Kelly's mother picked up the phone for the fifth time that night. It was for sixteen-year-old Kelly.
"Who's speaking?" the mother asked.
"Eddie," the boy answered.
"I've got it," Kelly shouted.
When Kelly hung up the phone, her mother inquired, "Who's Eddie?"
"A friend," Kelly replied.
"Where's he from?" She didn't like the sound of the accent.
"Oh, I think he's from Spain," Kelly said and slid out of the den.
Puerto Rican, the mother worried. Just what she wanted for her blond-haired, green-eyed daughter. The next day, she was cleaning Kelly's room. In a small wooden frame on the bureau was a picture of a young man. His hair was long and curly. He wore no shirt. His arms were spread out as if he were being crucified.
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