roommate, fresh off of the boat with no money, no help and not another soul to turn to.
So, needless to say, of course Belén looks like her mom’s side of the family, because Belén’s got one-sided DNA. But, whatever. Fuck what that means. She isn’t messed up.
Belén turned out perfect.
But Tía Betty fed her a story about being half-Puerto Rican with a made-up dad who took off back to his homeland when he couldn’t be bothered to settle down or to take care of babies. That was my story, so they gave it to Belén, too. We all believed it so well that when we were kids, she and I would talk about our dads coming back or running off to PR to search them down for a reunion. She never doubted it because there was really no need to.
Belén isn’t really the spitting image of Betty, so she just told herself that she looked like her dad and she had us all believing it. We believed in a lie that we ourselves had made up. And Belén was so perfect, none of us wanted to jinx it and mess it up. So my little cousin thinks she’s half Boricua like I am, when really she’s one hundred percent Dominican. She’s twice related to the same damn family.
So her parents’ sin complicates our own story. Belén and I aren’t just one-half related—it’s worse than that. We are a full three-quarters. I don’t even know what the fuck we are. What do you even call it? We are more related than just first cousins. And Belén doesn’t even know it.
Belén
My mom always said that every family has a black sheep. Hemi must be my mom’s generation’s and I must be mine. Even though Hemi’s kids get detention and kicked out of school and even though Lucky is out on the streets doing God knows what. I’m the dirty, shameless girl who would do anything to have her cousin love her. No, even uglier than that. Who would do anything just to have her cousin want to fuck her.
I call Jeremy, although it takes me a full day to work up the nerve. I meet him for coffee and apologize profusely about the stitches in his head and the slight new angle to his nose. He takes it all in stride and brushes off the police bust like they were the regular chaperones for the party.
He holds my hand while he talks to me and circles the pad of his thumb over my nail.
“I’m sorry he hit you, Jeremy.”
“Belén, I told you, quit apologizing for your cousin. I know how Hispanic men get!”
It leaves a bad taste in my mouth but I nod in agreement. I think I’m so desperate for a boyfriend that playing house with Jeremy is fulfilling some stupid fantasy. He buys us fancy coffee and chocolate croissants. We sit by the window and he takes my hand in his lap.
“Have you decided what schools to apply to?” he asks, trailing his fingers up my arm. That’s a normal question. This is a normal relationship, I keep telling myself.
“I’m getting as far away as possible,” I say as I sip white foam off of the top of my steaming mug.
“I can’t believe how close we were when he busted in the door!”
Apparently, our minds are traveling in different places. I can’t stop thinking he seems gay. Is it just because he’s a rich white guy that I’m getting these vibes? What eighteen-year-old straight male likes to look at Vogue magazine? And I’m suspicious because he seems to like me. No boy besides Lucky has ever taken an interest in me.
We pick at our croissants and he leans in and kisses me.
“Are we a thing, Jeremy?” I ask, not sure if I want us to be.
“I think if we got as far as we did the other night, then maybe we should be. Don’t you think?”
I nod my head and think about how he suckled at my breasts and how it made me wet. How he took my panties off and how I let him without feeling guilty. Finally, something sexual without all the horrible shame mounting and building.
But what scares me the most is when I think back on that night. It’s not the scene in the bathroom that makes me flush with heat and fan my face. It’s
So, needless to say, of course Belén looks like her mom’s side of the family, because Belén’s got one-sided DNA. But, whatever. Fuck what that means. She isn’t messed up.
Belén turned out perfect.
But Tía Betty fed her a story about being half-Puerto Rican with a made-up dad who took off back to his homeland when he couldn’t be bothered to settle down or to take care of babies. That was my story, so they gave it to Belén, too. We all believed it so well that when we were kids, she and I would talk about our dads coming back or running off to PR to search them down for a reunion. She never doubted it because there was really no need to.
Belén isn’t really the spitting image of Betty, so she just told herself that she looked like her dad and she had us all believing it. We believed in a lie that we ourselves had made up. And Belén was so perfect, none of us wanted to jinx it and mess it up. So my little cousin thinks she’s half Boricua like I am, when really she’s one hundred percent Dominican. She’s twice related to the same damn family.
So her parents’ sin complicates our own story. Belén and I aren’t just one-half related—it’s worse than that. We are a full three-quarters. I don’t even know what the fuck we are. What do you even call it? We are more related than just first cousins. And Belén doesn’t even know it.
Belén
My mom always said that every family has a black sheep. Hemi must be my mom’s generation’s and I must be mine. Even though Hemi’s kids get detention and kicked out of school and even though Lucky is out on the streets doing God knows what. I’m the dirty, shameless girl who would do anything to have her cousin love her. No, even uglier than that. Who would do anything just to have her cousin want to fuck her.
I call Jeremy, although it takes me a full day to work up the nerve. I meet him for coffee and apologize profusely about the stitches in his head and the slight new angle to his nose. He takes it all in stride and brushes off the police bust like they were the regular chaperones for the party.
He holds my hand while he talks to me and circles the pad of his thumb over my nail.
“I’m sorry he hit you, Jeremy.”
“Belén, I told you, quit apologizing for your cousin. I know how Hispanic men get!”
It leaves a bad taste in my mouth but I nod in agreement. I think I’m so desperate for a boyfriend that playing house with Jeremy is fulfilling some stupid fantasy. He buys us fancy coffee and chocolate croissants. We sit by the window and he takes my hand in his lap.
“Have you decided what schools to apply to?” he asks, trailing his fingers up my arm. That’s a normal question. This is a normal relationship, I keep telling myself.
“I’m getting as far away as possible,” I say as I sip white foam off of the top of my steaming mug.
“I can’t believe how close we were when he busted in the door!”
Apparently, our minds are traveling in different places. I can’t stop thinking he seems gay. Is it just because he’s a rich white guy that I’m getting these vibes? What eighteen-year-old straight male likes to look at Vogue magazine? And I’m suspicious because he seems to like me. No boy besides Lucky has ever taken an interest in me.
We pick at our croissants and he leans in and kisses me.
“Are we a thing, Jeremy?” I ask, not sure if I want us to be.
“I think if we got as far as we did the other night, then maybe we should be. Don’t you think?”
I nod my head and think about how he suckled at my breasts and how it made me wet. How he took my panties off and how I let him without feeling guilty. Finally, something sexual without all the horrible shame mounting and building.
But what scares me the most is when I think back on that night. It’s not the scene in the bathroom that makes me flush with heat and fan my face. It’s
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