The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(31)

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Well . . . I don’t want you to tell me anything he wouldn’t tell me. But he doesn’t talk about your dad much, just says you’re the favorite.”

“Oh, poor Cesar, there’s one person who likes me as much as him. I’m definitely not the favorite.” I don’t know why I get so defensive. I guess I am closer to Dad than Cesar, but Cesar’s everyone’s favorite. Is it so bad for me to be Dad’s? “Sorry, I don’t know why I snapped at you.”

Then Jamal looks so deeply into my eyes I feel like he knows all my secrets. “I know it’s hard living under someone else’s shadow. But you’re your own person, too, with your own talents and passions. I’m glad you have someone like your dad to see that in you.” His eyes don’t leave mine the whole time he talks, so I cave and look down.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’m just surprised at how seriously he’s taking me. I was just venting. It’s not like I was expecting him to get all deep about it. It makes me wonder how he and Cesar work out, since Cesar is the opposite of serious. I guess they probably balance each other out in that way.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m barely anyone’s favorite either. Except maybe Cesar’s.” He gives me a sad little smile.

“Why not?” I ask.

“I guess I don’t fit into their box. I’m not exactly the most masculine guy. My stepdad says I’m an embarrassment.” He’s looking down, not touching his food.

“Do they know about Cesar?” I ask.

“They will soon. I’m gonna come out, I just don’t know when’s the right time.”

“You’re not scared to tell them?”

“I’m scared either way. Might as well get it over with,” he says.

“Well, good luck. I hope—oh my God . . .” I better be seeing things, or I’ll kill my mom. And Cesar. Because if my eyes are correct, they’re both here spying on us.

“What?” Jamal asks.

“Don’t look,” I say before he has a chance to turn around. “Cesar and my mom are here.”

I get out my phone to virtually chew Cesar out, but it looks like he tried to warn me while we were on our way.

“Okay, so now should we hold hands?” Jamal asks. I swear he started sweating as soon as I mentioned my mom.

“Yeah.” I reach a hand across the table, and he takes it.

It’s weird trying to eat with one hand while someone’s holding the other. Do couples even do this? I wouldn’t know.

My phone buzzes, and I already know who it is.

Cesar: you’re not selling it

I fake-laugh loud enough for them to hear, and Jamal joins in.

Cesar: there you go

Jamal and I spend the next half hour pretending to be all smitten. We fake-laugh and hold hands and eat off each other’s plates, even though I don’t like his food. You’re welcome, Cesar.

But pretending to be in a relationship makes me wonder what it would be like to be in an actual one. Maybe one day I’ll do it for real. But I hope it’s easier than this. I want to able to hold someone’s hand whenever I want. Or talk to someone on the phone until we fall asleep. Or kiss someone that I’m actually attracted to.

I want to kiss a girl. I want to hold a girl’s hand. I want to cuddle with a girl. I want a girlfriend. But Cesar has a boyfriend, and he can’t even do all those things. My mom isn’t like Bo’s parents. We don’t have the privilege of being ourselves. It doesn’t work like that.

Not for us.





8


Thou Shalt Mind Thine Own Business. Bitch.


I always look forward to art class. Like usual, today Ms. Felix just gives an assignment and lets us go at it for an hour. She never cares if we’re goofing off, as long as we have something to show at the end of class. She just floats around doing her own art and complimenting everyone else’s for most of the time.

It’s like therapy for me. I can decompress from the tension of having to be around Jenna and Karen in language arts. It might be the borderline toxic fumes from all the markers and dirty paint-water, but I find it hard to worry too much when I’m in here. Bo and David are both really talented, while Hunter and I try our best and usually miss the mark. After working on landscapes and still lifes, we’re onto portraits, and we have to partner up to draw each other.

Bo and Hunter both ask to be my partner at the same time. They share a look, then Bo shrugs. “No worries, I’ll work with David,” she says, and my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Hunter grins at me, showing off both dimples and those smoochy white-boy lips.

“Wait! I don’t know how to draw . . . um”—Hunter looks at me with bright, hopeful eyes, and my mind races, trying to come up with an excuse to be partners with Bo—“white people.”

Hunter just stares at me and blinks. I hold eye contact, waiting for him, or anyone, to say something. We both just stare at each other while I slowly die inside, my soul floating away into the next plane of existence, screaming into the abyss.

“She’s right.” Bo finally cuts the silence. “White people are hard to draw. It’s like, whaaaat? How?” She turns her face to me so Hunter can’t see her wink. She probably thinks I’m avoiding him after he asked me to homecoming. My knight in shining khakis.