Chapter 4
After school, Felix drives me home while I flip through the IntegriTruth handbook.
“No nose rings, no tongue rings, no visible tattoos, no henna, no dreadlocks.” What are they going to do, put all the Black students with dreadlocks and art students with more piercings than body parts into a cannon and shoot them into the stratosphere?
I guess that's more important than the fact that, I don't know, half of my classes didn't even have teachers today?
We were instructed to log in to our computers and begin lessons in the IntegriTruth portal, and obviously we didn't.
I notice that Felix is going in the opposite direction of our homes. “Wait, where are you taking us?”
“I have to show you something,” he says. “Actually, close your eyes.”
After five minutes of staying in the dark, he parks and pulls me out of the car.
“You can open them now.”
The first thing I see is a tacky neon sign that reads BUENO BUENO BUENO! FINE TEX-MEX DINING. It's on an electric-yellow building, one that looks like a fast food restaurant from a million years ago that had those waitresses in skirts on roller skates.
I almost bust my gut laughing. “This cannot be a real place!”
“I don't know why I was expecting something a little more authentic from a restaurant called Bueno Bueno Bueno,” Felix says, “but this appears to have been designed in a corporate laboratory by a bunch of men in suits who have never seen a Mexican in their lives.”
“Can we please go inside?” I ask.
“That's the idea,” he says.
As we enter, I have to look behind me in case anybody is around. I don't want a single person I know to watch me step foot in this place, no matter how much I hate them.
We wait several minutes for a table. Felix tugs my shirt and points to a poster of a Mexican lady smiling for the camera as she rolls tortillas.
“Tia Fernanda welcomes you to her kitchen!” I read aloud from the scrolling text below.
“Except Tia Fernanda isn't a real person, unless you think it's normal to have seven fingers,” Felix says.
He's right. Her left hand is a little blurry, but there are clearly seven fingers on it.
“Maybe she cooks faster that way?”
“She's AI generated,” Felix says. “These lazy asses told the cheapest AI app they could find to make a Mexican woman rolling tortillas and it farted out this monstrosity.”
“Oh no,” I say, noticing a plaque that states An IntegriFood Company. Below it, there is a statue of Brandon Barton Buckley in a rhinestone jacket. What in the holy hell. I'd never even heard of him before yesterday, and today he is taking over this town.
A sign right next to him promotes a 15 percent discount for any customer that brings their guns.
We're in Texas, so I shouldn't be surprised by this.
Felix asks how it's possible that this man is running our school district and running a gutter food franchise at the same time.
Once again: we're in Texas, so leave all logic at the door.
The hostess takes us to our table, guiding us past tables full of retirement home groups. Strings of lit-up chilis and blinking green lightbulbs adorn the ceiling. She hands us two laminated menus the size of our torsos as we slip into a booth.
A waitress greets us with some tortilla chips and pico de gallo. The pico de gallo looks bland and mushy.
“How sassy is the Sassy Poblano Steak?” Felix asks her.
“All the meat went bad during the outage.”
“Then what do you have?” he asks.
“We got some nachos and tres leches cake,” she says.
“Why not? Let's celebrate the end of this turd nibblet of a day,” I say.
The speakers play “La Cucaracha.” Someone in a cockroach costume runs through the restaurant, chased by an older woman who is celebrating her birthday.
“Squash! Squash! Squash!” everybody chants as the woman hits the cockroach with a spatula.
“What is ‘La Cucaracha' even about?” I ask.
“A cockroach that loses its legs,” Felix says.
The waitress brings us a plate of soggy nachos and a slice of cake. The nachos don't inspire confidence, so we go for the cake instead. I like the frosting and Felix likes the sponge cake. As always, we divide and conquer. It's good—too good for this place.
“This tastes like H-E-B tres leches,” I say.
Felix nods. “They literally went to H-E-B and bought some.”
“Which isn't fair if we aren't paying H-E-B prices,” I say.
“If you could ask anyone to prom, who would it be?” Felix asks out of absolutely nowhere.
“Huh? I wouldn't be caught dead at prom.”
“Are you into anybody at school?”
“Gross, no,” I say. “What about you?”
“Don't laugh, but… Byron Murphee.”
“But he's such a snob!”
“Yeah, but he's so talented and artistic. And he's not afraid to be who he is,” Felix says. “I wish I could be like that.”
“And he's dating Carsten Selesky. This is a pointless conversation. Nobody at school would go out with us, and I wouldn't want to go out with any of them either,” I say. “Actually, I have a better idea. I'll find you a hot boyfriend. He'll be AI, just like Tia Fernanda.”
I download a free AI-generating app. It gives you options to create a person and even make videos of them. Felix asks me to make him look like Superman. Now I'm definitely learning more and more about my own best friend.
“Which one?”
“David Corenswet! Obviously!”
“Generate a picture of a hot high school jock who looks like David Corenswet,” I dictate to my phone.
We watch the loading bar slowly slide to the other end and a photo appears of a guy who looks like David Corenswet with googly eyes and fingers that are melded together.
We howl so loud that the other tables stare at us.
We create several videos of him jogging shirtless while holding his phone and doing other physical activities. Felix creates one of him in front of the Eiffel Tower munching on a baguette.
We debate on a name. Felix wants something generic like Chris, but I think we should go for something more exotic.
“Like a hot foreign exchange student or something,” I say.
“Like Pierre.” Felix laughs.
“Pierre Hardón,” I say, and we both explode into laughter.
I create a profile for Pierre Hardón where we post all the photos and videos of him.
Felix has this funny little laugh, and he presses his lips together when he smiles, even though his teeth are perfect.
I love the little things we do together.
What would even be the point of dating somebody else?
I remember Dinah's words last night and get angry again.
I know Felix said we'd still be friends after graduation.
But what if he moves back to Argentina or something?
Shrill feedback from the stage microphone stuns me out of my thought bubble. The manager of the restaurant, a short man, taps the mike.
“Hola, friends! Thank you so much for eating here with us tonight, even with our limited menu. We have a special guest here to play for you while you eat. Give it up for Plutonium Cactus!”
The curtain opens and a man with a guitar is lowered down to the stage by cords.
Shit on a stick. It's the Pringles man from last night. Clint.
Feedback from the amp blasts the ears of everybody in the restaurant, who drop their forks and knives and quickly plug their ears with their fingers.
“Pecos, ladies and gents! We're Plutonium Cactus! We've got a new song written by yours truly! It's called ‘The Woman I Need'!” Clint lands right in front of his drummer and bassist while sparklers light up the stage behind him.
“Pringles man at two o'clock,” I say.
“Yikes!” Felix drops a ten-dollar bill on the table. We both slip carefully out of the booth and tiptoe past the other tables, crouching so as not to attract attention.
But I can't help myself. I turn my head and take one last look at Clint, who immediately locks eyes with me. He freezes and, like a record scratch, his guitar chord goes sour.
“Hey! YOU! Boy with the cracked face! You stole our lawn gnome!” Clint yells.
He tries to run at us but forgets he's attached to his cables. His guitar flies out of his hands and smashes on the ground. He's jerked back onstage and falls onto the drum kit, knocking the pieces all over the stage.
We fly out the front door, but not before Felix bonks the smiley face on the How Was Our Service Today? feedback tablet. He's adorably sweet like that.