The narrator, Alice, has an epileptic seizure while singing in choir which causes her to stare at a boy named John. Later, while bike riding with her friend Nina, Alice and Nina are chased by some boys. Alice turns down a dead end alley and is attacked by the boys. John, who saw Alice pass by his house, comes to her rescue by speaking to the boys in Spanish and getting them to leave. John helps Alice but she is still distrustful of him due to her upbringing. Alice wonders what became of John and hopes he found love with someone who did not judge him for his ethnicity.

1. John To Thank
by Alyne Harding
Brown eyes. That's what I first noticed when I came to my senses. Soft, kind,
concerned, and as deep as they were dark. Surrounding those eyes was a round face,
olive complexion, with a slightly pointed chin - almost elfin. The face was neither
smiling nor frowning… just staring curiously. A fringe of short, nearly-black hair framed
the face of the pseudo-stranger, a boy in the class ahead of me. For a moment, I
wondered why he was staring at me… then I realized it was because I was staring at
HIM! Dangit… I'd done it again.
For the past year, I'd been having these strange episodes, almost like hallucinations,
but they were usually accompanied by intense physical discomfort. Unless the
discomfort became so overwhelming that I couldn't sit still, I might easily have one
without anyone near me taking notice - unless, of course, if I was in the middle of a
sentence when one began, at which point I'd start speaking gibberish. What I didn't know
then (and wouldn't know for many years after) was that I was suffering from Temporal
Lobe Epilepsy and that these episodes - “flashbacks” I called them because they
reminded me of half-remembered dreams - were a type of mild seizure. They'd come on
with little warning and I'd find myself utterly fixated on the sights and sounds that I
KNEW were not real, only barely aware of my actual surroundings. I kept hoping,
eventually, something I saw or heard might give me a clue as to what they meant - such
as, was I crazy or possessed or maybe even some kind of psychic? I had a vivid
imagination back then. But I only mention all this because I was having one of my
“flashbacks” when I began reluctantly and unwittingly staring at the sweet-faced boy,
thus humiliating myself to no end!
Unlike most 7th grade girls, I wasn't generally the boy-crazy type. My standards
were higher than my hometown, nestled in the southern half of the Texas Gulf Coastal
Bend, could ever hope to produce. I was too much of a tomboy, too much of a geek and,
to be honest, a bit of a snob. I wasn't taken to giggling over cowboys or getting stuck in
the mud on some back road after a rainstorm and while I loved climbing trees and playing
with flea-bitten dogs, the stench of the Annual Livestock Show, which was the social
event of the year in my town, made me nauseous. To make matters worse, I was
forbidden from flirting with, much less dating, well over half of the local population.
Mine was one of the last Anglo families to stubbornly refuse to leave town after members
of the Hispanic political party, La Raza, took over the school board. Even so, I was never
once allowed to attend the public school or swim at the public pool. I was a student at St.
Michael's Parochial Academy… and my family actually belonged to a private pool that
unashamedly excluded anyone with a Hispanic last name.
I was standing in the choir loft of the chapel when the unfortunate staring incident
took place. I'd been engrossed by the angelic sounds of the organ and the otherworldly
colors of the stained glass, neither of which the Baptist church my family attended ever
quite mastered, when the seizure hit. I was supposed to be singing, along with a few
dozen other 12-13 year olds, but I never got a chance to start before I was swept up in

2. another experience entirely, my eyes traveling unfocused towards my lower right where
the far side of the choir stands curved. The instant I realized where, and for how long,
my gaze had lingered, I immediately jerked my head forward and tried very hard not to
turn several hundred shades of red. I failed… my father was Scots-Irish, after all.
It seemed, for the rest of the day, that I was uncommonly aware of the boy I'd been
staring at. I'd hardly noticed him before, but now I sensed his every move in the chapel,
on the playground and at lunch in the cafeteria. It was driving me crazy! Finally, I asked
my friend, Nina, “Hey, ya' know that guy whose desk I sit in when we go to Mrs. Daniels'
class?” Nina hadn't a clue, so I asked another lunch-buddy, “Micky? You know him?”
“He's Mexican, right?” Typical. That was always the first thing we Anglo girls were
trained to notice.
“Um, I dunno,” I said. “I mean, he's kinda dark-complected, and I don't remember
his name, but I saw it on his books one day and it wasn't... um, Hispanic.”
Finally, Nina tuned in. “Oh, you're talking about John?” Nina knew everyone in
town. Her mom ran a beauty shop out of their home, so Nina was always up on all the
gossip. “That's John Dorn. Yeah, he's kinda cute, for a Mes'kin.” Again, typical. Most
of my friends had grown up around Spanish-speakers, yet half of us, myself included,
could barely pronounce a single word correctly, let alone consider ourselves fluent. I
started to point out that “Dorn” was hardly a Hispanic name, but Nina insisted, “Well,
he's gotta be at least HALF Mes'kin. Either way, YOUR folks would have a cow if they
knew you liked him!”
I totally back-pedaled. “I didn't SAY I liked him! It's just... well... gosh, this is so
embarrassing. Ya' know how I sometimes kinda tune out and stare into space for a
while? Well I did that today... in choir... and when I came to, I was staring RIGHT at
him... John, that is. And he was staring BACK at me! I mean, I never really noticed him
before, but now I'll bet he just KNOWS I like him... but I don't. I mean, I don't DISlike
him but... like you said... Mom and Dad would FREAK!”
“Your GRANDMOTHER would freak,” Micky was quick to point out. My mother's
parents were very influential in the region. They had certain standards for their children
and grandchildren, especially my grandmother who was born in Mississippi! John
couldn't possibly meet those standards - not even if he were a millionaire… or a crown
prince.
“Oh, don't even go there!”
Nina was loving this, “Awww, our own little Romeo & Juliet!”
“Cut it out, Nina! What if he thinks I like him and my family finds out? They'd
NEVER believe me!” I had a tendency toward the dramatic at that age. “They never
believe anything I say, whether I'm telling the truth or not.”

3. Micky, a fellow Baptist, suddenly got preachy on me, “Why are you so concerned? It
doesn't matter what anybody thinks. You know the truth. Isn't that what Bro. Tim
preached last Sunday?” What a crock! Micky rarely ever sat with us at lunch because
her “best friend,” Casey, was so demanding and insecure that she didn't want Micky to
have ANY other friends. Fortunately for us, Casey was out sick that day, but that didn't
stop me from pointing out the flaw in Micky's sermon. Of course, she had an answer for
everything. “Casey's... complicated, but I wouldn't have a life at all without her. My
folks are a LOT more controlling than yours, Alice.” I found that hard to believe.
“Casey's mom and mine used to teach together, so my folks trust hers and I get to have
some fun. It's totally worth it.”
“Whatever.”
Lunch was over. Mrs. Daniels' class was next. “Moment of truth!” Nina teased. I
was starting to wish I could be out sick. Any second, I just might GET sick!
Micky came to my rescue, “Lay off, Nina. Alice, relax. The more you act weird, the
more he's gonna think something's up. May as well go with it.”
“Mm'k.” I struck my best nonchalant posture and impassive expression and entered
the classroom behind Nina and Micky. My detached façade immediately fell flat when I
saw that John was still seated at his desk… MY desk for the next hour! He was writing
furiously in a leather-bound journal with a determined look on his face and the remains of
his brown bag lunch in the crook of his elbow. I couldn't think of a way to stall without
looking suspicious and he wouldn't be leaving before I reached him, otherwise.
Fabulous.
I leaned against the wall next to his desk and tried to pretend like nothing was
different from any other day before. Eventually, Mrs. Daniels spoke up, “John, hurry up,
now. Another student needs your seat and you mustn't keep Sister Bautista waiting.” He
looked up and gave me a quick, shy smile. I returned the same as he gathered his things
and stood up, just a little too close to me for comfort. I shuddered involuntarily. Nina
muffled a giggle one desk over and I shot her what I hoped was a murderous look - truth
be told, it probably came across more like... martyred.
As I sat at John's desk and felt the warmth he'd left behind, I remembered my mother
telling me that, in times past, a lady always waited a moment or two before taking a seat
vacated by a gentleman so that the scandalous exchange of body heat would not take
place. I rolled my eyes and suppressed a snort. My next thought was grateful that I knew
enough about the facts of life not to worry that such an exchange could cause an STD, or
worse, pregnancy - then so embarrassed myself with these thoughts that I buried my
reddening face in my hands. How ironic that, in just a few days time, John, with his
knowledge of an “objectionable” culture and fluency in an “undesirable” tongue, would
save me from a fate worse than death.

4. Nina came over the following Saturday to go bike-riding with me. Now, Nina had an
average figure for a 12 year old. I, however, did not. For a girl who still preferred to
play with dolls rather than makeup, I sure got hit on by a lot of grown men! For this
reason, my mother censored my wardrobe rather strictly and never allowed me to wear
shorts while bike-riding alone. But Nina was SUCH a fashion victim! She begged me,
and by extension, my mother, to put away my culottes and wear the shorts she bought me
for my birthday that matched hers. Mom conceded and off we went.
We weren't more than a block or two from the house when they descended. Four
boys on two bikes, aged anywhere from 12 to 17, began stalking us, herding, threatening
and laughing at our innocently appalled reactions to their lewd gestures and comments.
We'd always been warned that the kids on the other side of the tracks, all of whom were
Hispanic, began experimenting with sex and drugs at a VERY young age. Now, we were
seeing the proof for ourselves! I didn't know what the boys were on, but it was obvious
what they wanted to do. Nina wanted us to go back home, but that way was blocked and
anyway I didn't want them knowing where I lived. We took off toward her aunt's house,
instead, peddling as fast as we could. The boys were faster, even with each bike carrying
one kid on the handlebars. They managed to get us separated. Nina made a beeline for
her aunt's and the boys chasing her curved around and headed back towards me!
I headed onto a street I wasn't too familiar with. While this street was on the better
side of the tracks, it was still mostly populated by Hispanics; granted, they were generally
a more educated class than those on the other side. Looking back, I would swear the next
few minutes went by in slow motion! I passed a house on a corner where a boy was
watering the lawn. As I frantically glanced at the boy, I recognized him… it was John. I
said a brief prayer that he might, somehow, be smart enough and brave enough and care
enough to come to my aid, but I held out little hope. Why should he? I was just some
crazy girl from an uppity family that stared at him like a statue! I turned another corner
and barely repressed a shriek when I realized I'd hit a dead end. Even the alleyway was
obstructed by barbed wire and the surrounding buildings all looked abandoned. I could
make a run for it, but I'd not only forfeit my bike, I'd suffer some serious cuts on that
wire, assuming I made it there at all.
As I slammed on my brakes, the bike skidded out from under me and I found myself
face down in the gravel, sharp pains shooting from my knees and elbows and palms. I
felt strong, rough hands on me, some of them pulling, some of them pushing, like they
couldn't decide how they wanted me or who would go first. All of them were speaking
Spanish and I wished to God I knew what they were saying and could plead for my
freedom in their own language, not that it would do me a lot of good. I probably didn't
really want to know what they had planned for me, anyway, although it might have
helped me form some sort of last-minute escape.
The next thing I knew, I heard a not-unfamiliar voice, speaking VERY unfamiliar
words and in a tone I found both comforting and frightening. I looked up toward the
alleyway and saw John standing there, breathing heavily, but trying to stay calm. He
must have leapt over the wire. His posture was authoritative, challenging. He had a hard

5. look in his eyes - not at all like the expression on his face in the chapel. Based on his
gestures, I think I understood him to say something that indicated I belonged to him.
Suddenly, the hands were off of me. My attackers were moving away, back to their own
bikes, shrugging and smirking and half-apologizing to us both. In a moment, they were
gone.
For the first time, he actually spoke to me, “I didn't mean what I said. I hope you
know that.”
“Um… what did you say? I - I don't speak Spanish.”
“Ah, just as well. You'd have taken offense, I'm sure. I just said what I had to to get
them to leave you alone.”
He helped me up and righted my bike, offered me first aid, but I was still too well-
trained in the art of discrimination to accept, especially since his mother wasn't home. I
think he knew that and I hated myself for distrusting him, for treating him as if he were
no better than my would-be attackers and yet, I couldn't provoke myself to do otherwise.
I thanked him and limped home. Nina met up with me about half-way there. I didn't tell
her what happened - just pretended that I'd outrun them, they got bored and then I fell.
We only had another few weeks before school was out. John and I never spoke
again, although we occasionally shared a look and maybe, once or twice, a smile. St.
Michael's only goes as far as the 8th grade, so he wasn't back the next year. Nina told me
his mom sent him to live with his father in Houston because she, too, was concerned
about the local school system.
I've always wondered what became of him, did he succeed, did he find true love
with someone who didn't judge him by his DNA? I hope so. He certainly deserved it. I
mean, we all do, but John especially so. I've wondered, also, if we might have been
friends in another place… or time. Twenty-five years later, my own pre-school-aged
daughter already has two “boyfriends” and neither of them are Anglo - not purely,
anyway. I guess I should congratulate myself for that, or maybe, once again, I have John
to thank.