I throw my arm around his shoulder. “Don’t worry, if you ever miss Rover food, just lick the bottom of your shoe. You’ll feel like you never left.”
He lets out a little snort and throws one of his legs in the air. “Excuse you, my shoes are clean AF. This is five-star dining right here.”
“The bottom of your shoes, tonto.” I go to flick his ear, but he sees it coming and flicks mine first. “Ow!” I rub my ear. Damn you, slow reflexes.
It’s fine, though. I’d rather have a flicked ear than a mad-at-me little brother.
My phone buzzes, and Mom’s picture lights up the screen. I don’t know why she calls my phone when she could call my name. Our house isn’t exactly big enough for me not to hear. I answer anyway.
“Hey, Mami.”
“Ven pa’ acá, mija.”
“Coming.” I hang up. My mind is racing, trying to come up with some excuse for how the mirror broke.
“Tell her I broke it.” Cesar must have read my mind, even though he’s not even looking at me. He’s good at that.
“Why?”
“She’ll believe you, and I won’t get in trouble.” He’s right. Cesar is Mom’s little baby. He breaks a mirror and she’ll want to know if his hand is okay. I break a mirror and I’m grounded, at the very least. Still, I’m not throwing him under the bus.
I roll my eyes and head to my mom’s room. In the hallway, I avoid looking at her collection of crosses and the gallery of Jesus portraits on the walls. Because apparently one Jesus isn’t enough holiness to literally scare me straight—not that Mom knows she needs to. I wish Cesar didn’t buy into this stuff so hard, so I could at least complain to him about it. The biggest portrait makes me particularly twitchy. Jesus is staring directly at me—no, through me—and his eyes are all sad like he knows I’m going to hell. I can’t shake the feeling that it doesn’t matter if I’m in the closet or not. Mom’s voice nags in my head: Jesus sees everything. There’s a burning in my gut, like the crosses are trying to exorcise the gay out of me. I keep my eyes on the carpet and speed-walk the rest of the way down the Hallway of Shame and into her room.
I almost step on a half-made beadwork earring on my way in. The angular design looks like it’s going to mimic a red-and-orange flower. As usual, the floor is littered with beads, strings, wires, and other side-hustle supplies. Mom makes jewelry and Mexican beadwork to sell in her spare time, and she does a damn good job of it. As if she isn’t already busy enough with her full-time call center job and two kids. I check to see if she saw me almost step on the earring, but she doesn’t react.
She pats the space on her bed next to where she’s lying. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she’s wearing sunglasses—the ones she wears when she has post-crying eyes. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I don’t think it’s the mirror. I’m the one she calls when she’s wearing her sunglasses. She’s always too worried about Cesar to put her problems on him.
I hop over the mess on the floor and up on the bed to assume our usual cuddling position. Her bed is way comfier than mine, and no matter how old I get, I’ll always feel safer in it. She pulls me into a hug and strokes my hair. I close my eyes, and we’re both quiet for a moment.
She doesn’t say anything about the mirror. She must not have heard me break it. I know I’m supposed to be comforting her right now, but I feel so guilty. I have to come clean.
“I quit my job,” I blurt out, better to rip off the Band-Aid. She would have figured it out anyway. “But I’ll get another one, I promise.”
“Ay Dios mío . . .” She sighs and gives herself the sign of the cross. “Don’t tell me Bianca convinced you to quit. She’s a bad influence on you.” Bianca’s name makes my body go cold for a moment.