A New Reflection

9. Dairy Queen

Sometimes I can make things happen with my mind. For example, when I want something to work out a certain way. It's like a premonition, or a manifestation. And so far in my eighteen years of life, things always seem to work out for me.

* * *

Church with my friends on Sunday is interesting. I sit in a rigid posture the entire service, silently judging everyone around me at the same time as I feel their judgment on me for not singing along to the worship music or tilting my head down during prayer. My mind wanders to Alex every twelve seconds.

After the service, my friends and I go out for smoothies at Jamba Juice. I'm thrilled to be out somewhere on a weekend, like a normal teenager; at the same time, I'm silently fretting about the probability that the core values of my friends are less aligned to mine than I'd hoped to believe. I'm well aware there are exceptions, but in my experience, "Christianity" often goes hand-in-hand with racism and homophobia.

My phone vibrates in my purse, which is slung around my shoulder and laying against my hip. Alex's name flashes across the screen as I dig it out, and an excitement akin to the sensation of nausea bubbles into my throat. This intense physical manifestation of emotion takes me by surprise.

You left your sweatshirt in my trunk, I'll bring it to you tomorrow at practice.

I can't help but notice the unimportant nature of this piece of information, and I imagine Alex thinking about me at home on a Sunday afternoon.

No worries, thanks Alex.

Sasha is staring at me, intrigued, when I glance up after slipping my phone back into my purse.

"Who're ya texting?" she asks me with a sly expression. I feel myself turn tomato-red in a matter of a millisecond, and everyone in the group turns their attention to me.

"Oh my goodness!" exclaims Ruby. "Do you have a special someone?"

"No," I insist, shaking my head.

"Nati, Nati, Nati," chides Crystal. A few more comments are made, which I can't even hear due to the whooshing sound rushing through my eardrums.

* * *

When Sasha drops me off at home, my mom and my Tía Leti are preparing homemade tamales. Our tiny kitchen is an absolute disaster, and they've got Mana—a Mexican band—blasting through the house.

"Sobrina hermosa!" Tia Leti greets me with a warm hug and kiss on the cheek, using the backs of her hand to embrace me in an attempt not to rub masa all over my shirt.

"It smells delicious," I tell them, my mouth watering. "Can I help make tamales?"

"Of course, m'hija."

My tía asks me about school, volleyball and my excursion to church. We chat freely for an hour while wrapping the masa and seasoned chicken in corn husks, and I catch her up on everything going on in my life—which is nothing too exciting.

"Shit, I'm out of tequila," Mom declares. My parents rarely drink, but when relatives visit, they'll usually have a glass of wine or a margarita.

"Let's make a store run," Tía Leti tells her sister.

"I'll go!" Mom replies quickly. "You stay and chat with Nati.

After mom leaves, logic battles against my fluttering heart as I hesitate between secrecy and spilling my insides.

"Tía Leti?" I venture.

"M'hija?"

Half-formed questions swirl around in my head, but each one catches in my throat and evaporates off my tongue before I vocalize it.