The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(2)

At least, those are the reasons we tell Cesar. We don’t tell him it’s also because of all the trouble he’s been getting into at Rover, and that Mom thinks Slayton will be safer (because of the Catholic values). We don’t tell him I insisted on going with him to keep him out of trouble. It’s a fancy-ass Catholic school, but it’s a fresh start, for both of us. And at least now I’ll know to keep my mouth shut about any crushes. This time, I’ll be stealthy gay. Like Kristen Stewart.

Cesar rolls on his side to face me. “I heard it’s nothing but white people there.”

“Probably.” The students at Rover are mostly Black and Brown Chicanes, but Slayton’s on the north side of Scottsdale, about a forty-minute drive from where we live. Let’s just say there’s not a lot of melanin over there. I could probably pay my tuition selling sunscreen between classes.

“And the football team sucks,” he says.

“You don’t even play football.”

“And now I never will.” There’s a sad gleam in his eye, as if playing football was once a dream of his. I swear he’s the most dramatic guy I know.

“Aww, pobrecito.” I try to pinch his cheek but he swats my hand away. He’s only ten months younger than me, but I’ll never let him forget he’s the baby.

“I heard they make you do, like, ten hours of homework a day. That’s called child abuse. When will we sleep? When will we eat? We’re gonna starve!” He throws his arms in the air.

I laugh and hit him with my pillow. “We’ll live.” I don’t mention that he’s the one who’ll have the excess homework, with all the AP and honors classes he’s in. “Besides, it’s better than the alternative, right?”

“What alternative?”

“You know”—I gesture to his bruised eye—“getting jumped?” His jaw clenches, and I immediately feel bad for bringing it up, so I keep going. “Or eating moldy chicken nuggets for lunch. That’s child abuse. At least Slayton can afford to feed us real food.”

“I guess.” He doesn’t sound amused. Cesar has no self-preservation instincts. It’s almost as if he wants to keep getting his ass kicked at Rover.

I throw my arm around his shoulder. “Don’t worry, if you ever miss Rover food, just lick the bottom of your shoe. You’ll feel like you never left.”

He lets out a little snort and throws one of his legs in the air. “Excuse you, my shoes are clean AF. This is five-star dining right here.”

“The bottom of your shoes, tonto.” I go to flick his ear, but he sees it coming and flicks mine first. “Ow!” I rub my ear. Damn you, slow reflexes.

It’s fine, though. I’d rather have a flicked ear than a mad-at-me little brother.

My phone buzzes, and Mom’s picture lights up the screen. I don’t know why she calls my phone when she could call my name. Our house isn’t exactly big enough for me not to hear. I answer anyway.

“Hey, Mami.”

“Ven pa’ acá, mija.”

“Coming.” I hang up. My mind is racing, trying to come up with some excuse for how the mirror broke.

“Tell her I broke it.” Cesar must have read my mind, even though he’s not even looking at me. He’s good at that.

“Why?”

“She’ll believe you, and I won’t get in trouble.” He’s right. Cesar is Mom’s little baby. He breaks a mirror and she’ll want to know if his hand is okay. I break a mirror and I’m grounded, at the very least. Still, I’m not throwing him under the bus.

I roll my eyes and head to my mom’s room. In the hallway, I avoid looking at her collection of crosses and the gallery of Jesus portraits on the walls. Because apparently one Jesus isn’t enough holiness to literally scare me straight—not that Mom knows she needs to. I wish Cesar didn’t buy into this stuff so hard, so I could at least complain to him about it. The biggest portrait makes me particularly twitchy. Jesus is staring directly at me—no, through me—and his eyes are all sad like he knows I’m going to hell. I can’t shake the feeling that it doesn’t matter if I’m in the closet or not. Mom’s voice nags in my head: Jesus sees everything. There’s a burning in my gut, like the crosses are trying to exorcise the gay out of me. I keep my eyes on the carpet and speed-walk the rest of the way down the Hallway of Shame and into her room.

I almost step on a half-made beadwork earring on my way in. The angular design looks like it’s going to mimic a red-and-orange flower. As usual, the floor is littered with beads, strings, wires, and other side-hustle supplies. Mom makes jewelry and Mexican beadwork to sell in her spare time, and she does a damn good job of it. As if she isn’t already busy enough with her full-time call center job and two kids. I check to see if she saw me almost step on the earring, but she doesn’t react.

She pats the space on her bed next to where she’s lying. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she’s wearing sunglasses—the ones she wears when she has post-crying eyes. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I don’t think it’s the mirror. I’m the one she calls when she’s wearing her sunglasses. She’s always too worried about Cesar to put her problems on him.

I hop over the mess on the floor and up on the bed to assume our usual cuddling position. Her bed is way comfier than mine, and no matter how old I get, I’ll always feel safer in it. She pulls me into a hug and strokes my hair. I close my eyes, and we’re both quiet for a moment.