The mirror in the bathroom is much bigger than my broken vanity, and it makes me uncomfortable. There’s something unsettling about seeing your whole reflection looking back at you. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then I guess I feel like I’m invading my own privacy. My eyes wander to the corner of the glass, where Cesar has the Mayan Code of the Heart taped up: In Lak’ech Ala K’in, with the famous poem underneath.
Tú eres mi otro yo / You are my other me.
Si te hago da?o a ti / If I do harm to you,
Me hago da?o a mí mismo / I do harm to myself.
Si te amo y respeto / If I love and respect you,
Me amo y respeto yo / I love and respect myself.
It’s kind of ironic how much he loves that poem, considering how often he gets into fights. Maybe it’s because it was basically our dad’s mantra. Dad was always outspoken about our roots, and he wanted us to be too. He used to sit us down at random times and give us lectures on things like immigration, colorism, our Indigenous history—all that good stuff. I hated it at the time, but now I kind of miss it.
Mami’s always had other things going on, especially now. She’s just too busy to carry on that tradition.
Without Dad here, I feel like I’m less Indigenous somehow. Cesar wears his indigeneity on his sleeve, though. He says “in lak’ech” instead of “same,” and always wears both a cross necklace and a chain with the jaguar symbol on it—for facing fears, I think. Maybe it’s his way of compensating for the fact that we haven’t had a solid connection to our ancestry since Dad left.
I have my own way of facing my fears—sharpening my winged eyeliner. A perfect wing makes looking at myself more bearable. And if I get it just right, it’ll make me less nervous about today. My hand trembles a little, and I have to clean off the first line.
This will be fine. I have a foolproof game plan:
1. Find a new best friend.
2. Don’t be gay about it.
My hand steadies at the thought, and the line goes on smooth. I woke up late today, since Cesar was up late talking to some girl on the phone like he always does, and our walls are paper thin. Because of my fuckboy brother, I don’t have time to do my whole face. I’ll just have to wing it. Heh.
“Yamilet, ?apúrate!” Mom’s shouting almost makes me smudge my eyeliner again. Good thing it didn’t, or she’d be waiting another five minutes for me to fix it. We’re not even close to late. She’s just hell-bent on taking us early so we have time to find our classes.
“Almost done!” I call out as I slip into my blue uniform shirt and plaid skirt. The dress code says the skirt is supposed to go to your knee. This skirt would go past the knee of a life-size Barbie doll. On me, it’s almost to my ankle. I roll the top of the skirt until it’s at my knee, and it makes me want to gouge my eyes out a little less. I tuck in my shirt, also part of the dress code. The tucked shirt emphasizes my belly, so I tug at the fabric until it hangs over the top of the skirt. Satisfied, I grab my bag and make my way to the kitchen to get some toast.
Cesar slides in front of me before I can eat, blue shirt tucked into his khakis. He reaches out his hand like we’ve never met and shakes mine hard enough that he could dislocate my shoulder.
“Hiya there. Good golly gosh, the weather sure is nice, isn’t it?” He’s talking in a nasally voice and switching between, like, three accents that aren’t his. Still shaking my hand, he adjusts the invisible glasses on his nose with the index finger of his free hand.
I straighten up and shake his hand back. “Oh, it’s just splendid! Simply wonderful. Cheers!” My accent comes out British.
I do my best curtsy, pulling the sides of my skirt out. He bows. Mom smacks the backs of our heads. Her smack doesn’t sting, but the glare burns.