The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(45)
“Good. You keep these two out of trouble, all right?”
Cesar salutes her, and Jamal does a terrible job of hiding his busted grin.
12
Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Brother’s Life
Jamal makes himself as useful as he can while he’s here. He helps us clean, and since he has his own car, he offered to take Cesar and me to and from school while he’s with us. Which is kind of a huge offer, since it’s so far away. Sure, it means we have to get dropped off early so Jamal has time to make it to Rover, but it saves my mom the trip. She keeps saying she could get used to having someone so helpful around. And after a few days of riding with Jamal, I could get used to it, too. It definitely makes Cesar’s day brighter, and hopefully that will translate to him getting in less trouble?
After class the next week, I can see Jamal’s car waiting for me in the pickup area.
“Hey, Yamilet!” Hunter calls out. He keeps trying to talk to me after school. And in art, too. I know he wants to talk about what I told him at the party, but there’s no way I’m letting that happen. It never happened.
At least in art, a quick glance at Bo and David is all it takes to shut Hunter up. He has the good sense not to say anything in front of either of them—he did say he’d keep my secret, after all—but he’s persistent after school. I pretend I don’t hear him and walk straight to the car, where Cesar and Jamal are already waiting. It’s not the most sustainable method of avoidance, but it’s working for now.
Avoiding Hunter is easier with Jamal picking us up. He’s always right on time, so I can hide from Hunter in his car until we leave. The only downside is I kind of miss Bo taking us to the light rail. (Okay. I miss her a lot.) Even though I have two classes with her and we hang out every day at lunch, it feels like I’m missing out now that I don’t have that extra ten minutes of time with her. Having a crush sucks. But she has a girlfriend, and I’m in the closet, so I don’t know why I’m being such a baby. I spend the rest of the ride home pretending not to be jealous while Cesar and Jamal hold hands across the center console.
Maybe if Jamal and Cesar weren’t so cupcakey, I wouldn’t be so mopey. They’re a weird couple, but a cute one. I don’t ever walk in on them making out or anything, but I catch them doing other weird shit almost every day. Last time I walked in on them, they were trying and failing to bench-press each other. When I walk into Cesar’s room after we get home, Jamal looks like a chipmunk sitting on the bed. His cheeks are completely stuffed with marshmallows, but that doesn’t stop Cesar from shoving another one in his mouth. Jamal says something unintelligible, then starts laughing. He catches the marshmallows in his hand as he spits them out.
“Boo. That was ten,” Cesar says.
“What is happening?” I interrupt. I have to acknowledge them, or I would be convinced I’m imagining things.
“We’re playing chubby bunny. Want to play?” Jamal says after dropping the marshmallows into the trash and wiping his mouth.
“What the hell is chubby bunny?”
“You have to put marshmallows in your mouth and say ‘chubby bunny.’ Whoever fits the most wins,” Cesar says.
I sit on the bed with them, next to Cesar. My options are whatever this is, working, or homework. It’s not that hard of a decision.
They both have an unfair advantage because of sheer mouth size, but I try my best. By the time I get to six, Cesar claps my cheeks in his hands hard enough to send the marshmallows shooting out of my mouth. It almost happens in slow motion. Jamal’s eyes get wide and his scream goes up two octaves. The marshmallows go flying right at him.
I’m choking so hard I can’t even laugh.
Jamal springs off the bed like a cat from a snake. He wildly shakes off all his limbs and makes a gagging noise. Cesar slaps my back while I gasp for air, but he’s laughing too hard to be any help.
When Jamal finds a soggy marshmallow stuck to his shirt, he screeches and flings it at Cesar. And that starts a war I want no part of, so I sneak back to my room while they throw hopefully uneaten marshmallows at each other.
They are the weirdest couple I’ve ever seen. I’m so jealous.
When I go back to my room, I try to keep from checking my phone. Dad has taken over a week to “process,” and I’m trying not to freak out about it. I guess he needs a little more time. It’s fine, though. I’m fine.
My dad and I have gone longer than this without talking, but it’s not like him not to respond at all. Usually it only takes a couple of days. I brainstorm all the logical reasons he might not have responded.
Maybe something happened to his phone, and he never got my text. Maybe he needs time to come up with a heartfelt response. Maybe I’m overreacting.
“Has anyone seen my phone?” Mom calls out much louder than she needs to.
“Nope!” I shout as her phone’s screen goes black while I hold the power button and hide it in an old shoebox in my closet. One can hope, but I don’t trust that I have the luxury of believing Dad’s old promises of confidentiality. Maybe he’s just busy, but maybe he hates me. At least now he won’t be able to tell Mom.
I can’t stand not knowing what he’s thinking or if he even saw my text. I get out my phone to take a video on Marco Polo to send him.
“Hey, Papi . . . I don’t know if you got my text before. I hope we’re still good. I’m just having a hard time, and I miss you. Let me know. Love you.”