The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(44)

“You’re not mad?” So they know I was drinking. They know Bo left at three a.m. to get me. They know I stayed the night because I was too drunk to let Bo know where I live. And they’re proud of me?

“We’d much rather you inconvenience someone than end up dead,” Bo’s dad responds.

“Oh . . . well, um, thanks. For letting me stay here. And for the pancakes,” I say, trying not to let on that my face is burning right now from embarrassment. I don’t mention that I actually had no intention of asking for help. I only called Bo to make that drunken confession. I’ll let them think I’m responsible, though.

“We can’t stop you from doing what you’re going to do, but we hope you’re doing it safely.”

“She’s fine, Dad,” Bo interrupts, trying again to save me from the lecture, but her mom continues.

“Make sure you’re always with someone you trust. And don’t ever accept a drink from a stranger. Here.” She takes my phone from where it was sitting on the table. I fight the urge to stop her. “I’m putting my number in here. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need help, and you don’t feel comfortable calling your own parents, give me a call. You won’t get in trouble, but I’d rather an adult be the one to come get you.”

“Thanks . . .” I don’t know what else to say. Bo’s parents are really cool.

I start eating so I have something to do with my hands, and realize how hungry I am. Probably because I threw up the complete contents of my soul last night.

After we eat, Bo drops me off at my mom’s car at Hunter’s house so I can pick up Cesar and go home.

“Sorry about my parents. They’re a little much,” Bo says, adjusting her grip on the wheel.

“No, they’re sweet. If it was my mom, she would have killed me.” I shudder, imagining my mom’s reaction to finding out I drank at a party and needed to be picked up. “Wait, they’re not gonna tell her, are they?”

“Nah, they’re pretty committed to being the cool parents.” Bo rolls her eyes at the word “cool.” I let out an anxious breath. At least my mom doesn’t have to know. And with the embarrassing voice mail gone forever, there’s only one more piece of evidence to cover up. I need to talk to my dad.

Between brutal hangover naps, I must have tried calling him ten times. No answer. I had to tell my mom I’m sick because there’s no way I can work like this. Seriously. Why do people drink? Luckily, she doesn’t want me getting my germs on her jewelry. Lord help me if a customer gets “sick” because of me.

Dad’s probably busy or something. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, so it’s a little too early to panic. My body and head hurt too much to really panic anyway. Maybe he hasn’t even gotten my text yet. If I flood his texts with other things, maybe it will get buried? Maybe he never has to see it at all.

But part of me wants him to see it. He said I could always be honest with him, and I was. If there’s one person I feel like I can tell everything to, it’s my dad. I love Cesar, but he doesn’t always give the best advice. I decide this is a good thing. The main thing that could make it all go sideways is if he tells Mom, but I doubt he will. He’s always been good with keeping my business between us. He’s never gotten me in trouble with Mom before. Just to be safe, though, I send him one more text.

Yami: Please don’t tell Mami. She wouldn’t understand like you.

I feel relieved getting it off my chest. I just wish he would freaking respond. Maybe he needs some time to process it. I can be patient. I can be so patient.

“Yami, wake up. I need a favor.” Cesar shakes my arm and I swat at him. If it was up to me, I would have slept the entire day and through the night.

“Cesar, ya! What do you want?”

“Jamal got kicked out. Come on.” He pulls me out of bed before I can answer. And it sounds urgent enough that I let him.

Jamal and Mom are sitting at the table. He has a busted lip and a swollen cheek. I hear the end of a conversation between the two of them.

“I didn’t know where else to go. . . .”

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I reach for his swollen cheek, and he flinches.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he mumbles without looking up at any of us.

“He is not good.” Mom sounds mad. “Mijo, who did this to you?”

Jamal keeps his eyes low and doesn’t say anything. Cesar is standing back a few feet. He’s shaking, like he’s trying to hold himself back from getting too close right now. I guess he doesn’t want Mom to see how upset he is.

“Answer me when I ask you a question,” Mom says in her scary voice.

“It was my stepdad,” Jamal mutters, looking at the table. Oh no . . . he must have finally come out. . . .

“Ay Dios mío.” Mom does the sign of the cross, then puts a gentle hand on Jamal’s cheek. “You’re staying here for a few days, okay, mijo? I don’t want you on the streets.”

“Really?” Jamal finally looks up. His chin is quivering.

“Don’t be getting so happy now. You won’t be allowed in Yamilet’s room, obviously.”

“He can sleep in my room,” Cesar offers. Even though I still feel terrible, it’s hard not to laugh at that.