If I’d eaten breakfast, it would be making its way back up my throat. I feel like everyone’s staring at me. Like they all know I want to run away. Like they know I’m gay.
I’m hyperaware of every part of my body. I have to look unbothered. I stay sitting upright and try to focus on breathing without looking like I’m trying to focus on breathing.
Chill, Yami.
My throat is unusually tight, which makes that a little difficult. Is it normal to be able to feel your pulse in your ears? It doesn’t matter. I’ll take hearing my pulse over hearing my peers argue about whether I’m an abomination. Somehow, I’m hearing both.
Homosexuality is sin.
It’s not natural!
A child needs a mother and a father!
What’s next, we legalize bestiality? Pedophilia?
I don’t want to think too deeply about what that last comment means. That they see me as an animal. A predator. Even someone who I called my best friend felt that way. I can’t think about it, or I’ll crack in front of everyone. I let the argument fade to the background and focus on the corner of my desk, where someone drew a bunch of little hearts. They make my face hotter. If I had my pencil, I’d scribble over them until the whole corner was nothing but a vortex of gray.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt. Dammit, is my face sweating too? I can’t look upset right now. This is not personal. No one can know how not personal this is for me.
Bianca, say something . . .
It’s not personal. I just think it’s best if we go our separate ways.
“Yamilet, anything to add?” Mrs. Havens asks. That crusty-looking bitch. I’m the only one who hasn’t said anything yet. I was doing fine pretending to be fine until now.
“I think . . .” I swallow. I think I’m gonna be sick. “I think my group has made their point.” They’ve more than made their point.
The bell rings, and I’m the first one out the door. I’m not so good at breathing without looking like I’m trying to focus on breathing anymore. The best I can do is keep from hyperventilating until I get somewhere private. Everything is blurry, so I blink back tears before they fall. Instead of going to my next class, I power-walk to the bathroom before anyone has a chance to notice me.
I swing the first stall door open and slam it behind me. But stall doors don’t like to slam, no matter how close to a panic attack you are. I have to shut it twice before it stays closed long enough for me to lock it. A quick glance under the stalls tells me I’m alone.
I reach for some toilet paper to blow my nose. The roll is empty.
“Are you kidding me!” I don’t mean to shout, but the lack of toilet paper is enough to make my vision blur again. It’s infuriating.
Okay, slow breaths. In . . .
I close my eyes, and the tears start falling.
Don’t cry. Breathe out . . .
A whimper escapes with my breath. I hate that sound.
Breathe in . . .
It’s shaky, but it’s getting better.
Out . . .
The bell rings, and it drowns out the sound of my sobs.
5
Make Unto Thee Non-Racist Friends
I cry as hard as I can until the bell stops ringing. It’s not enough time. When the sound stops, I cover my mouth and cry into my hand to stay quiet. The only noise I let myself make is to sniffle. The lack of toilet paper is killing me. I don’t want to get snot on my shirt and I’m not ready to leave the stall, so for now I’ll live with the runny nose.
From the stall next to mine, the sniffle echoes.