Bo’s dad fist-pumps. “I was hoping you’d pick that one. So, today we can do a movie and go to C-Fu if it’s not too busy. The festival on the twenty-eighth, and I think ice blocking will be a New Year’s Eve outing!”
I know today will be fun, but I’m so ready for the twenty-eighth.
“So what movie should we watch?” Bo asks.
“You should pick, Yamilet! What’s your favorite movie?” Bo’s mom says to me. So I am allowed to join. Which I guess should have been obvious. It’s not like they would have made me hide in the guest room or leave for them to watch a movie.
“You probably won’t have it,” I say. My favorite movie is Selena, of course. It’s almost a rite of passage for Mexican Americans to have seen it, but it’s probably not mainstream enough for Bo’s family to own.
“Maybe not, but if we don’t have it, we’ll buy it,” Bo’s mom says. I blink to keep from showing my surprise. It blows my mind that they can buy whatever movies they want whenever they have a craving to watch them.
“Selena.” My neck retracts like a shy turtle when I say it. I don’t know why being intentionally included in a family thing makes me so nervous. It’s not as personal as going to a baile folklórico show, but sharing my favorite movie with them still feels like opening up.
“I’ll get it right now!” Bo’s mom says, and less than an hour later, we’re all in the living room with popcorn and sodas.
Bo’s mom and dad cuddle up on one couch, while Bo and I sit on the other. When they’re not fighting, Bo’s parents are pretty sweet with each other. Meanwhile, Bo’s knee touches mine sometimes. So that’s something.
Okay. Not just something. Maybe I’m more than a little touch-starved. When our knees scrape against each other, it feels like static electricity throughout my whole body. It makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Who gets butterflies from freaking knee touching? A burning sensation fills my face before I can enjoy the butterflies too much. I feel like everyone around me can tell when I have a gay-ish feeling, as if I’m radiating some kind of intensely gay aura, and that terrifies me. Bo shifts, leaving my knee all alone, like she’s recoiling in disgust. But then she pulls her legs onto the couch and crosses them. Now our thighs are touching.
Suddenly it’s hard to breathe. I’m afraid one of my standing arm hairs could prick her like a cactus needle, and she’ll know. I hear Bianca’s voice in my head telling me how gross I am. I fold my arms so the hairs lie flat, and cross my legs so our thighs don’t touch. I spend the rest of the movie painfully aware of every inch of my body. How much space it takes up. How much distance there is between me and Bo at any given moment. Whether I come across as too comfortable, or not comfortable enough with her. How heavy my breathing is. No gay auras here. No Selena, either. I’m too focused on our not-touching.
I don’t realize how hungry I am until Rick brings up C-Fu after the movie. When we get there, it’s busy, but apparently not busy enough to go another day. While we wait for the food to come, Bo and I walk around the restaurant. She just seems so happy here with me, so I force my angsty self-conscious feelings deep down and let myself enjoy her contagious smile.
There are huge fish tanks in some of the walls, and Bo grabs my wrist to pull me toward the tanks. She hasn’t stopped smiling since we got here. She is radiating some serious happy vibes. It almost makes me forget how hungry I am.
“Which one looks the yummiest?” she asks. I look around and notice a huge shriveled-up flaccid penis clam . . . thing. I point at it and grin.
“That one. The penis fish. Mmmm . . .”
“Yamilet!” She chokes on her laugh and wheezes. I didn’t think it was that funny, but there’s no way I’m complaining about making Bo laugh. Not when it looks and sounds like （chef’s kiss） that.
“What about you?” I ask. She points to one of the bottom feeders.