She shows me Cesar’s phone, like she wants me to read some texts. I’d be pissed if Cesar read my texts, so I push the phone away. It’s too big an invasion of privacy for me.
“You went through his phone?”
“I wanted to know what happened. Where I went wrong . . .” She’s crying again. I’m surprised she’s not blaming me. If I had any strength in my hands right now, I’d be reaching for hers.
“Don’t cry, Mami. I’m sorry . . . what were you saying?”
She clears her throat. “Cesar and Jamal. They were together. Did you know this?”
I decide it’s best to come clean and admit to it. I’m in a little too deep to play innocent right now.
“I knew.”
She winces.
“I was trying to protect him. Like you told me to,” I say.
“Protect him . . . from me?” She touches her quivering lips with her fingertips.
I nod cautiously, afraid I’ve crossed a line. But part of me doesn’t care.
I want to tell her I’m gay, just to take some of the weight off Cesar. But I can’t bring myself to say it. I’m a terrible person. I still have three days before Cesar gets back. I’ll tell her before then.
“Where did I go wrong?” She cups her face in her palms. Telling her is going to be tough. But her disapproval only makes me want to tell her more. So Cesar won’t have to deal with it alone. She pulls her rosary from her pocket, but I interrupt before she starts praying.
“There’s nothing wrong with not being straight, Mom.”
“But why would he want to . . .” Her voice cracks. “I don’t know how I missed this.”
“Me either . . .” I, of all people, should have seen the signs that he wasn’t okay.
“I missed so much. Did you know he was never on the football team?”
I can’t bring myself to answer.
“I thought he was doing so well.” She wipes her face and walks out.
I’m still awake when my alarm goes off the next day. I can’t go to school. The second Bo asks me what’s wrong, I know I’ll lose it. I’m not trying to cry in public anytime soon. I don’t move until my mom storms into my room, clapping her hands. She’s really going to pretend everything’s normal.
“Time to go! What are you doing in bed?”
“I’m sick . . . ,” I say.
“Oh, no you’re not. You don’t get to ditch two days in a row, missy. You’re going.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are!” She’s yelling now. “You missed yesterday, and look at where that got us!”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I throw the covers off myself and sit up, even though she has a point. I don’t know why I’m daring her to say it.
“You didn’t come home with him! You were supposed to be here!” Her voice being hoarse from crying doesn’t stop her from trying to scream at me. She’s right, but she’s just as much to blame.
“Oh, so this is my fault?” I know it is. But not just mine.
She throws her purse at me but misses.
“YES!” The scream doesn’t sound like my mom. It comes out low and starved, like her real voice is trapped somewhere deep down.
“Fuck you!” I yell, ignoring the steam escaping her ears. “You’re the one making gay jokes in front of us! You’re the one who said there was something wrong with Jamal because you thought he was gay!”