myself catching feelings for girls, that sometimes when I was around Boogie the swelling in my chest and throat was like a bomb that was ready to explode.
But I couldn’t say any of this. I didn’t know why. But right then, sitting in Ms. Gold’s office, the last place I’d expected to be even an hour before, I started to cry.
The second time was that winter. Holiday break. My mother was off her meds, and we’d been fighting for three days straight. We screamed at each other because there was no food in the house. Because my music was too loud. Because, my mother claimed, there had been a woman in the apartment going through her things and I’d been the one to let her in. Mami always had these stories—a woman who came into our living room and moved all the furniture while we slept, a man who kept looking in our windows at 2:00 a.m., people sending her messages through the television or the radio, a fat guy who came in and ate all our food while my mother stood in the kitchen, paralyzed with fear.
That morning my mother woke me before sunrise as she paced around the apartment talking to herself, refusing to take her pills or let me sleep. I covered my head with my pillow, and she pulled it off, started shaking me. I needed to get up, she said, help her check all the windows so nobody could get in the house. I turned over, my back to her.
She shook me again, yelled, “I said get up!”
“Fine!” I said. “I’m up.” I’d already learned that when my mother was like this, I had no choice but to do what she ordered. So I ran around the apartment checking all the windows—the living room, her bedroom, my bedroom. I made sure the deadbolt on the front door was locked, then got back into bed.
Ten minutes later my mother burst into my room, insisting that I’d left the windows open again. But this time I didn’t get up. I was awake but refused to indulge her. She yelled. I yelled back. She threatened. I threatened back. Then she left.
She came back with a steak knife, pointed it at me like it was a sword.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I jerked up and hit my head on the wooden beam of the top bunk. “What the fuck are you doing?” I jumped out of bed and on instinct grabbed my pillow, the closest thing I could use as a shield.
“Tell me who you are,” she said, “because you are not my daughter.”
I should’ve cried, begged her to stop, to put the knife down. I should’ve apologized and told her I loved her. But I didn’t.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “I never wanted to be your daughter! You’re not my mother. You’re a crazy fucking crackhead!”
She stood there for a while without saying a word.
I kept my eye on the knife, gripping the pillow with both hands.
“You are small,” she said finally, “like a fly. You are so small I could squash you. You are nobody. You are nothing.”
I didn’t believe what my mother said—not at first. I took it the same way I always took her rambling—everything she said was nonsense. But after she turned back for her room, left me standing there with the pillow in my hands, everything quiet except for the sound of my own breathing, something changed. It was like a switch that got flipped and everything that happened after was mechanical.
Dropping the pillow on the bed, the beeline for the kitchen for a glass of water from the tap, a car horn blaring across the street somewhere.
My mother rushing to the living room window, peeking through the blinds.
The bottles of my mother’s prescriptions on the counter, untouched for weeks.
My mother running back into her bedroom, slamming the door shut.
The first pill, a drink of water. The second pill, another drink. The third, fourth, fifth, another drink.
My mother coming back out of her bedroom, pacing back and forth. Bedroom, living room, bedroom.
Another pill, another drink. Bedroom, living room. Another pill and another and another.
The car horn again.
The way my mother walked past me so
But I couldn’t say any of this. I didn’t know why. But right then, sitting in Ms. Gold’s office, the last place I’d expected to be even an hour before, I started to cry.
The second time was that winter. Holiday break. My mother was off her meds, and we’d been fighting for three days straight. We screamed at each other because there was no food in the house. Because my music was too loud. Because, my mother claimed, there had been a woman in the apartment going through her things and I’d been the one to let her in. Mami always had these stories—a woman who came into our living room and moved all the furniture while we slept, a man who kept looking in our windows at 2:00 a.m., people sending her messages through the television or the radio, a fat guy who came in and ate all our food while my mother stood in the kitchen, paralyzed with fear.
That morning my mother woke me before sunrise as she paced around the apartment talking to herself, refusing to take her pills or let me sleep. I covered my head with my pillow, and she pulled it off, started shaking me. I needed to get up, she said, help her check all the windows so nobody could get in the house. I turned over, my back to her.
She shook me again, yelled, “I said get up!”
“Fine!” I said. “I’m up.” I’d already learned that when my mother was like this, I had no choice but to do what she ordered. So I ran around the apartment checking all the windows—the living room, her bedroom, my bedroom. I made sure the deadbolt on the front door was locked, then got back into bed.
Ten minutes later my mother burst into my room, insisting that I’d left the windows open again. But this time I didn’t get up. I was awake but refused to indulge her. She yelled. I yelled back. She threatened. I threatened back. Then she left.
She came back with a steak knife, pointed it at me like it was a sword.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I jerked up and hit my head on the wooden beam of the top bunk. “What the fuck are you doing?” I jumped out of bed and on instinct grabbed my pillow, the closest thing I could use as a shield.
“Tell me who you are,” she said, “because you are not my daughter.”
I should’ve cried, begged her to stop, to put the knife down. I should’ve apologized and told her I loved her. But I didn’t.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “I never wanted to be your daughter! You’re not my mother. You’re a crazy fucking crackhead!”
She stood there for a while without saying a word.
I kept my eye on the knife, gripping the pillow with both hands.
“You are small,” she said finally, “like a fly. You are so small I could squash you. You are nobody. You are nothing.”
I didn’t believe what my mother said—not at first. I took it the same way I always took her rambling—everything she said was nonsense. But after she turned back for her room, left me standing there with the pillow in my hands, everything quiet except for the sound of my own breathing, something changed. It was like a switch that got flipped and everything that happened after was mechanical.
Dropping the pillow on the bed, the beeline for the kitchen for a glass of water from the tap, a car horn blaring across the street somewhere.
My mother rushing to the living room window, peeking through the blinds.
The bottles of my mother’s prescriptions on the counter, untouched for weeks.
My mother running back into her bedroom, slamming the door shut.
The first pill, a drink of water. The second pill, another drink. The third, fourth, fifth, another drink.
My mother coming back out of her bedroom, pacing back and forth. Bedroom, living room, bedroom.
Another pill, another drink. Bedroom, living room. Another pill and another and another.
The car horn again.
The way my mother walked past me so
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