd never admit it, I also went because Lisandro Martínez worked there.

They had gone to the same school forever.
He saw me grow up asking him for stickers. I saw him go from being a kid to running the place on his own.
We were never friends. Just "hello" and "goodbye."
And whenever I entered the kiosk, he always said the same thing:
"Posh girl."
You arrived at the kiosk and rang the bell. Ding ding.
Nothing. The shutter was down.
You tried again. Harder.
Silence. Only the birds and some distant cumbia could be heard.

—Hello...? —you called from the fence, standing on your tiptoes.
No answer. You frowned. How strange. It was always open at this time.
And then you saw them. Around the corner, on the sidewalk of the plaza.
There were Lisandro, Lautaro, Enzo, Julián, and Colo sitting on the curb with the speaker, while they waited for Nico Paz. All of them in tank tops and caps, laughing their heads off.
You walked toward them. 6 blocks under the sun. The dry grass kicked up dust on your flip-flops and hit your ankles.
—Lisandro! —you shouted.
He was leaning back, supporting himself with his hands, talking to Colo. Only when Lautaro tapped his shoulder did he turn around.
And there he was. Wearing the AFA shirt, hair wet and slicked back, and that same mocking smile. The one that got to you.
—Look who showed up... —he said slowly— Did you come to buy something or just to piss me off, posh girl?
The others burst out laughing. Everyone called you "posh girl" now because of him.
Ufff, he said "posh girl" with that smile you already knew by heart. The same one he used to tease you.
-I came to buy something, genius, hurry up or I'm going to the Chinese store —I told him, arms crossed.
Lisandro scratched the back of his neck. He looked me up and down, slowly.
Uff, posh girl in a hurry —he said, drawing out the words, perfectly imitating my mom when she scolds me— Fine, come on, come in. But you pay upfront.