The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(41)

“Cops!” The adrenaline rush that comes with that word sobers me up enough to run with him. It’s a huge yard, and it feels like we’re running on a merry-go-round, but I don’t let that slow me down.

The wall at the edge of the backyard is too high for me to jump in my condition. Cesar tries to give me a lift, but we both fall over. He’s as drunk as I am. We scramble behind a bush near the wall and hide instead. I can see flashing lights over the wall, and I think I’m gonna be sick. I try not to think about what might happen next, or what happened last time we were in this situation. . . . I plug my ears and shut my eyes as if it’ll make the cops go away.

As I catch my breath, I realize we’re the only ones who ran. Everyone else is just quietly waiting to get breathalyzed and arrested. Not us.

After a minute, the music comes back on, just a bit quieter. People start dancing and smoking and drinking again. My head hurts.

“Guess they left. Perks of being on the north side, apparently.” Cesar dusts himself off, then holds his hand out to help me up, but I don’t take it. I lean my head back on the wall and look up at the pretty rich-people stars. Everything is so different over here. I don’t even try to stop the tears from dripping down my face.

Cesar sits back down with me. I don’t have to say anything. I know he gets it. I only went to one other “party” party before. He was there. Cops showed up there, too. They didn’t have a warrant, but they broke the door down and came in anyway. I watched one of them bash my friend Junior’s head into the concrete floor of his garage before I ran away. Not everyone was so lucky. Anyone who didn’t get away got MICs, even if they weren’t drinking. Junior’s mom got deported, even though she didn’t know about the party.

And here they just asked us to turn the music down. No one is getting arrested or deported. No kid is getting their head bashed into the floor. The party is still fucking happening.

“Yami? Where are you?” Amber calls out, jogging over in our general direction, with David right behind her.

I wipe my eyes and step out from behind the bush. So does Cesar.

“Here.”

“We thought you left!” David says.

“Nope. But I think I’m gonna go.”

“But you’re drunk.” Cesar’s words slur as he points an accusatory finger at me.

“I’m fine. I’ll come get you tomorrow.” I enunciate as clearly as I can to prove my point, but he and Amber are both too messed up to stop me. I make my way straight through everyone without saying bye or acknowledging a single one of them.

“La mee-grah, la mee-grah!” Say My Name in Spanish guy calls out to me in a forced accent, and cracks himself up. La migra—immigration. As if it wasn’t obvious to everyone else already that it was only the two Mexican kids who ran at the first sign of cops.

I turn around and walk straight toward him, fists clenched. If Cesar heard him, he would have clocked him in his throat. He didn’t hear, but someone needs to punch this guy. I don’t feel in control of myself right now. It feels like a dream, and I’m outside my own body watching myself march up to him and punch him right in the nose.

“OHHHHHHH!!!!” a bunch of guys yell when he falls to the ground and doesn’t get up. Two of them bow down to me, like they’re grateful I just laid out their friend. I turn back around and keep walking.

I think Hunter is trying to call out for me as I pass, but I keep going. I feel everyone staring at me. I don’t stop, and they part for me like the Red Sea. When I make it to the privacy of my mom’s car, I realize that if I drive right now, I might not make it home. I don’t think I could walk a straight line, let alone drive in one.

I’ll wait.

It’s hard to sit and wait without getting in your head too much. I try focusing on the distant pulsing sensation in my hand, instead of thinking about the alternatives. Like Junior getting his head smashed into the cement. His mom getting deported. My dad getting deported . . .

I miss my dad so much. I miss his hugs, and his constant reassurance that I was going to turn out okay. When I was little, I could go to him about anything. He would build me up and turn me right back around to face whatever. I want to tell him about tonight. About the cops, and that I punched someone. I want to tell him about Bo, and our fight. And that I like her even though she has a girlfriend and thinks I’m straight.

What would I have to lose by coming out to my dad, anyway? Even if he hates me for it, it’s not like I’m relying on him to survive like I am with my mom. He would never hate me, though. He’ll probably make this whole thing a lot easier. He’ll know exactly what to say to make me stop feeling like such a piece of shit. I send him two texts. Two things I wish I had the strength to say more often.

Yami: I love you.

Yami: I’m gay.

I know you’re not supposed to call or text anyone when you’re drunk, but I’ve been wanting to tell him for so long. I guess I’m worse at being straight than I thought. I couldn’t even keep it up for one night. Not even a few hours. But I already feel better knowing I can talk to my dad about it soon.

While I’m making drunk confessions, I might as well call Bo. No way I’m going to regret this tomorrow. I get her voice mail, which sober me would have taken as an act of kindness from God himself. But drunk me doesn’t give a shit about second chances from the universe. I leave a message.