The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(68)

I used to do baile folklórico. My mom signed me up when I was little, and I still regret quitting to this day. I don’t think I was any good at it, but I was five, so no one was. I always felt so beautiful tapping my feet and swinging my skirt around my waist. That was how I learned to stand straight and smile and look presentable, which ironically is why some people used to tell me I “act white.” But the people who taught me to dance are the same people who taught me about the cultures of our Indigenous ancestors.

I know a lot of baile folklórico came out of a mixture of Spanish and Indigenous cultures and dances. I’m fully aware that the standing up straight and the smiling were probably more from the Spanish side. But baile folklórico isn’t all about the posture and the smiles. It’s about the music, the colors, the dance. It’s a dance of Mexican pride. My people. My heart.

I may not know the languages of my ancestors. I may not know much about them at all. Colonization will do that to a people. But when I’m watching my people dance. When I see my own skin on the stage. There’s something about the joy on their faces and in their bodies that feels ancient somehow. And I feel like my ancestors have been with me all along. I can almost see them here, dancing with us.

It’s not something I can explain to Bo and her parents, though. All I can hope for is for them to have a good time while my spirit finds its way home to Mexico.

I check their expressions every so often to see if they look like they’re having fun. Bo’s parents smile and laugh and clap along, but Bo is a little harder to read. She doesn’t take her eyes off the dancers except to occasionally glance at me, which makes me shoot my eyes back to the stage. Need to be less obvious about how much I look at her. Or just look at her less.

Impossible. I’ll be less obvious.

I have to fight the urge to hold her hand. It just feels like a hand-holding moment. We’re sitting right next to each other, and our hands are, like, an inch apart. It’s a little cold. Closing the gap to warm up our fingers is the logical thing to do. Holding hands isn’t even inherently gay. Bo held my and Amber’s hands at the movies that one time, and that was friends holding hands. Maybe that’s just a scary movie thing to do, though. Or a thing when you don’t have a girlfriend with blue hair and cool piercings.

Before I can decide whether to hold Bo’s hand, she pulls it away to take out her phone. I try to keep my eyes forward, but it kind of hurts my feelings that Bo’s phone is more interesting than the performance. After a minute, she’s still on it, so I glance over her shoulder out of curiosity. She’s scrolling through Jenna’s Instagram. My ears get hot even though it’s cold out. I find myself jealous of both Jamie and Jenna at once, and angry with Bo at the same time. It sucks that she’s doing this here, now. I can’t tell if I’m overreacting because I’m jealous or if I’m justifiably hurt. But I’m also worried about Bo. Does she still have feelings for her Bianca? When Bo realizes I’m looking, she shoves her phone back in her pocket and blushes. I keep my hands to myself.

Bo’s parents rave about the performances the whole way back, but Bo stays quiet. I wait until we get to the house to go to Bo’s room and talk some sense into her. Jenna is a terrible, homophobic person who doesn’t deserve one second of Bo’s attention.

There’s an easel and a canvas covered with a sheet by her desk.

“What are you working on?” I ask, taking my time with bringing up the Jenna thing.

She blushes for a second, then clears her throat. “It’s a piece for the art show.”

“Can I see it?”

“At the art show, yeah.” She sounds a little off, so I drop it. She’s been acting weird all day. The show isn’t until March, so I’ll be waiting for a while. I would tease her about it, but she doesn’t look in the mood for jokes.

“You okay?” I ask. If I was still into Bianca, I know I wouldn’t be.

“Um . . .” She goes to close the door before answering. “If I tell you something, you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Okay, I promise I won’t say anything.” I sit cross-legged on her bed, hoping Bo will bring this Jenna thing up before I have to. This is my first time sitting on her bed, but I think we’re at the bed-sitting friendship level by now. When she sits on the bed across from me, her weight sinks the mattress just enough to slide my knees toward hers so our knees bump into each other. I scoot back even though I don’t want to. Can’t ruin this conversation by feeling all flustered.

“Okay . . .” She’s quiet for a while before saying anything else. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. But it’s kind of weird, being surrounded by white people. I barely even know any other Chinese people.” She’s talking faster than usual and bouncing her knee up and down. This is not what I was expecting her to say, but it’s important, so I wait for her to continue.

“I guess I got a little jealous of you tonight. You seemed so in your element. You just, belonged, you know? The closest thing I have to my culture is going to Chinese restaurants and having all these performative decorations and statues around that I had to research to know the meaning behind. I have to look up every little thing on my own because I don’t have anyone to ask. That’s why I know so much about freaking fish.” She rolls her eyes at herself, takes a breath, and keeps going.