José Casas

If he had grown up in Colombia, maybe kids would’ve made fun of his last name. Houses, what kind of a last name was that? But since he had grown up in a remote little town in Montana, that had never been an issue. Of course, there were other problems instead. Like the fact that they were one of the few, if not the only non-White family, or the fact that in spite of having graduated from one of the top universities in Colombia, his mom struggled to learn English, turning José and his sibling into lifelines between herself and everyday activities. Truth be told, growing up he’d had plenty of reasons to feel ashamed of himself that had nothing to do with his last name.

Bozeman was a quiet little town. A handful of elementary schools, two middle schools, and only one high school. So, after a certain point, and unless you had the money to pay for the only private high school, you were bound to meet every teenager in town. That’s why he was so surprised when Lauren told him, in a bar all the way in Brownsville, that she had graduated from Bozeman High just a year after he did. Not only did he not remember her face, but he was sure that he had never heard her name, never, not in the rosters, not in the hallways, nowhere. He certainly would remember a Lauren Saucers, or anyone with that last name for that matter, yet it was the first time he was hearing of her.

“José Casas?” She said, dipping her finger in her margarita. “No, I don’t think I ever heard of you.”

“Really?” He said, as surprised as she was. “I was the only kid with a Hispanic name. I was also the class president and linebacker on the football team. We won the championship my senior year. Are you sure you don’t remember?”

She was lying, she had to be. Maybe she had come to that little border town to run away from something, had created a whole new identity, looking up on Google for a random little town where to build her fake past, with such luck that she’d ended up meeting someone who had actually gone to school there.

“No,” she said. “When I was a Junior, the class president was Eddie Thomas, and we actually lost the championship that year.”

“I graduated in 2008,” José reiterated.

“I know, you already said that,” she took out her phone and started clicking away. “Look.”

And there it was, in full color on a Facebook page, the pictures of Bozeman High, class of ’08. He stopped in one in particular: the whole class, standing in front of the building. Not only he wasn’t there, but he didn’t recognize anyone either.

“That’s not possible,” he said, instinctively taking out his own phone and digging through his own profile. “Here, see? That’s me, that’s my class, and that’s us when we won the championship.”

“It can’t be.”

They looked at each other, then at each other’s phones. 2008. Yes. Bozeman High School. Yes. City of Bozeman. Yes. State of Montana. Yes. What was going on? Not even one person seemed to be in both their pictures; it was beyond strange, it was uncanny.

“What did you say your name was?” José asked again, hoping to catch her in a lie.

“Lauren Saucers,” she said, sure as ever. “My dad was Eames Saucers, the owner of the drive-in movie theater right behind the Museum of the Rockies.”

“Drive-in movie theater? There’s nothing like that there. I think I would remember.”

“What do you mean there is nothing like that? Everyone in town knows it. Dad’s been doing Friday specials for High School students and Saturday nights for college students for years and there’s never been an empty spot.”

She entered a couple of words in her Facebook search bar, but nothing came up this time, or a couple of times after that. Frustrated, she ended up scrolling in what seemed to be her camera roll, until she put the phone within inches of his face. It was the picture of a framed article by the Bozeman Daily Chronicle, and although he couldn’t read the body of the article, the headline announced the opening of a drive-in movie theater. There was also a picture of the place, full of people in their cars, like those you saw—ironically enough—in the movies. It just didn’t seem to make a lot of sense, though, the pictures looked legit, but certainly, if there were such a place in Bozeman he’d have heard of it. There already weren’t that many places for young people to hang out at, a drive-in movie theater would’ve made a lot of difference in his teenage years. What to make of all of that? He had come to the bar for a nightcap before bed, but then he had seen this beautiful stranger and had wanted to start a conversation. Now he was wide awake and confused. Was this part of some sort of prank? Was someone playing a practical joke? It seemed unlikely, not to say silly, and definitely a lot of work.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Lauren said, putting her phone back in her pocket, visibly a lot less shaken by the whole thing than he was.

“This is crazy. Who put you up for this?”

“What?” She said, her tone between surprised and amused. “What are you talking about? I know someone put you up for this, but that’s too bad. This has to be the stupidest prank someone could come up with.”

“I agree,” he said in turn. “And you need to tell me who is behind this. You’re lying. It’s impossible that we went to the same school and I don’t remember you. All the kids in town ended up in that school.”

“I’m not lying. Of course, you would remember me, just as I would remember you. If you had graduated with me, that is.”

Her face went blank for a moment, and then, as if faced with a revelation, her expression changed. “Of course! How come I didn’t realize it before! It was Paul, right? He put you up for this. Goddamn weirdo. I hate him so much.”

“Wait, what?” José said, confused. “What do you mean Paul? Which Paul?”

“Paul Hall, who else? Class of 2007. We dated on and off in high school and then in college. It’s been years but the bastard just won’t let go.”

José felt the color drain from his face. He would never forget that name for as long as he lived. Nobody in Bozeman would. Suddenly, he realized that his hand was shaking. “Do you have any pictures?”

“Of who? Of Paul?” José nodded, and Lauren rolled his eyes before turning to her phone and showing it to him.

“This can’t be,” he said, feeling lightheaded.

“What can’t be? What’s going on?”

“You don’t understand,” he said, pointing at the picture on her phone. “Paul Hall. Paulie. This kid here. We were in seventh grade together. But he disappeared that summer, never to be seen again.” He took a deep breath before adding, “And I think it was all my fault.”