identity on hold

x. blue dress

I wish Jo were there last week to see how non-sarcastic I was when Chase Grant handed me a bouquet of candy and headbands, since I'm not keen on flowers. I acted like a "regular-schmegular" person, and I even put my hand over my mouth as if I were surprised. She'd be proud.

I sent a message the other night. A long one. I told her everything: how what my aunt said affected me for over a decade, that Devon's death was making all of this come to the surface, that it was comments like hers that made me almost lose out on my friendship with Shantay, that I love her, that even though I do love her, she's wrong. And I didn't apologize. I told her I should've said something earlier, before she got comfortable, but as we're entering a new stage in life soon, I need to know exactly how she feels about me. All of me.

I stand at the top of the stairs, showcasing a blue dress Shantay and I picked out a few days ago. Mama has an old camera, even though I told her to just use her phone, but it's cute anyway.

"Oh, you look amazing, hija," Mama says, jumping up from the couch. Aunt Joanna and Dominique stay sitting.

"You didn't straighten your hair?" Joanna asks. I see my mother roll her eyes. "No, I mean—sweetie, that dress is lovely. I just figured—you do look lovely, Francesca. I just thought it was a special occasion so you might change it up, but whatever. You look nice, sweetie."

"Prom isn't today," I say quietly.

"So you have time to figure out a look. That dress is lovely, but the blue is a little too bright, you think?" Joanna says, tilting her head to the side and picking me apart with beady eyes.

"I love it. You look like a princess," Dominique gushes. Joanna twists her mouth and shrugs at the comment. I pick at a loose string on the side of the dress, which caused a 20% discount when I bought it. I look at Dominique's hair, long and wavy, and contemplate straightening my own for the dance. It's been a while since I've seen how long my hair actually is.

Because I used to straighten it all the time. I stopped because I had heat damage.

A few pictures later, a few comments later, some praise from my mom and mostly critiques from Joanna, and I'm so annoyed I could not even go to prom.

Joanna clicks her tongue as my mom kneels to take an awkward picture of me. "Mhmm. Turn around? I think it—"

"I don't care," I interrupt my aunt. My mom stands up and opens her mouth before Joanna butts in.

"Oh, Francesca, I want you to look your very best," she sighs. "It's just a bright dress."

I look my inner self in the eye, telling her to let it go, to let Joanna lie to my face when I know by God she hates me. She hates who and what I am. Deep inside, she was the one telling me I wasn't Mexican enough. The one causing me to distance myself from my Black. From other black people. From my best friend in the world, Shantay. Why do I have to straighten my hair, Joanna? I want to scream it. Contain yourself, Fran. Contain—

"Too bright anyway or too bright for a nigger-baby?" I ask through my teeth, nostrils flared.

The first person I notice is Dominique, who almost chokes on her lollipop.

The inevitable, loud, shrill "Francesca Denise Alvarez!" is muffled in my ears as I walk toward the door, only to be stopped by my mother's quick hand, gripping my wrist.

"I'm gonna go see Jo," I say over and over again, twisting my arm out of my mother's grasp. My aunt sits in her place, eyes wide as they'll ever be.

"dirías eso delante de tu prima?!" Mama says, eyes already welled up with tears.

"¿Por qué no? Joanna said it in your house. In front of you, in front of me. She would've said it if Devon were with us and you know it."

I leave as quickly as I can, bunching up my dress and heading out the door.

F