The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(88)

We have to meet in this community room where a few other patients are having visitors, too. There are a few nurses on the sides of the room, but they look more like security guards than nurses. On instinct I want to bust him out of here, but I have to remind myself he’s here to get help. He needs help.

The circles under Cesar’s eyes aren’t as dark, so at least he’s getting some sleep. It’s weird seeing him without his cross and jaguar necklaces, though, but I guess they wouldn’t allow that sort of thing here. I sit at a table across from him and put the Takis and his homework down as a peace offering.

“You know me so well. Thanks.” But I don’t know him that well, apparently. I fake a laugh so he doesn’t get uncomfortable. “I’m getting out tomorrow,” he says with a grin.

His smile looks forced. I wonder if his smiles were always this forced and I didn’t notice. Has it always been like this? Right now, his happiness seems undeniably fake.

I wish I knew how to help him. I think back to the article I read. I guess asking questions is worth a shot. “How long?” I ask, and Cesar just gives me a confused look. “How long have you been feeling this way?”

Cesar sighs. “Do we have to get into this now?”

I shake my head. I don’t want to make him dig into any of his trauma if he doesn’t want to. Not right now. No matter how badly I want to know.

He must see something desperate in my eyes, because he answers anyway. “A long time, okay? A long time.” Before I can answer with an apology, he’s changing the subject, like he does. “Yami, it’s so boring in here, you don’t even know.”

“Yeah?”

“They don’t let you do shit. It’s just therapy and, like, coloring books all day.”

“Do you think it’s helping at all, though?” I ask.

He shifts in his seat and shrugs.

“How’s therapy?” Cesar isn’t usually one to talk about his feelings, but I let myself hope it’s helping.

“Fine, I guess.” I wait a second, but realize that’s as much as he’s planning on giving me.

“So, I should probably warn you . . . ,” I say. He deserves a heads-up that Mom knows about Jamal.

“What?”

“Promise you won’t freak out?”

“Just tell me.” He fidgets with the bag of Takis. He still hasn’t opened them.

“Um . . . Mom went through your phone.”

“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair. “What did she say?”

“Not much. She knows about Jamal, though. . . .”

Cesar covers his face. I’m only making things worse. I shouldn’t have told him.

“But it’s okay! I don’t think she’s mad at you, and I promise I’ll come out to her before you get home. And I have a job and enough money saved up to put down for this apartment I’m looking at, so we can make it work if we need to.” I’m talking so fast I don’t know if I’m making any sense. I slow down. “I got you, okay?”

He’s quiet for a while. I hate that the job is part of the reason I haven’t been there for Cesar, but now more than ever, it helps to have a backup plan.

“You really have enough to get a place?” Cesar asks.

We’d be struggling, and I don’t know the first thing about living independently as minors, but I nod. If I need to, I’ll figure it out. I try to steady my hands so Cesar doesn’t know how terrified I am.

“I guess I should say thanks.” He doesn’t force a smile. I do.

“I, um, I talked to Jamal, too.” Maybe there’s one thing that can make him feel better.

“Yeah?”

“He wanted to know if you’re okay. He’s not mad, and he doesn’t hate you.” Somehow the words don’t feel as powerful coming from my mouth as they did from Jamal’s.

“He should. . . .” Cesar’s eyes are shiny, like he’s about to cry.

“Why?”

“Because he did everything for me and I broke up with him right when he needed me. He didn’t do nothing wrong, and I fucked him over. Here, I’m not hungry.” He hands me the bag.

“It’s okay. Feelings change. That’s not your fault.” I open the bag, hoping he might subconsciously start eating them if it’s open. I don’t know why I want him to eat them so bad. I just want to feel like some small part of this can still be normal.

“My feelings didn’t change, though. I’m just a shit person.”

“You’re not a shit person.”

He doesn’t answer.

“So, why did you break up with him?”

He’s quiet for a while. He draws in a slow breath, and his nails jab into his palms. It feels like a full minute passes before he says anything.

“Why did God make me like this if I’m not supposed to be like this, huh?” His chin quivers, and he wraps his arms around himself. I want to hug him, but I don’t even know if that’s allowed here.

“I don’t know,” I ask myself that all the time. “Is that why you broke up with Jamal? Because you want to be straight?”

It takes him a while to say anything. “It was my penance.”

“Penance . . .” It takes me a minute to process what that means. “Like from confession? The priest made you break up with him?” I never thought I could be so pissed at a priest in my life. What gives him the right to play God in people’s lives like that?