Mr. M. frowns at us. “All right, young lady,” he says, talking only to Prisha (rude!). “You can come in for a minute.”
Sarah tries to follow Prisha inside but Prisha says, “I’ll be fine, you can all wait for me out here.”
This was not the plan we all agreed on. Jane runs her hand through her hair and paces. Baldwin follows in Jane’s footsteps, trying to chill her out.
Sarah takes too long to let go of Prisha’s hand. Eventually Danny pulls her back. “She’s okay.”
We lean against the Maheshwaris’ truck parked in front of the windows and play it off like we don’t even care. As Prisha talks, Mr. and Mrs. M get closer together until they’re holding hands. Until Mrs. M holds out her other hand to Prisha. Mr. M leaves the room and heads upstairs. A minute later, Tavi hurtles down the stairs. They both lose their minds, Prisha talking in a high-pitched voice we can hear all the way outside, the dog leaping into her arms. Eventually Mr. M snaps his fingers at Tavi and she traipses over to an armchair, grabs a chew toy, and lies down contentedly chomping on its neck. Prisha and Mrs. M sit on the couch, talking. Mrs. M steals glances at us outside pretending we’re not spying.
Mr. M opens up the centerpiece of the living room, a large, narrow carved wooden cabinet. Above the cabinet is a jeweled mosaic of what I think must be a god. He/she/they has a body of a human and the head of an elephant.
“That’s Ganesha,” Sarah explains, because I guess she’s been educated by Prisha for a minute. “Ganesha is the god of new beginnings. The ultimate obstacle remover.”
Sarah straight-up bites a nail off until it bleeds. Goes for another one before Jane intervenes and holds her hand. Rubs her back. “You are the new beginning, honey.”
Danny hops off the truck and looks off into the distance. I wonder if it’s out of respect or because prayer of any kind is a painful reminder to him.
“They’re going to do puja,” Sarah says, interpreting again. “Indian prayer.”
I want her to shut the hell up, but I guess I get it. I think she’s going through what Jane went through at Mrs. Joung’s house when she thought Mrs. Joung was gonna kidnap Baldwin.
“So is that an oil lamp?” I ask.
“It’s called the diya,” Sarah answers. “First they light the diya. Then they begin the puja with an offering.”
We see Mrs. M duck out of the living room and come back with all these dumplings and bars that make my mouth water for my mother’s absolutely everything she has ever cooked for me. Yeah, I want my damn mami.
Sarah mumbles, “modak” and “ladoo” pathetically, and I get to wondering about her life before Prisha.
“Makes me think of us leaving my abuelo’s fave foods on the table for him on his birthday every year,” I offer.
Sarah rolls her eyes and starts pulling a thread out of her already threadbare booty shorts. I try again.
“So, I’m missing my ma’s flan right now. Sarah, your mom ever make you anything especial?”
She shakes her head. “Please.”
Mrs. M has laid the offerings on the altar and disappeared into an adjacent hall. She comes back with head scarves.
Sarah continues, “Lucky we heated up the Chef Boyardee.”
I shudder. Oh the horror.
“Prisha took me to temple once to pray—and get warm. She believes in a bunch of gods. I wish I believed in just one.”
Prisha and Ms. M’s covered heads are bowed and they are—pujaying?
“Yeah. I’m having that kind of crisis right now.”
“Prisha gets sad for what she’s lost. I get wrecked because the more I’m with her, I realize everything I never had.”
I nod. There are exactly zero words of consolation I can give.
23
Of course, Prisha can’t take Tavi with her. But Ms. M gives Prisha her number so they can stay in touch and sends her off with a backpack full of tampons, baby wipes, and clean underwear.
Now for Sarah’s house. Turns out her dad molested her, and her mom didn’t do jack. We all but set the place on fire. There’s nothing to steal except a bag of pills hidden under the dresser. Sarah promises Prisha she’ll sell it, but I see her poppin a bunch before we even leave the house.
We think that’s it, until Danny says, “Do we have time for one more stop?”
“Yeah?” Baldwin asks, their hand on his shoulder.
His jaw tight, he nods.
I grab Danny’s limp hand. “We’re your ride or die.”
His dad lives in the gentrified side of town where Nelly goes to school but can’t afford to live. His house has well-tended rose bushes, bird feeders, and a bird bath. Storybook fruit tree and berry bushes. I can’t help but picture the man who trims those roses, fills those feeders, prunes those trees, and turns his child out into the cold.
Baldwin expertly parallel parks the car and Jane jokes about the time Baldwin got so tired of seeing some lady struggle to park that they got out of the car and did it for her. Jane is feeling a little better.
We all nod as we head toward Danny’s backyard. Danny jiggles the fence and lets us in. It’s just as beautiful out back as it is in the front with neatly manicured evergreens and even a squirrel feeder.
Danny pulls a key out from a ceramic toad’s mouth and lets us in. Jane agrees to be lookout and sits on the steps.
Inside the mudroom, I ask, “Ground rules?”
“Take whatever you need for yourselves. Don’t destroy anything. Just—alter things ever so slightly.”
We walk into a sitting room—as opposed to a living room, Danny tells a very confused me. He makes a Bed Bath and Beyond portrait of a jazz band crooked.
Baldwin cracks their knuckles as they look at all the family portraits on the mantel, which are all of Danny when he looked like a girl.
I look away because that isn’t him.
“So,” Baldwin says, “we’re gaslighting Dear Old Dad?”
Danny nods, looking miserable. He sits on the couch and props his Vans on the coffee table. “Notice there are no pictures of me beyond elementary school.”
I adjust the grandfather clock on the mantel to an hour earlier. Go sit beside him and clasp his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“You know the last conversation I had with him?” He outlines it for me.
His dad: You go to the conversion camp. Or you don’t come home.
Danny: To be converted into what?
His dad: Back to what you used to be. Back to what you are supposed to be.
Danny: Used to be? Dad, I never was.
His dad: Your mother. She didn’t take care of herself when she had you.
Danny: Trans is not a birth defect. How can you throw me out? Do you know what happens to kids like me on the street? They end up prostitutes, raped, selling drugs . . .
His dad: That’s what being gay leads to. That’s what you’re fighting so hard to be. Just like your mother.
Danny: What the fuck, Dad? There’s nothing wrong with Mom. She’s a lesbian. That is all. I’m sorry she broke your heart. But she is who she is, and I am who I am.
His dad: silent stare.
“I ran out the door and didn’t look back.”
I climb on Danny’s lap, wrap my legs around him, and hug him so hard. Feel his breath on my neck. I admit to feeling distracted from the original purpose of this embrace . . .
Sarah and Prisha are bounding down the stairs with beautiful scarves in their hands.
Danny stops kissing me. He looks pale. I slide off him.
Danny stands up. “Those were my mom’s.”
“I know.” Prisha hands them to Danny. “I remember when you told me about them. Your mom wearing them and how she would let you play with them and pretend you could fly. They belong to you.”
Prisha and Danny hug. They’ve had these conversations already and I’m late to the party. I’m a jerk and I hate all the whispering going on between them. Danny stows the scarves in his bag.
“Everybody ready?”
“He doesn’t know. His dad got full custody because he said she was unstable. Made her sound crazy. But it really it was him making her crazy because she was gay, and he couldn’t stand it.”
My stomach churns. “That held up in court?”
Prisha nods. “I had the same question. I have a cousin who’s studying law in Cali. She says we make the assumption that our courts deliver justice. But how can they when the people in power don’t represent the people they’re supposed to serve?”
Prisha is dope. Damn it. “I guess I get why she had to leave,” I say. “But I don’t get why she had to disappear.”
Prisha shrugs. “I know he’s tried searching for her online and hasn’t had any luck. He’s not sure what name she uses now . . .”
“Well, damn, we tracked down your dog. Shouldn’t we be able to track down his mom?”
Danny’s dad has stronger passwords for his laptop and his email account than Prisha’s parents had, but we still manage to get in pretty fast. Middle-aged white men aren’t that imaginative.
We end up with a ten-year-old email address for his mom, plus confirmation of her maiden name. I write both down on a scrap of paper and give it to Danny. He folds it up and puts it in his pocket without a word. Stands stone still. Then grabs a pen and my wrist. Writes THANK YOU. I grab it back and write when you’re ready on his.
We’re all dead silent as we pile into the car.
This wasn’t supposed to be about me, but I can’t help it: Danny’s dad’s words dance with my mother’s words in my head.
Like Padre said, it all comes down to decisions. My mother decided to not trust my judgment. Decided who I should be and who I should love. My mother decided I’m not good. Funny how homophobic people think being gay or transgender leads to misery but never consider that they’re the ones who cause it. Never consider that they are the ones who separate God from their kids.
Hell is now. Saying it happens later is a power play.
24
We all separate an hourish before the vigil because we need a breather. Simone’s cooking wafts out of the house as I climb my dad’s front steps, juicy pork ruined by the odor of mashed potatoes. I can’t stand potatoes. (And French fries ain’t potatoes.) My dad is cutting up tomatoes from Simone’s garden for a salad and Veronica is setting the table. I hear something about a banana. And tongs. Fuck. Shit. Crap. Damn. Their voices drop as I try to beam my guilty ass up the staircase.
“Hey. Verdad. Ven aquí.”
“Hey!” I give my dad and Simone kisses hello. “I’m gonna try to get some homework done. Then I’m gonna head out for a bit.”
Simone side-eyes my dad and fake-smiles at me. My dad says, “Okay. But this weekend, we need to have a conversation about ground rules.”
I salute him. “Yes sir.”
Veronica throws me serious shade. I let her have it. The whispering that they think I can’t hear starts as I climb up the stairs.
I plop on my bed and pray to God, even though Simone thinks I’m probably toking a joint up here. I have to believe what I told Danny earlier today. To hate is human. To love is divine. God loves whoever I figure out that I am. But I’m not praying about me.
Prisha talked about a cousin in California. I’m praying she finds her.
Sarah left her house after raiding the medicine cabinet. I’m praying she doesn’t OD.
I’m praying that Danny will be able to track down his mom.
I check the time. It’s 3:24.
My hands are shaking when I rummage a pair of nail clippers out of the bathroom drawer and start snipping my split ends. I know the vigil isn’t about me. But going to it forces me to make public the feelings I’ve locked in a vault for so long. I won’t just be wearing my heart on my sleeve. I’ll be like my screensaver Jesus, my heart ablaze for everybody to see.
Dear God-Force/aka Multiverse: Make today bigger than me. Make it about Blanca and her abuela, Bambi, Fernando, and every other kid who deserves to dance on their fifteenth birthdays.
I decide that I have ninety-nine problems and being bald shouldn’t be one of em. I need freakin help.
I can’t call my mother. I know she loved Blanca, but she also disapproved of her. Like I told Padre, love ain’t acceptance. Love on its own isn’t enough. I don’t want her there with all her judgment, remembering Blanca through a tainted lens.
I don’t want to ask my dad to come either. We’re not at that level yet. And I’m already in debt to him.
I call Tía Sujei.
“Took you long enough. I’m insulted.”
“I’m sorry, Titi. My head is just—”
“Up your ass?”
“Can you come get me?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Never mind the drive from where she is should take like fifty. Not only does she arrive in nineteen minutes, but she packed Tupperwares of food, which she hands over to an excusably annoyed Simone.
Sujei sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose. “This is what she likes.” She taps the lid covering the pasteles. “Take some for the family. Just boil what you want for about an hour. Freeze the rest.”
“How’s Ma?” I ask her when we’re in the car.
“Honestly, I can’t tell if she’s more pissed off that you’re on a collision course with hellfire or that you’re staying with your dad. He actually called me right before you did.”
“About what?”
“After your stepmother discovered an elephant must have bathed in your bathtub, amongst much other strange shit, she and your dad had a discussion. Being that they have their hands full with Veronica losing her shit over you and the new baby, and your mom and dad are at war over stupit shit, they called me. Once I call the school and straighten shit out, you’re moving in to my place.”
“My dad’s throwing me out?” Even though I knew it was coming, the sucker punch still hurts.
“No.” She grabs my hand. “I am not letting him or you get to that point. You and he are good right now. I want to preserve that. The problem with tug-of-war is that nobody really gets all of you. You just get torn to pieces. And that ain’t happening to my favorite niece. Your dad and your mom love you. But they need to work on their shit without shitting on you.”
I’m trying to take this in. Trying not to think about my split ends.
She side-eyes me. “You okay with this? Because you look scared shitless.”
I twirl my hair till it hurts. “I mean, of course I appreciate it, but at the same time—with them I know what to expect. And what they expect.”
“What I expect is for you to live your best life. But I also expect you to make mistakes. Life isn’t a multiple choice. Your parents got no answer key. They want you to do better than they did, but mija,” she glances at me in the mirror, “you already are.”
Okay. I can make that work. Living with Sujei. Living my truth. “Thanks, Titi.”
She cradles her ringing phone with her ear as she parks the car.
“Listen, I got to take this. You do what you need to do.”
I head to the theater and there is Ms. Q holding a box of electric candles. Ms. Moore is carrying a princess crown in honor of Blanca. Gloria and, I’m guessing, her Tio William are each pushing a laundry cart of white and pink roses, sprays of baby’s breath. Beside her there’s Christine, with clear giant bags of stuffed animals on her back. I’m sure all will be stolen by the morning. But even that thought is kind of fly. A little piece of Blanca, a little love will be played with in parks, slept with in bedrooms, given to lovers before a kiss in the dark.
A camera guy is setting up in front of the ticket booth. A journalist is talking to Nelly. “Let’s talk about the school-prison pipeline . . .”
Rudy is taking a panorama with his cell. Frida struts in my direction with her hands on her hips.
“Verdad, why weren’t you at school today? Ms. Q”—she nods at her—“was pissed.” Ms. Q fi
nger wags me but smiles.
“Sorry,” Danny says, curling his arm around my waist and planting a kiss on me. “She needed a mental health day.”
Rudy makes porn music and gets nasty with his hips.
Frida stomps her foot. “Boy, I’mma—”
Frida chases Rudy until he trips on his parachute pants. His camera goes off on the way down. Frida grabs it.
“Yaas.” She holds up a shot of Rudy with his eyes closed, his hands and legs sprawling before his ass-busting finale. “Send!”
I receive. “This.” I hold up the picture. “This makes today suck so much less.”
The cameras are still rolling on Nelly, and I overhear her saying something about a city council meeting. The journalist talking to her eyeballs me.
“Penelope and I talked to the reporter before they started filming, told her about your ideas for the theater. Nelly’s gonna work a quick mention of it into her interview too. A little press and maybe something can happen.” Frida lays her hand on my shoulder.
My neck and ears feel hot. I didn’t think I’d be the one in front of the camera. I didn’t think this through at all, really. I shake my head. “Frida, I’m not talking to nobody.”
“Well, that’s your call. If Nelly’s little shout-out airs, that’ll be a start at least. But it shouldn’t only be up to Nelly.” Frida gives a peace symbol and starts helping Gloria and her Tio arrange flowers all around the perimeter of the theater.
Eventually, Nelly goes off to help Ms. Moore pass out electric candles. The journalist keeps talking to the camera. “Now what we’re seeing is a student-run vigil for the victims tragically taken by a mass shooter a year ago today, the youngest among them being Blanca Lopez, Bambi Melendez, and Fernando Zarrin. Nelly Hamilton, whom we just spoke to, hopes to collaborate with Blanca’s best friend, Verdad de la Reyna, to turn this site into a community center in honor of them and all youths taken by gun violence.”
Now their names are out there and somebody on the other side of the camera, maybe a few somebodies, will sign the cross, whisper a prayer, light a candle for them. If even half the people in this city who have lost somebody stand up and say hell yeah to our idea, maybe that chandelier will shine over kids running after basketballs, not running from bullets.
The Truth Is Page 20
