The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(84)

“Don’t.” His fists clench and his eyes shoot through me. “Drop it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, just . . . please promise me you won’t hurt yourself?” My voice cracks.

“Yami, fucking stop!” He grasps the sheets tightly in his fists.

When I’m sure I’m about to get kicked out, Mom comes back with the suit guys. She goes right back to Cesar’s side and holds his hand. The intern comes forward.

“Cesar, it was brave of you to ask for help. We’re all glad you did. Luckily, we already have a bed for you at the Horizon Behavioral Health Facility. They specialize in helping kids like you.”

“Mami, is that okay?” His voice is so low I can barely hear it. Mom and I both know what he actually means: Can we afford that?

“I’m sorry, but it’s not exactly a choice, kid. Whether you like it or not, this is the safest option for you.” The mental health worker sounds rushed. It’s not like Cesar needs any more convincing; he just needs a second.

“Mom?” Cesar looks scared for the first time since I got here.

“It’s okay, mijo. I just want you to be safe. That’s all that matters.” She rubs the back of his hand with her thumb, and he squeezes hers.

“But—” Cesar starts to protest, but the mental health worker interrupts.

“Like I said, it’s for your own safety. I’m not a fan of the whole involuntary detainment thing, but that’s really your only other option.” He sighs, as if thinking about what an inconvenience it would be to have to do it that way.

“Give him a minute, okay? Jesus . . . ,” the nurse snaps. I want to hug her. I guess not everyone here is desensitized.

The mental health worker sighs. “Right, sorry. It’s been a long day.”

I want to punch him in his throat. My brother could have died tonight, but he’s had a long day.

“It’s gonna be all right, honey.” The nurse’s voice softens when she turns her attention to Cesar.

Cesar stares at the ceiling and shuts his eyes like he’s having regrets. A couple of tears fall down his cheeks, and Mom wipes them for him.

“It’s only three days of inpatient, as long as everything goes well. Then, if you’re ready, you can go home for outpatient treatment, all right?” the intern says.

Cesar lets out a small whimper and doesn’t answer.

The older guy cuts in again. “Listen, we really are just trying to help you here. And I’m afraid I’ve got a lot of other patients who need help too. So are we going nicely or the other way?”

I hate this guy so much. I hate him. I hate him.

After a long pause, Cesar answers. “I’ll go, sir,” he chokes out. It’s the “sir” that kills me. It’s fucked that he has to show that piece of shit respect to keep from getting threatened with “the other way.” It’s not like Cesar’s being violent right now.

“Atta boy.” He has the nerve to go and ruffle Cesar’s hair.

“Don’t touch him,” I snap, because I know Cesar wants to say it but can’t.

“Yamilet, you can go home now,” Mom says, but I don’t move. They’re all staring at me. I want to help my brother, but I don’t know how.

“It’s okay, Yami, just go. I’ll be fine,” Cesar says, but I don’t think he convinced either of us.

“Go home. I’ll handle it.” Mom hands me her keys. We’re both crying. But I can’t stay here forever, and I can’t go to Horizon with Cesar. So I go home.





23


In Lak’ech Ala K’in


The cracked mirror in my room mocks me. It zooms in on my runny nose and wet eyelashes. I slam my fist on the desk but don’t feel it. All I feel is dizzy and mad. I grip the edges of the vanity for balance. I want to blame someone. I can’t stop thinking about that doctor threatening Cesar. Or my parents being homophobic. Or Cesar wanting to . . .

The edges of my vision go black, and all I can see is my fractured reflection staring back at me. My mom’s voice echoes in my head.

You should have been there!

I want to take back punching the mirror the first time, just so I can do it now.

You should have been there!

I punch it again anyway. And again. And again.

I can’t hear myself bawling, or feel the blood dripping from my knuckles.

“You should have been there!” I scream out loud at what’s left of my reflection.

I hit it until every bit of shattered glass falls from the vanity.

My knees are about to give out, so I stumble to the bathroom to wash the blood off my hands. I refuse to look at my face. I focus on the blood. So much blood on my hands. I can’t stop them from shaking. From anger or blood loss, I don’t know. They’re already starting to swell.

I want to punch this mirror, too. But this one is ours. And I barely have the strength to pick out the leftover shards of glass from my knuckles.

I let the water run over my hands. I don’t know how long I’m standing there. A few minutes, an hour, maybe. It doesn’t matter.

Cesar has gauze and bandages under the sink. He hasn’t had to use them all year. I thought that meant he was doing better, but maybe it just meant he lost the will to keep fighting. I should have been there. . . .