Shut Up, This Is Serious: Chapters 7-9

Without it, Leti and Quentin’s demeanors would have reminded me of my ma and my pa.

She sounds preoccupied, her voice distant, like she’s out of reach.

She takes after her pa in that way—shielding her ears and shutting her eyes to ward away criticism.

On the rare occasions I do tell her, the aftermath is tension so dense I feel like I can touch it.

Since March, it feels we’re immobilized by time, frozen in place.

With the other, his fingers are contorted to wrap around the TV remote and a can of Arizona.

“Belén, what the fuck are you doing? You don’t have a plan. I tried cutting you some slack last year. I tried being nice last week. But what do you think you’re going to do next year? Or the following year? Or with your life? I am not here keeping shit afloat for you not to have a head on your shoulders,” she fumes.

But when I tell Ava an iteration of this, she scoffs at me.

I didn’t think the plan was naive at all—Leti and her baby affected me, too

Matías glares at me, Hot Cheeto bag suspended midair.

The symmetry makes me feel heavy.

Like she’s perpetually in an asthma infomercial.

From here I can smell her old-lady scent of potpourri and mothballs.

For the first time since she started vandalizing the blackboard, I look up to read what’s written on it.

He pivots his desk so it’s right across from mine, then looks directly at me.

I only know this because Leti frantically stuffed her backpack with both once she realized her period was late.

Because the SATs are coming up, she totes an additional stack of review books in an extra bag.

It droops down at the bottom, threatening to rip with the weight.

I crumple the note and throw it away on my way out, feeling determined to get this book today, determined to text Alexis tonight.

Then my pa would sit beside me and let me sleep with my head on his lap, his body a buffer.

He hands me a sweaty plastic cup and a straw that he explains is biodegradable.

So that I could text him a sexually suggestive photo of me reading poetry?

But I’m quickly humbled by looking at the price tags of each of the books.

I never wanted to feel indebted to them somehow.

He brushes his fingers over mine, the space between our palms tense with anticipation, leaving us both still.