The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(54)

“I’m so sorry, I need to take a break! Come back later?” The words sound desperate enough that the family doesn’t get irritated. But I doubt they’ll come back. I grab the blanket off the grass and throw it over my table, then duck underneath.

The champurrado lady gives me a curious look. I press a finger to my lips, so she shakes her head and goes back to minding her business.

My gut pulls at me to get up and make my money, but I can’t. I can’t see them. Tears press against my eyes. I hate how she can still make me cry. She didn’t even have to do anything, and I’m hiding under a table, crying like a baby.

I sit for at least an hour before my back starts hurting. I check the time on my phone. I put it away as soon as I see it, since I don’t want to look at my dad right now. He wants nothing to do with me, so why should I keep him as my wallpaper? I guess I just don’t have the heart to change it, so I’ve been avoiding looking at the screen.

Okay, focus, Yami. There’s only a couple of hours left before I’ll have to pack up. I can’t stay hiding all day.

I peek out from behind the blanket. They’re gone.

I carefully pull the blanket off my table. I missed the rush, and there’s barely anyone left anyway. All I manage to sell for the next two hours are a couple of friendship bracelets, so when I’m ready to pack up, I only have a hundred dollars to show for a full day of work.

I start packing my things like the failure I am, but a viejita and a boy around my age approach my table at the last minute. His arms are filled with a ton of home-brought shopping bags. They must be loaded if they spent so much money filling those bags. The viejita speed-walks over faster than she should be able to.

Without a word, she starts picking up bracelets, earrings, and necklaces and handing them to me. I’m frozen for a bit before I kick into gear and start bagging them up and doing the math in my head for how much all this will cost. I thank her every time she hands me something.

“Thank you.” A hundred.

“Thank you.” Plus fifty.

“Thank you.” Plus thirty-five.

“Thank you.” Plus a hundred twenty.

I lose count when the boy stops her from handing me a pair of earrings.

“Marisol and them have some like that already, welita.”

“Ay, sí, this is why I bring you.” She looks at me. “Getting ahead on Christmas shopping for mis nietos.” I nod like it makes perfect sense to spend hundreds of dollars in one outing. This woman alone is going to make today worth it. The more stuff she hands me, the less sense the numbers make. I have to pull out my phone calculator to ground myself in reality. I tear up looking at the total.

“Thank you,” I say one last time as I hand over her bag. I wipe my eyes, embarrassed. What kind of salesperson cries when they make their sale?

She smiles and kisses my cheek. I don’t stop crying when she leaves.

I have enough for my security deposit.

On Monday, Bo is sick with some winter bug that’s apparently going around. All I want to do is gush to her about how great the mercado went, but somehow interrupting Amber’s and David’s heart eyes at each other to talk about it just doesn’t feel as exciting. The entire day goes sooooo slow without Bo. When I realize how miserable I am, it hits me that I’m way past catching feelings. Denial isn’t as reliable of a coping mechanism as it used to be.

I should have seen this coming. This is how it started with Bianca. I can’t go back to that.

The minute I realized I had feelings for Bianca, shit went downhill fast. I am not ready to fall for Bo. Especially because Bo already made her lack of feelings toward me painfully clear at not-homecoming. And she has a girlfriend, who I wish I wasn’t jealous of. But pretending not to feel anything isn’t working either.

I can’t even pretend while I do homework. All I can think about is how screwed I am. I go to Cesar’s room after failing to reason with myself.

“Cesar, help!” I flop facedown onto his bed while he sits at his desk doing homework.

“What happened?”

“You were right. I like Bo.”

“Okay, so . . .”

“It’s the worst.”

“What? Why?” He puts his pen down and faces me.

I groan into the comforter. Hopefully that’s enough to telepathically communicate an answer. I don’t have the energy to say it out loud. It’s the worst because she doesn’t like me, too. It’s the worst because I want her to think I’m straight, but I also want her to like me. And she won’t like me if she thinks I’m straight. And telling her how I feel could ruin her relationship. I secretly hope they already broke up but feel terrible about wishing that on someone I care about.

“Don’t overthink it. You’re supposed to be in the fun stage!” he says.

“How is it fun? I feel like I’m being crushed from all sides. Is that why it’s called a crush? Because that’s what it feels like.” I roll over. “Seriously, tell me how it’s supposed to be fun so I can stop wanting to die.”

Cesar’s expression changes to something unreadable.

“Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t joke about that,” I say.

He just shakes his head, like he’s shaking away whatever thoughts just flew through his brain. “Anyway. You got to let go of any kind of expectation on the other person and enjoy the feeling, you know? Let the butterflies stick around. Eat it up whenever she does something cute, just because it’s cute. It’s a crush, it’s supposed to be fun.”