Hello, Universe

Eleven-year-old Virgil Salinas already regretted the rest of middle school, and he’d only just finished sixth grade. He imagined all those years stretching ahead of him like a long line of hurdles, each of them getting taller, thicker, and heavier, and him standing in front of them on his weak and skinny legs. He was no good at hurdles. He’d found this out the hard way: in gym class, where he was the smallest, most forgettable, and always picked last.
All things considered, he should have been happy on the last day of school. The year was over. He should have been skipping home, ready to tackle the bright summer ahead. Instead he walked through the front door like a defeated athlete head low, shoulders hunched, a sack of disappointment sitting on his chest like an anvil. Because today, it was official: he was a Grand Failure.
“Oy, Virgilio,” said his grandmother his Lola when he came in. She didn’t look up. She was in the kitchen, slicing a mango. “Come take one of these. Your mother bought too many again. They were on sale, so she buys ten. And what do we need ten mangoes for? They’re not even from the Philippines. They’re from Venezuela. Your mother bought ten Venezuelan mangoes, and for what? That woman would buy kisses from Judas if they were on sale.”
She shook her head.