Chapter 15 #3
“Oh,” Efraín says, an entire semantic universe contained in that syllable. “So you do care.”
At first, I think he means it as a slight, but there’s no derision in his monotone delivery. Some other emotion—shock? awe?
relief?—has sapped the dynamism from his speech. His whole posture transforms, a strange alchemy leeching the tension from
his bones.
Another nameless emotion clogs my sinuses, phlegm I can’t cough up. “Of course I care,” I rasp. “It . . . hurts. Did you really think I was that heartless?”
Except I do know. He called me coldhearted in cold blood.
But Efraín sits down next to me. “I don’t know, Elisha,” he murmurs. “I really don’t. I can’t read you at all. You’re too . . .
impenetrable.”
“Not impenetrable,” I mutter. “If it looks like I don’t care, that’s because caring hurts. If I can brush off misgendering,
then it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to mean anything if I can stay impervious. But it’s a cheap defense mechanism—the
only kind I can afford. Paper armor. Not impenetrable at all.”
He’s looking at me with that little squiggle between his brows—it reminds me of a tilde—and I can’t read him at all.
Now that I’ve started talking, I can’t stop.
“Despite what you may think, I’m not completely oblivious.
You used to invite me to protests, rallies, and marches, but I always said no.
It wasn’t unreasonable for you to assume I didn’t care.
” I have to look away because this, too, hurts. “I never told you why.”
“You didn’t owe me an explanation then,” he says, “and you don’t owe me one now.”
“I didn’t want you to judge me, but you’ve never suffered excuses. I still remember the way you tore into Amy Sharma for saying
she couldn’t go to that one protest because it conflicted with her cousin’s baby shower. I knew the minute I tried to justify
myself, you’d call bullshit. Ironic, right? I didn’t want you to hate me, but that’s exactly what happened.”
Efraín’s poised to interrupt, but I wave him off. “No, can you just let me say this? Because what you have to understand is,
when I say I’m not good at this—I’m not just blowing smoke. I have evidence.”
I can see the questions he’s dying to ask, but he stops himself.
“The first time I went to a political event was when my moms took Naomi and me to the first Women’s March in Santa Rosa. I
don’t remember much except that it was loud, and I wouldn’t let go of Mom’s hand. I was overwhelmed—I know that now—but that
was before I got my autism diagnosis. Everyone dismissed it like the way I always cried at fireworks. But that summer, they
took us to Pride. San Francisco. And I—”
I shut my eyes, as if the memory of the sun alone was bright enough to sear my retinas.
Hypersaturated rainbows and screaming strangers everywhere I turned.
“The whole world was too much. Colors too bright, sounds too loud.
I was so far beyond overwhelmed. I lost Moms and Naomi, and then I was alone on the
Embarcadero, having a meltdown on the sidewalk. Then—I was lucky. A very nice drag queen got me to an ever-so-slightly-quieter
Starbucks, bought me a Frappuccino, called my moms, and sat with me until they showed up.”
“Elisha—”
“No, just wait.” I head off his pity at the pass. “I’m not blaming autism, ADHD, alexithymia, anxiety, or any other diagnosis-in-waiting,
okay? I just want to explain. I can’t do crowds, so protests and rallies are out. I’m a FEMA-worthy natural disaster when
I talk to strangers unscripted. Canvassing and phone-banking—I mean, I couldn’t even get the wrong side of a mock one-on-one
right. I’m not equipped for activism. I don’t have those skills. I make things worse. And that was all before I transitioned, before I had this added
layer of shit to worry about.
“So, for the record, that’s why. When you asked—when you used to ask—that’s why I said no. Not because I didn’t care, but
because I couldn’t risk it. I know that’s a shitty excuse.” I offer a weak, watery smile. “Impact over intent, right?”
Meanwhile, Efraín’s frowning at me.
I swallow hard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to infodump my tragic social skills backstory. I—”
“You thought I’d judge you?”
“Pardon?”
“All those times—” Efraín runs a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. “You really thought I’d hold it against
you if you told me the truth. And I just proved you right by pushing so hard about work.”
This is Efraín at capacity. He can’t hold on to his anger at me when he’s busy hurling recriminations at himself for missing
ugly truths I hid on purpose. He doesn’t deserve that blame. For all the times he gave me the benefit of the doubt, I never
returned the favor.
“Well,” I say, “it wasn’t just you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not much of a joiner.”
Efraín huffs a laugh, and I want to say a prayer. I expected pity or a guilt spiral, but somehow, I’ve defused the bomb.
“Hate to break it to you,” Efraín says, knocking his knee against mine, “but you just joined a union.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I joke. “Don’t hold it against me.”
“I won’t,” he says, soft and solemn like a promise.