identity on hold

vi. casket model

Aunt Joanna, drink in hand, looks like my mother, especially with her hair out of a ponytail. My little cousin, Dominique, wearing a pinch of makeup, looks like Aunt Joanna.

I look like the dead guy in the casket.

If I were still in middle school, I'd just pull my hat over my ears and act like it wasn't his skin that made mine darker than my mother's, or that it wasn't his hair that made mine so tightly curled, or that it wasn't his nose that made mine wide and flat. I'd pretend like his blackness didn't apply to me. Not like I knew what I was doing anyway.

"Some boy asked if Devon was black the other day," I say when everyone seems to be talking about something other than the funeral. Mama's eyebrows furl, but she's too focused on sifting through her emails. It's the first time either of us have brought him up besides being at the actual funeral.

"¿Por qué?"

"I don't know. Sometimes, people don't know who you are," I respond.

"¿Por qué es importante? Tu padre no vivía aquí." Mama laughs a little. "¿Y no es obvio?"

Then of course, to change the subject, my mom gets into the, "you need to hang out with your cousin Dominique before you go to college" speech, which has especially started to annoy me, because it's Aunt Joanna who doesn't care to bring her daughter over to our house. Not like Joanna likes me anyway, or her own daughter for that matter.

"Mama, she's thirteen. Middle school. I don't see her," I interrupt. I don't need to be reminded by both my mother and aunt about how tragically beautiful Dom is.

"Pero no le dolería hablar con ella de vez en cuando. Ella actúa como un chico."

I sigh. "She doesn't act like a boy. Aunt Joanna should spend more time with her, if anything. Dominique is fine." My mom rolls her eyes and hums accusingly. "Maybe she's gay."

"Ay, Francesca..."

"Mama... I mean I acted like her and look at me now."

"No eres gay, Francesca. Te gustan los chicos—"

"Yeah and girls, Mama. But if anything, Dominique needs her freaking mom. Or maybe not, I don't know."

"Tienes que hablar con tu tía, también. Nunca supe por qué ustedes dos nunca se llevaron bien."

Maybe it's because I saw Devon up close a few hours ago, or maybe it's that I've always known why I've never been comfortable around Aunt Joanna, but I bite my tongue and pick my dessert plate up, taking it to my room so dramatically, I feel like I'm acting out a part of Ms. Rubio's middle-school plays.

"Francesca?"

"Forgot about an assignment, I'll be out in a second," I call out, tears threatening to waver my voice. I look into the pink paint on the wall of the bedroom I've occupied since I was seven and I can't help but bite my lip to prevent a heaving sob from leaving my throat. I can let a tear fall. I can be a regular-schmegular person about this.

I'm about to let myself cry again when my door swings open, and Dominique stands there, clutching her phone and lip quivering.

"Can I talk to you?" she asks quietly.