The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(23)

“I know it’s not. You’re doing a better job than I ever could, and that’s not fair at all.”

I laugh because it’s so ridiculous. I’m doing a terrible job. I’m tiptoeing between eggshells, trying not to let everything fall apart.

“I’m just tired. I’m so tired.”

“Talk to me,” he says. His voice is like a hug. The closest I can get. I close my eyes and embrace it.

“I feel like I have to be happy about everything because if I tell Cesar I don’t like Slayton, he’ll say he doesn’t like it either and Mom will blame me. And I know I’d rather be at Slayton than Rover . . . and I know it’s better for Cesar, too, and I know there’s no solution. But I just want to be honest about how I feel for once.” I take a deep breath because I feel like I emptied my soul from my lungs.

“You’re allowed to be honest,” he says, shifting the camera so I can see his soft eyes boring into mine. “Especially with me. You know this, right?”

“I know.”

I think I’ll be honest with him one day, about everything. I’m not about to come out to him right now—I’d feel almost selfish doing that when I should still be focused on Cesar and earning money for tuition. But it’s good to know he’ll be there when I’m ready.

It’s late when I hang up with him and start working on my homework in bed. Now, whenever I do my homework it’s always late, since earning tuition comes first. I fall asleep on top of the comforter with my textbook and binder to keep me warm.

Luckily, I have time for a nap after school the next day, since Cesar (unluckily) has detention. That boy apparently only knows how to sleep when he’s in class. Part of me worries there might be something deeper going on with him, but it’s not like he’d tell me if there was. All the other signs point to him being okay, though, so I don’t let the worry consume me.

Mom calls me a half hour after school lets out.

“I’m here. Where are you?” Not Good.

“Um, one second.” I hang up and run to the pickup area. I assumed Cesar told her he had detention, or at least made up some kind of excuse, like an after-school club or something. But no, he left me to cover for him, as usual.

I climb into the car and improvise.

“So, Cesar joined Mathletes. It’ll be another half hour.” I text him as I tell her so he knows to play along when he gets out.

“Ay, ay, ay . . . and you didn’t bother telling me this before I left to pick you up?”

“Sorry, Mami. I thought he told you,” I say, sinking into the passenger seat.

“He did not.” She rolls her eyes.

“Are you sure? I could have sworn he mentioned it. . . .” I try to sound surprised.

“So, Mathletes, huh? How’d you convince him to do that?”

I blush a little. It’s kind of nice that she automatically assumes I was the reason he joined. I guess I can’t just take credit for the bad stuff. Even if the good stuff is made up. She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“So he’s doing good, then?” There’s a hint of concern in her eyes when she looks at me.

“Yeah, he’s great.” Lie. Detention is not great. But at least he’s not fighting.

When we finally see him, he’s jogging to the car in his gym clothes, sweating more than should be humanly possible. It actually looks like he poured a water bottle on his head. Cesar is usually keeled over wheezing when he’s this sweaty, but his breath is fine. He gets into the back seat and wipes his forehead, like he’s doing it for effect.

“Excuse me, I didn’t realize math club was so physically demanding.” Mom raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yami, you don’t have to lie for me,” he says.

I whirl around, about ready to tackle him out of the car. Mom’s glaring at me and I’m glaring at him, and between the heat of our stares and Cesar’s body heat, this car is about to catch fire. Cesar, of course, is unbothered.

“I made football tryouts!”

“And why would Yamilet lie to me about that?”

“Um, I thought you wouldn’t approve,” I mutter. Football, really? Football tryouts were weeks ago. I made a perfect lie for him. What is his problem?

“Of course I approve!” Mom reaches back and kisses Cesar on his fake-sweaty forehead. “Gracias a Dios. You need an outlet for all that aggressive energy. This is good.”

“Well, I think Mathletes would have been a better choice,” I say. It’s a more believable lie. Am I going to have to teach him how to throw a football now? If he wanted to choose his own lie, he shouldn’t have made me cover for him.

“Why? Just because I’m smart I need to be thinking about math all the time? I’d rather play football.”

“But you never played before! It makes no sense!”

“That’s what practice is for.” He smirks. “I mean, come on. Mathletes? Pfft.”

“You ungrateful little—” I lunge back at him.

“?AUXILIO!” He kicks and calls for help like he’s being murdered. Mom swats at my back until I drop it.

“Yamilet! That’s enough. Let your brother choose his own path.”

“Fine.” I put on my seat belt with all the attitude in my body.