Queerceanera, p.1
Queerceañera, page 1
Dedication
For the wallflowers and the ones who have to go it alone. You deserve to be celebrated too.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Ffiteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ad
Books by Alex Crespo
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
The Texas heat clings to my skin like burrs, but the droplet of sweat tracing its way down the length of my spine has less to do with our janky AC and more to do with the Instagram post that’s pulled up on my phone. My screen dims for the fourth time since I got out of the shower, and I tap it again so I can reread the caption.
Here’s the thing: staring into space is not normally a part of my morning routine. So far, every morning this summer has been a race against time for me to get in the shower before my sister, grab a plate of whatever breakfast my dad has cooked up before it gets cold, and meet up with my best friend, April. If I spend any time on Instagram at all, it’s to post whatever I’ve been working on to my art account and exit the app before I get the chance to start obsessing over like counts and comments.
But today, it’s my personal account that’s open on my phone. I’ve been perched on the edge of my bed for long enough that my hair is halfway dry, but I can’t seem to pry myself away. The smell of a sharp and savory breakfast is drifting up the stairs, and “Baila Esta Cumbia” is blasting on the other side of the wall I share with Carmen. Both are clear signs I should already be downstairs or out the door, but right now, I need a little extra time to compose myself more than anything else.
Of course, I don’t get to compose myself at all, because if I don’t go down willingly, the party comes to me instead. Selena’s crooning enters the hallway, and my door flings open before I can jump up and lock it.
“I think when a certain someone gets released from Mountain View, we should take a little road trip and pay her a visit,” says Carmen, music still blasting from the phone in her pocket.
“Dude, it’s way too early for this,” I say, watching as she hurriedly sweeps her hair into a topknot. She’s got the same dark curls as me, but none of my consideration for personal privacy and volume control. “You’ve gotta stop trying to make me an accomplice to your crimes before 10:00 a.m.”
“First of all, my pitch last week to reclaim all the stolen artifacts from the British Museum and give them back to their original owners wouldn’t be a crime, it would be justice. Second, this is literally what siblings are for.”
“You might want to consult Dad on that one. I’m pretty sure he said sibling relationships are about unconditional love and support, not felonies and misdemeanors,” I sigh, scooping up the T-shirt I abandoned after my shower and pulling it over my head.
“I’m shocked and disappointed. How can you call yourself gay if you’re not willing to put your life on the line to avenge Selena?”
I shoot her a tired look as I grab my phone and sketchbook off my bed. “The LGBT community is not a monolith, Carmen.”
“You’re so right. Thank you for showing me that some of you are painfully boring,” she replies cheerily. Normally we’d play-argue back and forth like this for a while, y’know, as part of the morning routine. But my heart isn’t fully in it, and I know she can tell.
When I scoot past her to head downstairs, she follows close behind me. “Hey, hold up. Why are you being all quiet? Did you get another weird comment on one of your art posts? Because some people wouldn’t know good art if it reached out and slapped them in the face.”
Ugh. It drives me crazy when she does the creepy sibling telepathy thing. With everyone else, I feel like I can fly under the radar when I’m upset. Carmen can always see right through me, and she never hesitates to call me on my shit when she does. But she doesn’t know the real reason I’m holding onto my phone for dear life, and I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.
“It wasn’t that,” I reply as I hurry down the stairs.
“So why aren’t you more entertained by my sparkling commentary on the intersection of pop culture and queerness?”
“I dunno, have you considered that maybe you’re not as funny as you think?”
“Nah, that can’t be it. You look . . .” She takes a moment to search for the perfect word. “Constipated. Like, emotionally.”
We reach the bottom of the stairs, and I turn so she can fully see the disgusted look on my face. “You’re nasty. I liked it better when you were at college.”
“Oh please, we both know that’s a lie,” she says, and I hate that she’s right. “Your life would be boring as hell without me.”
Carmen and I round the corner and find Tío Gael at the kitchen island, chopping up papaya and chatting with Dad as he moves between four different saucepans on the stove. Tío claps a hand on my shoulder and plants a kiss on my cheek before I fully register he’s there. That’s the thing about our house, there’s always someone over who’s technically not supposed to be.
“There’s our boy,” he says warmly before turning to greet my sister.
“Ah, Joaquin!” Dad booms, arms thrown wide and eyes crinkling at the corners when I move over to the stove. Everything smells amazing—one of the perks of having a pro chef for a dad. “I didn’t know if you were awake yet, chaparro.”
“How could I not be? I’m the only person in this family who values peace and quiet, apparently,” I grumble, but when he throws an arm around my shoulders and gives them a squeeze, it’s hard not to smile.
“Yes, yes, you are,” he replies with a laugh that fills what little quiet space is left in the room. “I need to finish prepping for the quince I’m catering later, but there’s still time for breakfast.”
Dad rarely takes on catering gigs now that he’s become a bigger name in the Austin food scene. But he has a soft spot for quinceañeras—something about celebrating girls’ transitions into adulthood with all their friends and family pulls on his heartstrings. When a friend of a friend mentioned his daughter’s caterer backed out at the last minute, Dad jumped at the opportunity to save the day. He always likes helping people who are in a bind. That, and he can’t resist a good party, even if it’s for someone who he barely even knows.
“Shit, I forgot that was today. Do you need an extra set of hands?” I ask, but Dad shakes his head, pointing to Carmen and Tío Gael.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got these two and a few temp staff who I know I can rely on,” he says. Dad pushes an empty plate into my hands, taking my phone and sketchbook and placing them on the kitchen counter. “We’re having chilaquiles con huevos, and I added extra guajillo just for you. Serve yourself before it gets cold.”
Carmen slides up behind us before I can grab my phone again, and anxiety spikes in my chest. “Dad, doesn’t Joaquin look constipated?”
He gives her the same appalled look I did on the stairs. “Mija, please. We’re about to eat; no seas asquerosa.”
“I don’t mean it literally. I’m saying he looks upset.”
“I don’t have time to eat,” I interject, trying my best to ignore Carmen as I hand the plate back to Dad. “April is picking me up any minute.”
Dad’s hand goes to his chest like I’ve committed some grave crime, and Tío Gael pipes up, “There’s no way you can skip breakfast—not if you’re going to be out in this heat.”
I’m about to open my mouth to argue when out of the corner of my eye I see Carmen freeze. She’s staring at my phone, and I can tell by the way her brows draw together in shock that this is the first time she’s seeing the Instagram post I’ve been staring at for the better part of the morning.
At first glance, it looks like a pretty run-of-the-mill post from my mom. In the photo, she’s standing with her new husband, Josh, and two young stepkids, Olivia and Aaron, on the boardwalk. Mom is wrapped in a pashmina, dark curls loose around her face as she smiles at the camera. Josh towers over her and has his arm around her shoulders, leaning down to press his cheek against the top of her head. Olivia clings to her dad’s leg, Aaron holds onto Mom’s arm, and a rainbow stretches over the Austin city skyline in the background. But then there’s the caption: A rainbow is a promise of God, not a symbol for pride. Blessed to have a God-fearing family that understands.
Mom has posted stuff like that before, but this is definitely the most obvious one yet. Carmen doesn’t need to read between the lines to get the jab at me, and frankly, it makes me feel like hot garbage. Not only because of the stab in the back from my mom, but also because I knew Carmen and Dad would feel awful and try to cheer me up. Again.
“You’ve got to be kidding m e,” Carmen says under her breath, and I can tell she’s working herself up to either cuss our mom out, give me a pep talk, or both.
Dad and Tío Gael glance between the two of us, unsure of exactly what happened to tank the mood so quickly, and I want more than anything to avoid the inevitable looks of well-meaning pity they’ll shoot my way when they read the caption for themselves. So when April honks her car horn outside, I take it as my cue to make my escape, swiping my phone and sketchbook off the counter.
“This has been great and all, but I gotta run.”
“Wait, are you sure you’re—?” Carmen starts.
“I’m good,” I cut her off hastily. When she starts to follow me out of the kitchen, I add, “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”
In the front entryway, my mask of composure finally slips away, and the too-familiar feeling of shame heats up my face as I wrestle on an old pair of Converse. I’m about to grab my longboard when I hear the frozen scene in the kitchen start to come back to life. And same as I did when Mom and Dad used to fight, I can’t help but pause at the edge of the hallway and listen.
Carmen is telling them about the caption, and Dad is swearing loudly in response, because of course he is. He’s usually pretty levelheaded, but not when it comes to backhanded comments on my sexuality. I love him for caring enough to get pissed off on my behalf, I really do. But I also feel guilty for dragging him into this thing with Mom all over again.
“She knew he would see that, and she posted it anyway,” he fumes, and I can perfectly imagine the way he’s gesturing as he paces around the kitchen. His voice is as sharp as it used to be when he and Mom argued, and it sends a biting jab of panic into my chest. “How can she act this way with her own son? He’s done nothing wrong. Nothing.”
“The only perk of her living close by is that I can drive over and tell her off myself,” Carmen says bitterly. I know she’s bluffing because Carmen has barely spoken to our mom since the divorce. But still, knowing my sister has my back makes the lump in my throat a little easier to swallow.
When I leave the house, the sight of April’s Jeep waiting for me in the driveway gets me the rest of the way there. She waves at me through the windshield, her bright smile flashing against russet skin deepened by a summer tan. No matter what’s been going on in my life, for the last five years, April has always been the calm at the center of the storm. When I slide into the passenger seat, the silence inside the car feels like an oasis. Before she even says hello, April hands me the aux cord.
“No music,” I groan, plopping my head against the headrest. “Drive me to the nearest sensory deprivation chamber and throw me inside, okay?”
“Another peaceful morning at the Zoida household?” she asks wryly as backs her way down our driveway.
“You have no idea.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ever since the graffiti park on Castle Hill closed down, April and I started hanging out south of the river to skate. Cruising around Zilker instead of a skate park has some serious drawbacks, though. For one, I haven’t memorized the cracks in the sidewalk well enough to avoid completely wiping out and making an ass of myself, especially when my thoughts are a million miles away.
April keeps her mouth shut when I bail once, twice, or even a third time. She only says something the fourth time, when my board flies away from me and I almost stumble headfirst into oncoming traffic.
“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind, or should I let you get run over?” April asks, offering a hand to help me up. “Whoever was driving that Prius was ready to take you out.”
“If I get run over by anyone, it’s going to be by a tech bro in a Tesla. I’m getting that sweet, sweet lawsuit money,” I muse, ducking down to scoop my longboard up from where it had clattered down the curb and onto the street.
“You’re deflecting.”
“It’s what I do best.”
April tries to suppress her smile, but she doesn’t quite manage it. When we get going again, April sets our pace a little slower so we can talk without having to shout over the sound of our wheels clacking on the pavement or worrying about taking out any slow-walking tourists.
“If you’re done trying to commit insurance fraud, can we please figure out what we’re doing for your birthday?”
“Summer literally just started, and I feel like you’re giving me homework,” I sigh. “That’s cruel, you know that?”
“Hey! I’m not cruel, I’m proactive.”
“What if I said I don’t want to make plans?”
“Denied. We have to do something fun,” April replies with a smile, shifting her weight to hop over a particularly nasty crack in the sidewalk. “Perfect summers don’t plan themselves.”
I’d heard her say some iteration of the same thing approximately forty-five times in the last couple of months. April is dead set on us having the most eventful, memorable summer possible. According to her, everyone waits until the summer after senior year to have their last hurrah, and she doesn’t want to leave making all our best memories until the last minute.
Translation? She’s freaked about senior year. And honestly, I don’t blame her. The only problem is that April is a social butterfly and insists on making me one by proxy.
“If you’re not going to give me a straight answer, can we at least figure out what we’re doing next weekend? Cami’s parents are going to be out of town,” April says, coasting beside me, and the grin on her face already tells me everything I need to know.
“Oh, cool. So she’s going to have some nice, quiet alone time? Good for her,” I deadpan, pushing a few times to haul myself up a hill. April squawks somewhere behind me but catches up quickly.
“It’s not going to be a big party, I swear,” she says, already in full begging mode. “But everyone’s going to be there.”
“Those are two completely contradictory statements.”
“You know what I mean,” she sighs, and I shoot her a questioning look as we split apart to avoid a group of pedestrians. When we rejoin in the middle, she adds, “Everyone, like, everyone we care about. Bryce, Savannah, and Jaz already said they’d go.”
“Aren’t we all going to a concert in a few weeks anyways? I’ll see them then.”
“Well, yeah, but it’s not like there’s a limit on how often you can hang out with your friends,” April says. “I know they’d be psyched if you came.”
I mull it over as we come up on a crosswalk, letting my momentum taper off so I roll to a stop. It’s not that I don’t believe her, not really. But “our friends” have always felt more like April’s friends who happen to hang out with me by extension. Just thinking of walking into a party where I only know a handful of people makes me start sweating—that is, more than I already am, since it’s a million degrees outside.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally. By the looks of it, April knows that’s code for no, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she pops her skateboard up into her open hand, lime green deck littered with stickers flashing in the sun, and turns to squint down the street.
“I need to get in some AC before I melt,” she says, holding her box braids away from her neck with her free hand. “The record shop is a few blocks down, want to come with?”
The sun beats down on us as we wander over, so even though the store is close by, we’re both overheating by the time we duck inside. The blast of cool air that hits us as we step across the threshold feels like an actual gift from god. The owner greets April by name—both of her moms are well-known local musicians, so in places like this, she’s practically royalty.
April’s family is laid back in a way I used to envy when I first met her in seventh grade. We would spend hours hanging out in their at-home studio after school, and the energy was so chill that it almost felt like an alternate universe to mine. It’s no surprise that April wants to follow in her moms’ footsteps, or that she’s set her sights on Berklee College of Music for college. As I watch her start to sift lovingly through albums, I have no doubt she’s going to take the place by storm and make them proud.
And damn, suddenly my mom pops back into my head, along with the post that I almost managed to forget while we were skating. It’s not fair to compare April’s moms with mine, but it’s hard not to. Something pinches in my chest, not as sharp as jealousy but not as dull as real anguish. I’m in the middle of trying to parse how I feel when I turn to round a corner and run smack into a guy I hadn’t even noticed was standing next to me.
