They hopped in the truck. I had a question floating around in my mind. “Can you guys answer a question for me? How come you were always so nice to me for all that time when I wasn’t so nice to you?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“First grade? Swings?”
“What are you talking about?”
They just kept looking at each other.
Gina said. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
I looked at her blankly.
“It was after school. We were in the first grade. Susie and I were on the swings, and we were having a contest to see who could swing the highest. And Emilio Durango, the class bully—do you remember him?”
Him, I remembered. He pretty much left me alone. Not sure why. And I didn’t care. Because I liked being left alone.
“Well, he and two other boys told us to get off the swings. And Susie and I stopped swinging. And he said, ‘These swings are for boys. Girls are not allowed on the swings.’ And Susie and I were afraid, and we were about to get off the swings, and all of a sudden you were standing there, right in front of Emilio. And you said, ‘Who says the swings are just for boys?’ And he said, ‘I do.’ And you said, ‘You don’t make the rules.’ And he pushed you and you fell down to the ground. And you got back up and he was about to push you again. That’s when you punched him in the stomach as hard as you could and he was rolling on the ground like a crybaby. ‘I’m going to tell the teacher,’ he said. And you just looked at him like, Who cares? And they left. And you watched them walk away and you stood there to make sure they were gone. And then you just smiled at us and walked away.”
“That’s funny. I don’t remember that.”
“Well, we remember. Ever since then, Susie and I liked you. Because we’re sweet girls and we remember the nice things people have done for us.”
“Punching a guy in the stomach isn’t exactly a nice thing.”
“It was nice. It was very nice.”
I parked the truck in front of Susie’s house. Susie opened the door, and they both jumped out. I knew Susie had an editorial for me that she’d already written in her head. “Sometimes, Ari Mendoza, when you write the story of who you are, you have a tendency to edit out a lot of the scenes that make you look good. I have a suggestion for you. Stop doing that. Just stop. Thanks for the lift.”
Thirty-Two
MR. ROBERTSON CAME OVER THE INTERCOM while we were in our homeroom classes. “Good morning to all of you. I’d like to congratulate all of you as we quickly come to the close of another school year. And it’s been a great year. Congratulations, seniors! You’ve worked hard and we look forward to celebrating you at commencement. But first, as is our tradition, I would like to announce this year’s valedictorian and offer her our congratulations. We are all very proud of her quest for excellence. I am happy to announce that this year’s valedictorian is Cassandra Ortega. Join me in offering her our sincerest congratulations. And, as a reminder to all of you, we do not want a repeat of last year, when some overenthusiastic members of the senior class thought the destruction of school property was an appropriate way to celebrate. Try not to follow that example. There will be consequences.”
Now I knew what people meant when they said, “I’m so happy for you.” I always kind of thought that it was just a lot of bullshit or that people were just trying too hard to be nice. But at that moment, I wanted to run and find Cassandra and hug her and tell her how brilliant she was and that she deserved it and that I was glad we’d stopped hating each other and that the fact that she was in my life meant something. She mattered to me.
* * *
Susie and Gina and I took off running down the hall to find Cassandra. I don’t know what it is about girls and the way that they’re friends, but they all knew each other’s schedules. We reached Cassandra’s first-period class, and Susie peeked in and she was sitting there. “We need to talk to you.”
Cassandra’s teacher smiled. “Take your time.” Sometimes teachers were awesome.
When Cassandra stepped out into the hallway, we accosted her with hugs. “You did it! You did it!” Cassandra Ortega did not cry. She definitely did not cry at school. In front of anybody. But she did cry.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God, I have friends who love me.”
“Of course we love you,” Susie said.
“Cassandra,” Gina said, “why wouldn’t we love you? You’re brilliant and wonderful.”
When I hugged her, I said, “You hit it out of the ballpark.”
“Oh, Ari, I thank the universe every day for giving you to me.”
Thirty-Three
MR. BLOCKER SENT ME A NOTE saying he wanted to see me after school.
I walked into his classroom. “Hi, Ari,” he said. He opened one of the drawers in his desk and took out my journal. “You left this on your desk.”
“I must have rearranged my book bag and taken it out and left it there.” And I was thinking, Oh shit, oh shit, because he had to have read a part of it to make sure it was mine.
I couldn’t look him in the eye. “So now you know who I am.”
“I don’t need that journal to tell me who you are. I know who you are. And I happen to like who you are. But, Ari, be careful with this. There are people who would like nothing more than to hurt you. I don’t want anybody hurting you. Look at me.”
I lifted my head and looked at him.
“Don’t ever let anybody make you ashamed of who you are. Not anybody.” He handed me my journal back.
Thirty-Four
DANTE QUINTANA WAS ALSO NAMED the valedictorian at Cathedral High School. “But I don’t get to speak. They just call me up, I get a plaque, and I get to say thank you.”
“So? Who cares about making a speech? You should be proud of yourself.”
“I am. But I wanted to make a speech.”
“About what?”
“I wanted to talk about being gay.”
“What did you want to say?”
“That bigotry was their problem, not mine.”
“Somehow I get the feeling that a speech like that wouldn’t go over well at a Catholic high school.”
“Probably not. Why is it always about what they want to hear? They don’t care about what we want to hear.”
“What do we want to hear?”
“That they’re going to step aside and let us take over the world.”
“I don’t want to take over the world. That’s not what I want to hear.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“I want them to admit that they’re not better than we are.”
“Like that’s gonna happen.”
“Oh, like letting us run the world is gonna happen?”
“How can we make them change if we’re not allowed to talk?”
“Why do we have to do all the work? It’s like you just said, we’re not homophobic—they are.”
“Yeah, but, Ari, they don’t think homophobia is a bad thing.”