I looked at him with a big question mark on my face. “Well, I was sitting at the table right over there. And I heard you tell the story about your mother and the lizards some guy let loose in her classroom. And then I got this idea. It was like an Oh, wow kind of moment. And I knew what I was going to do.”
“But why crickets?” Susie asked.
“Well, I like crickets. Crickets aren’t really that scary. They’re supposed to be good luck. Not like cucarachas. When I let the crickets loose, Mrs. Livermore had the most terrified look I’d ever seen on anybody’s face—and you should have seen her run shrieking out the door. Everyone laughed, but some people felt sorry for her. I didn’t feel anything.”
He stared down at his plate.
“Maybe that makes me a bad person. I’m not sorry.” He started to get up from the table.
“Stay here and eat your lunch,” Susie said. “You should look at it this way. Those crickets were an army of demonstrators, marching and demanding justice.”
“Are you trying to make me fall in love with you, or what?”
Eighteen
I DIDN’T KNOW WHY I was watching the news.
There was a spokesman from ACT UP. And then the reporter was asking him, “Aren’t you afraid that your strategies are threatening the very people you want to listen to you?” And the man said, “Nobody’s listening. We don’t have anything to lose. We’re dying. You want us to be nice? You think we want people to like us? They hate us.”
I was home alone. I turned off the television.
Nineteen
WE WERE SITTING IN MY truck after school. Dante had the day off, courtesy of some famous saint, and he was waiting for me in the parking lot.
He waved, that smile on his face. “I want to kiss you, Ari.”
“Not a good idea.”
“You’re right. We’re surrounded by privileged straight people who think they’re superior. And they’d freak out. Why are straight people so oversensitive about things? Jeez, they’re so fucking delicate.”
“It’s not all their fault. They’re taught to think that way.”
“Well, we were taught to think that way too. And we got over it.”
“Maybe it’s because we’re gay.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it. And you just rolled your eyes at me.”
“I have something in my eye.”
“I love you.”
“People are going to hear you.” I opened the door to my pickup truck and got in. Dante jumped in on the passenger side.
“People are going to hear me? Really? High school students aren’t people. They used to be people before they got to high school. And they will return to being people after they leave high school. For now, they’re just taking up space.”
“Not like me and you. We don’t just take up space.”
“Of course not. Gay people don’t just take up space. We’re better than that. And we’re better at sex, too.”
Yeah, yeah, that Dante, he was a riot.
* * *
A walk in the desert in the quiet. Sometimes the silence of the desert was a kind of music. Dante and I, we shared a silence between us that was a kind of music too. The desert didn’t condemn Dante and me for holding hands. It seemed like such a simple thing, to walk somewhere and hold a human hand. A man’s hand. But it wasn’t simple at all.
We stopped and drank some water I had in my backpack. “You’re like the water, Ari. I can’t live without water.”
“You’re like the air, Dante. I can’t live without the air.”
“You’re like the sky.”
“You’re like the rain.” We were smiling. We were playing a game. And we would both win. There were no losers in this game.
“You’re like the night.”
“You’re like the sun.”
“You’re the ocean.”
“You’re the dawn.”
“I love you, Aristotle Mendoza. You think I say that too much. But I like hearing myself say it.” He leaned on my shoulder.
* * *
We stood there in the silence of the desert—and he kissed me. And in that moment, I thought that we were the center of the universe. Couldn’t the universe see us?
He kissed me and I kissed him back. Let the universe see. Let the sky see. Let the passing clouds see. He kissed me. Let the plants of the desert see. Let the desert willows, let the distant mountains, let the lizards and the snakes and the desert birds and roadrunners see. I kissed him back. Let the sands of the desert see. Let the night come—and let the stars see two young men kissing.
Twenty
MRS. LOZANO HAD WRITTEN HER NAME on the board. Mrs. Cecilia Lozano. “I’ll be your teacher for the rest of the semester. We’re a little behind—but I’m sure we’ll catch up. I’m sorry to hear that there have been some problems in this class.” She had this mischievous smile. “And I’ve been informed that some of you are uncomfortable in educational settings. Maybe it’s the desks.” She winked at us.
And we all fell in love with her.
“Why don’t we begin with you telling me something about yourselves. When I call out your name, tell us what you want to be when you grow up. Ms. Susie Byrd, have you chosen a profession?”
“I want to run for Congress someday.”
“Good for you. And good for us. Do you have a platform?”
“Make the rich poor and make the poor rich.”
“You have your work cut out for you.”
But I could tell Mrs. Lozano got a kick out of Susie’s answer. Mrs. Livermore would have given her a lecture.
Lucia Cisneros said she didn’t want to grow up.
Mrs. Lozano shook her head and smiled. “I’m sorry to say you don’t get a choice.”
“Then I want to work at Chico’s Tacos.”
Everybody laughed.
“Why would you want to work at Chico’s Tacos?”
“My family owns it. I could take it over.”
“I’d rather take over the L&J.” Good old Chuy.
“Does your family own it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, then you’ll be facing some difficulties.”
Everybody laughed.
Teachers mattered. They could make you feel like you belonged in school, like you could learn, like you could succeed in life—or they could make you feel like you were wasting your time. As we went around the room, I was trying to think what my answer would be. And then I heard her call my name, and I heard myself say, “I want to be a writer.”
Mrs. Lozano seemed very happy when I said that. “It’s a very difficult profession.”
“I don’t care if it’s hard. That’s what I want to be. A writer.”
“What would you like to write about?” I wanted to say, I want to write a story about two boys who fall in love each other. Instead, I said, “I want to write stories about the people who live on the border.”
She nodded. “I’ll be the first in line to buy your book.”