The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(18)

On a reflex, I swing my arm and smack him on the forehead. It’s an accident, but he deserves it. He’s dirty for going right for my tickle spot.

“Damn, you got some quick hands!” He rubs his forehead, but he’s half smiling. Actually, hearing that is weirdly reassuring coming from Cesar. Makes me feel tougher than I am. Like I can handle myself.

“Yeah, catch some of these!” I do a couple of little air jabs by his stomach so he knows I’m not to be messed with.

“Hey, careful! You could break your hand on these abs of steel!” He flexes, and I snort. Cesar has a bit of a pancita, like me. He’s not exactly buff.

“Anyways”—I roll my eyes—“can I take my nap now?”

“No. I need you to entertain me.”

“You’re the one keeping me up. You entertain me.”

“You’re so difficult. Fine. Umm . . . hmmm . . .” Cesar throws his head back, making a show of how he can’t think of what to say. I almost expect him to ask why my eyes are puffy, but he goes for a joke instead.

“So are you still digging Satan Catholic?” I let out a huff of air from my nose in amusement. I’m actually a little mad I didn’t come up with that myself. Still, I don’t want him to know how much I don’t love our new school.

“I like it, yeah.” I sit up a little straighter.

He squints at me, and I know I’m not selling it hard enough.

“I mean, it’s a lot to get used to, but it’s a good school, right?” I say. Cesar seems like he has everything going for him now, and I don’t want to ruin it by complaining. No one’s picking on him. He’s made lots of friends. He hasn’t gotten in any fights. It’s only been a few days, but I’ll take that win.

“Yeah . . .” Cesar chews on his lip, and I give him a look. I have this theory that Cesar and I can telepathically communicate. My eyes say the things I don’t have the emotional capacity to say out loud. Are you okay?

He’s quiet for a while before he says anything. “Why aren’t you pissed at me? It’s my fault we got sent here. I know you don’t like it.”

“What are you talking about? I like Slayton.” The downside of telepathic communication is my eyes don’t lie very well.

“Okay.” He gives me a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, I like it too.” His eyes lie even worse, and I feel like I already failed him.

Our stop cuts the conversation short, and he doesn’t bring it up again.

I don’t even bother doing my homework or working through the backlog of jewelry orders tonight. All the crying I did earlier completely drained my energy, but I can’t sleep. My dad would know how to make me feel better, so I FaceTime him. It rings.

And rings.

And rings . . .

I hang up and walk outside to get my mind off things. Do?a Violeta must be in bed already, because the funeral music isn’t bumping down the street right now. For once, I miss her sad mariachi music. It would give me an excuse to cry right now. I cry anyway.

Without thinking about where I’m going, I let my feet carry me down the street and I find myself standing in front of Bianca’s house. She left the flourishing talavera pots out to mock me, I’m sure. I wonder if she finished the garden alone or if she already got someone to replace me. The openmouthed flowers look like they’re laughing at me, and I don’t blame them. I look desperate being here.

Before I came out to Bianca, this was where I’d come in times like this. She was the one I’d go to. I wipe my tears and knock on the door before I can talk myself out of it. I don’t know what I’m expecting. If I can fix this one part of my life by working things out with Bianca, then maybe everything else will hurt a little less. I can hear chattering inside, and Bianca laughing. I miss that.

It’s her mom who answers the door. She cracks it open, so I can barely see her full face.

“Hey, tía.” I call her “tía” out of habit, and immediately regret it. She was always like an aunt to me. A second mom, even, before she found out about my crush on Bianca. Now she keeps herself at arm’s length.

“Sorry, Bianca’s not here,” she says, and starts to close the door, but I block it with my foot.

“Who was that laughing just now then?” I cross my arms. I may be upset, but I’m not letting her off the hook that easy. Then I hear Chachi’s voice.

“Bianca, is that your giiirlfriend? I thought you said you weren’t friends anymore.”

“What? No! And we’re not,” Bianca insists, then takes her mom’s place at the door. She looks pretty, like always. She has her long black hair in a messy bun, and her tank top strap is falling off her shoulder. Her eyeshadow bunches at the crease of her eyelid from a day’s worth of wear. But the thing that catches my eye is the friendship bracelet on her wrist. She made that at my house.

“Hi,” I say.

“Yami, what are you—wait, are you crying?” She lets the door hang open just enough so her friends can see me. Like this wasn’t already embarrassing enough.

“I’m fine.” My eyes are dry, but Bianca knows me too well. And the fact that she bothered to ask . . . maybe she still cares? “I just thought—”

“Look, I told you I don’t like you like that. Stop stalking me.” She’s projecting her voice so Chachi and Stefani can hear, like this is some kind of performance.