Shut Up, This Is Serious: Chapters 14-17

I held it in my palm, staring at the glowing screen, seeing Alexis’s name stark and bold.

Every time I’m too still, the memory of him sinks my stomach, plummeting further every time I think about the bra beneath his bed.

I told my ma going was a bad idea—my pa had left only a week earlier, and she was in shambles.

It is nothing compared to the weight of my pa embedded into my body.

But today, a half hour before dinner at Mamá Tere’s house begins, she stands in front of the bathroom mirror with her mouth agape, coating mascara over her eyelashes.

She’s the one person that we have to look amicable in front of.

“Hey,” he says, somehow already exasperated, “you haven’t answered my texts.”

All their attention diverted from their phone screens and their food now centered on me sitting here, with my pa’s hair and mouth and attitude and audacity.

When I was younger and the rain would fall this heavy, my mamá Tere would say my guardian angel Gabriel was crying from all my misbehaving.

I still don’t think I did anything wrong last night, but this downpour begs to differ.

The car itself is old, but meticulously cared for.

The air was acidic, teetering on some strange anticipation—its lack of fulfillment made me nervous.

Ava took a breath, an inhalation so deep that I watched her chest fully rise and fall.

The only thing that got me up was knowing that if I didn’t turn in this assignment, I’d only be sabotaging Ali.

It’s quiet again, so he connects his phone to an adapter, the trilling start of a Patrice Rushen song sounding through the speakers.

He repeats my name, his face glowing with recognition.

I don’t have anything else to say, so I look beyond him, at the windows that stretch from the ceiling to the floor, their transparency making me feel exposed.

By the time she had enough money to build herself back up and reconnect with him, his father was nowhere to be found.

This, he explains, is why he is applying to this prestigious school, to give back to his ma for all the sacrifices she made for him and to create new cycles for him to establish.

And it’s not like we’re getting to know each other normally, but because he has to grovel with some admissions office to get into school.

“You should be fine. The essay is powerful—an orchestrated sob story, just like they want.”

“It’s not easy. I just feel like I know the truth and nobody else does. Now that my pa is gone, everything is pinned on my family. Like if we worshipped him more, he wouldn’t have left. But I can’t keep thinking about any imaginary scenario. The reality is, he left. And nobody wants to call it what it is—but he left.”

“Nah. At least, I don’t think so. It’s more like a matter-of-fact thing. But when I’m acting up, it’s a warning.”

“My mama doesn’t know much about school, so she didn’t know I had to be in the AP track to look good on college applications until it was too late to enroll. That’s why I have to do this essay so well.”

Some of them stretch long like bridges, while others zigzag upward—the higher they are, the more oppressive they seem.