Queerceanera, p.2
Queerceañera, page 2
“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” I wheeze, positive I clipped his elbow with my board. “Are you okay?”
“You managed to get me right in the funny bone—good aim,” he says with a good-natured laugh.
He’s probably around my age if I had to guess. He’s broader and taller than me by a long shot, not that it’s a huge feat or anything. His straight, jet-black hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and the shorter pieces in front almost cover his eyes, but not quite enough for me to miss the way he’s staring at me. He gives me a once-over while he rubs some feeling back into his arm, and the attention makes me shrink a bit.
“I really am sorry,” I say, hugging my board to my chest. “I was fully zoning out.”
“No harm, no foul,” he assures me. I fully expect him to turn away, but instead, he leans a little closer and tips his head to the side. “I think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Oh, probably,” I say, glancing at April, who suddenly seems weirdly invested in our conversation. “My friend and I are here pretty often.”
“Yeah, I totally remember you,” the guy says, but he doesn’t look over at April at all. He keeps his eyes trained on me as he leans on the record stand next to us. “I think you might have bought the Streetlight Manifesto album I had my eye on.”
My brow furrows. “Sorry?”
“Nah, don’t apologize. I can’t fault you for having good taste,” he says easily. “I don’t know a lot of people who are into them. When I saw you grab it, I was like, I have to say hi next time I see this guy.”
“Oh, yeah. Hi, I guess,” I say, and he smiles a little at that for some reason. I’m not really sure why the conversation has gone on for as long as it has, or what else there is to say, so I make a break for it. As I start to sidle past him, his expression falters. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
“Oh,” he says haltingly. I’m not really sure why he looks so disappointed. “Yeah. I guess so.”
I manage to make my way to April without assaulting anyone else, but after a second of riffling through records, I notice she’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“What?”
“That was incredible,” April says, voice low. “I’ve never seen anyone so completely clueless that they’re getting hit on.”
It takes me a second to put two and two together, but when I do, I can feel my face heat up. “All the fan fiction you read is making you delusional.”
“Dude, he basically said, ‘Hey, come here often?’” April says in what I can only assume is her best impression of a sultry man’s voice. “You’re oblivious.”
“I’m not oblivious,” I reply, turning back to the records. “I’m just . . . distracted.”
“Oh, so you finally admit it?” April asks, but she doesn’t press me on it. It’s one of the things I love about her—she knows me well enough to understand I’ll come to her with whatever is stressing me out eventually when I’m ready.
Truth is, April and I got close back in middle school because we were dating. The relationship was catastrophic, to say the least, equal parts April trying to convince herself she wasn’t aro ace and me trying to convince myself I was bi instead of gay. I was desperate to stay in the closet as long as I could, and she kept my secret until I was ready to come out at the beginning of my junior year. She was there for all of it, so I know that if anyone could understand how frustrated I’m feeling about my mom, it’s April.
She doesn’t seem surprised when I finally start explaining how the morning unfolded in all its chaotic glory. We’re hovering in front of “punk bands A–D” when I start venting, and we end up at “punk bands Q–T” by the time I finish.
“I can’t believe her. I mean, I can, because of course she’d say something like that, but it’s still seriously messed up,” April says, waving the Limp Wrist album she picked up somewhere in the middle of my vent session. “A god-fearing family, ugh, please. I’ll give her something to fear.”
With April coming in at a whopping five foot nothing, it isn’t exactly the weightiest threat in the world, but I appreciate it anyway.
“I still don’t think she means it the way it comes off,” I say, not sure if I know exactly how to make her understand. “You know she’s . . . opinionated. She always speaks her mind, that’s how she’s been forever. But she said everything was fine when I came out, so maybe this isn’t directed at me, right?”
April nods slowly, though she still looks doubtful.
This is how things had been for the last seven months. Mom has pretty traditional Catholic beliefs, but when I came out to her, she seemed okay with it. And for a while, I was really happy that our relationship felt the same as it always had. She made time to grab lunch with me and meet up with Dad at parent-teacher conferences. She came to Carmen’s birthday party and cried when she hugged her goodbye at the end of the night. There were subtle, critical remarks here and there, Mom needling Carmen about her future, or hinting that I should be trying harder in school. It stung, but things felt normal.
It wasn’t until later, after she got remarried, that the judgmental comments started to ramp up. She shared vague posts about “traditional family values” on Facebook, corny quotes reposted so many times you could count the number of pixels that made up every letter. I started to doubt if I could talk about being gay around her. Pretty soon, our lunches went from being full of real conversations to idle small talk. She would invite me to cookouts and days out with her stepkids, and I would say I’d try to go, but we both knew I wouldn’t.
A rift formed between her and Carmen that only seemed to get wider since she was away at college, and then deepened when Mom’s social media posts seemed to get more and more pointed. I’d try to put on a brave face, and Dad and Carmen and April would try to make it up to me somehow.
April pauses her search through the records to peer over at me as if she’s read my mind and says, “I know it seemed innocent enough before, but things have gotten worse.”
“I know. I’m just not sure where to go from here,” I say as April continues to rummage through the records. “I wish I knew what was going through her head.”
“At the end of the day, does it really matter? Whether she meant to or not, she’s hurting you and making you doubt yourself. It’s, like, intent versus impact or whatever.”
I give April a sidelong glance, and she pauses. “You sound exactly like Carmen when she’s doing that post-divorce thing where she acts like she’s my mom now.”
“She might have fed me that line the last time I was at your house for dinner, sue me,” April says with a shrug, and I finally let out a genuine laugh. “Girl’s gotta put every dollar of that psych degree to work. If we’re not fully healed and self-actualized by the time she graduates, she should get a refund.”
I chew my lip, ruminating on what April said. “I mean, I can see what you mean.”
“About free therapy?”
“No. I mean, sure, that too. But about the intent versus impact thing,” I say, shuffling through record after record of jazz musicians I’ve never heard of. “If I think about it that way, it makes a lot of sense why Carmen barely talks to her now.”
“Wait, have they still not seen each other at all since Carmen came home?”
I shake my head. The last time Carmen and Mom were in the same room was in January when I won a Gold Key at the Scholastic Awards for one of my paintings. Mom seemed really proud of me, and I was riding a high all day until she made a comment about how art was a fine hobby, but not a realistic choice for a career. Carmen saw the way it put a damper on the entire day for me, and after that, I’m not sure if they’ve even exchanged texts let alone seen each other in passing.
“That’s got to be rough,” April says quietly.
“It is, even if they won’t admit it. And you wanna know how Mom is overcompensating?” I ask as we move deeper into the store. “Felix. She posted the other day that he’s staying with her this summer. According to all her gushing on social media, he’s attending this fancy coding boot camp in Austin for the next few months.”
“Felix?” she asks, hand pausing over the albums before the recognition dawns on her. “Oh, oh my god. That’s her godson, right? The one she’s always going on about? Isn’t that the guy who—?”
“No, no, no, we are not taking a trip down memory lane. If you love me, you will not tease me right now.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Well, I do hate him.”
“That’s funny, that’s not how I remember it,” she says with a laugh that turns into a cackle when my face heats up.
“Okay, yes. We used to be close when we were kids, really close, but he moved away and took up a permanent position being my mom’s ahijado consentido instead. Apparently, he can do no wrong in her eyes. He’s allowed to be gay without a single comment about it, but god forbid I am. Literally.”
“Do you think you’ll see each other at all while he’s here?”
“God, I hope not,” I say, trailing behind April as she moves to the front of the store to pay for her album. “I don’t need to see her fawning over him only to have her turn around and criticize me.”
April buys us some bottled water at the register, and we sink down onto the curb outside the shop to gulp it down. Even in the shade, the heat feels like it’s trying to suffocate me.
“You’re right to be mad, you know. She’s being a total hypocrite.”
“I know,” I say, fiddling with the cap on my water bottle. “Even though I know she’s the one in the wrong, it still hurts. The divorce was hard enough on its own, but coming out on top of that made it feel like everything about our relationship changed overnight. I just wish she’d talk to me.”
“And then what?” April says, not unkindly, and it catches me a little off guard.
“I don’t know, maybe I could get her to understand,” I murmur. I can feel April’s gaze on my face even though my eyes are glued to the stained laces of my sneakers. “If I could show her I’m happy, that I’m proud of myself, then it might make her more comfortable with the idea that I’m gay.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you can just be happy and proud without having to change anyone’s mind,” she says. When I don’t reply right away, she bumps her shoulder gently against mine. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to shrink yourself down for small-minded people, even your own mom. You deserve to take up all the space you want.”
I’m not exactly sure what to say in response, so I drop my head onto her shoulder, and she presses a warm hand to my curls. As I feel the sun thawing out the last stretch of cool skin chilled by the AC, I have a hard time picturing myself taking up any space at all in a life that feels so cramped.
CHAPTER THREE
April and I end up staying downtown well into the evening. We post up at a little family-owned cafe, and she tells me about her most anticipated album releases as I doodle people in the sketchbook I drag around with me everywhere I go. Drawing is my biggest stress reliever, and at this point, I need all the help I can get. We only pack up and head back to her car when the light is too dim for me to see my own pencil strokes.
By the time she drops me off at home, lightning bugs are hovering over the lawn, and the neighborhood is quiet. Like morning routines in our house, nightly routines are super predictable. There’s a soft glow coming from Carmen’s window on the second floor, and I’d bet anything she’s on her nightly FaceTime call with her longtime boyfriend, Ryan. And when I head inside, I’m not surprised when I find my dad reading Food & Wine on the sofa, illuminated in the warm lamp light. He has an interview with them next week on the history of Tex-Mex cuisine, and with the way he always dazzles the press, I know he’s going to nail it.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my keys into a little bowl on the side table. “You know you don’t have to stay up and wait for me, right?”
Dad looks up from his reading with a smile. His reading glasses are perched on the end of his nose, and his gray-streaked hair is still wet from his evening shower. “I know, I know. But I can’t sleep until you’re home safe.”
I’ve heard him say this a hundred times, but after the day I’ve had, that simple statement is enough to make me well up. Dad must have seen some emotion cross my face, because he pats the spot next to him on the couch.
When I sit, he doesn’t launch into a goofy story about work or fill me in on family chisme like he normally does when it’s just the two of us. Instead, he puts his magazine aside and places his reading glasses on top of the glossy cover.
“So, did you have a good day?”
It seems like a simple enough question, but we’ve had the same version of this conversation a dozen times now, and I think I know what he’s really asking. “Dad, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“It’s my job to worry about you, mijo,” he says firmly, but it doesn’t make me feel any less guilty. “Carmen told me about that caption, and I know you like to deal with things on your own but—”
“I talked about it with April, and I got my frustration out here,” I say, rapping my knuckles against the sketchbook in my lap. “I’m good, I promise.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says. In the dim light of the living room, his expressive face is creased with concern. “I’ve let the relationship between you and your mom stay between you two, because I know that’s what you want. But if you ever need me to step in, you say the word, okay? Carmen and I will always be here for you.”
I nod, but I still want to kick myself for making them worry about me. And at the same time, I’m not sure if their concern is enough to soothe the sting of rejection I’m still feeling from Mom. Which feels silly, because when I came out Dad and Carmen weren’t just accepting, they were actually excited for me. Carmen came home for Thanksgiving break with her laptop covered in Pride stickers and a never-ending list of advice on dating boys. Dad made me a three-tier coming-out cake, and I practically had to beg him not to decorate the house with rainbow streamers. He still sends me every positive news article he sees about LGBT rights, and he’s more amped about my first Pride Month out of the closet than he was about Christmas.
But all that love from them doesn’t fully erase the fact I want to feel accepted by Mom. It feels selfish and ridiculous to feel this way, but it’s where I’m at right now. I don’t know how to explain any of it to Dad, but even without vocalizing it, I think on some level he understands.
“Do you remember when we first signed you up for art lessons?” he asks suddenly, though I’m not sure exactly what prompted it or the smile spreading across his face. “You must have only been around six years old.”
“I guess. Why?”
“There was a class we took you to where the teacher was always trying to ‘fix’ your drawings,” he says. “Then we transferred you to another class, and the new teacher said they had never seen someone so young develop their own personal style like you had.”
“Well, yeah. Art is subjective.”
“Life is subjective,” Dad says warmly. “What one person thinks is a problem could be your greatest gift. That’s the kind of thing that makes you special. And, for the record, I always thought you were brilliant.”
“I think you’re a little biased in that department,” I say, stifling a laugh.
“You bet I am,” he says, patting my knee and getting to his feet. “You’ve always had so much to offer, and if someone isn’t able to see that, it doesn’t make it any less true. I want you to remember that.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I murmur. I understand what he means, but I’m not sure if I can really believe it.
I fiddle with the edge of my sketchbook as he tucks his magazine under his arm. But as he leaves, he pauses at the doorframe. When I look up at him, I can’t quite parse the expression on his face.
“I am so proud of you, Joaquin. I can’t say for sure if your mom will really understand, but if I have to be proud of you for the both of us, then I will.”
I sit in the quiet of the living room a little longer, savoring the silence and contemplating what Dad said before I eventually flick off the lights and head upstairs too. I only make it up one step when I trip over something in the dark, and I don’t even need to look to know it’s a pair of Carmen’s shoes, tossed haphazardly in the way they always were before she moved out of the house and into the dorms.
Rolling my eyes, I scoop them up and stalk up the stairs, but pause before I reach her room. Carmen’s door is halfway open, the blue glow from her LED lights spilling into the hallway. I can hear her saying goodnight to Ryan on the phone, as I peek inside. She’s sprawled out on the ground, in a makeshift nest of notes and textbooks from the summer class she’s taking at the local community college.
I had teased her when she told me she wasn’t taking the summer off, calling her a nerd for wanting to get her gen eds out of the way so she could get into lectures that genuinely interested her in the fall. But honestly, I love how much she loves school. It’s one of the things that makes it hard for me to blame her for needing space from Mom, since she only ever had negative things to say about Carmen’s choice to study psychology.
She was always saying little things to suggest Carmen should choose something more “useful” or “lucrative” to study. It was odd, because she would still brag about Carmen’s full-ride scholarship and perfect GPA to anyone who would listen. But at the same time, it seemed like she wanted to micromanage her life, and Carmen wouldn’t have any part of it. Mom’s not-so-silent judgment of her relationship with Ryan, claiming that Carmen was “wasting her time” with him despite his constant doting, was another nail in the coffin for their mother-daughter relationship.
As Carmen finally hangs up and tosses her phone to the side with a content sigh, I wonder what Mom would think if she could see her now. If she could see how happy Carmen is when she’s allowed to just exist, would that change her mind? I’m not really sure.
