Lorena has a new friend at school who’s gay as a rainbow-colored unicorn. She met him in the lunch line when he complimented her ridiculous green heels. They started talking about clothes, makeup, and unfortunate fashion choices of the rich and famous, and that was that—best friends forever! He told her about the wild and crazy parties he frequents with his entourage of drag queens, which got Lorena worked up. All she ever wants to do is party. Now they talk all the time and even hold hands when they walk down the halls.

When Lorena tells me his name, I refuse to believe it because it’s so utterly stupid. His name is Juan García, but he goes by Juanga, which is the nickname of Juan Gabriel, Mexico’s most beloved singer, who is flaming but has never officially come out of the closet. How can he compare himself to him? I mean, it’s like calling yourself Jesus Christ or Joan of Arc. So of course I hate him immediately. I can’t deny that I’m jealous. Lorena and I have been Siamese twins since the day we met. Juanga better watch himself.

—

Our history teacher is sick today, which means it’ll be a free period. Our sub, Mr. Blankenship, breathes loudly through his mouth and wears a pilling green sweater two sizes too small. I can see his hairy belly when he lifts his arms. I don’t know where the hell they find these people. The last substitute had a lisp and wore a fanny pack.

Instead of continuing to work on our research projects, he pops in a documentary about World War II, which we’ve already

covered. Not even ten minutes into the movie and he’s fast asleep, snoring wetly. The whole class slowly sprouts into chaos. Some people play music on their phones. Jorge and David throw a miniature football back and forth across the room, and Dario climbs on his desk and starts dancing, flipping his hair, and pouting his lips. He does this every single time a teacher leaves the room. Something about the way he moves reminds me of a flamingo.

“We have to go to a masquerade Juanga invited me to.” Lorena turns to me, her eyes wide. “Everyone, and I mean everyone, is going to be there. It’s at this fancy loft in the West Loop.”

Just hearing his name chafes me. “Who is this ‘everyone’ you refer to? You know I hardly even like people. Plus, my mom would have a heart attack. No way.” Part of me is intrigued by the party, but the other part of me doesn’t want to spend a night hanging out with Juanga. He hasn’t reached arch-nemesis status, but I certainly don’t want to be friends.

“Oh my God, just lie to her, stupid. You never learn, do you? Tell her we’re going on an overnight field trip to visit a college.”

“That doesn’t make any damn sense. We’re juniors, remember?

How would she believe that?”

A bomb suddenly explodes in the video, and Mr. Blankenship wakes up for about half a second.

“Here. Take this to your crazy-ass mom,” Lorena says, handing me a sheet of paper. “I already thought ahead. We have to go to this party.”

According to the form, we’re visiting the University of Michigan to see what college life is like. We’ll be staying in the dorms, eating meals at the school cafeteria, watching a play, and taking a tour. Lorena translated it into Spanish on the back. She was even able to get it on the school letterhead, somehow.

I’m in awe. “Where did you get this?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lorena says, smiling.

“Seriously, this is really impressive. I had no idea you were this smart.”

“Bitch!”

“Well?”

“Okay, I stole the letterhead from Mr. Zuniga’s desk and made up the rest.”

“I guess you only play dumb, huh?” I try patting her on the head, but she ducks and swipes at my hand.

“If you miss this party, you’re going to be sorry.”

—

When I give Amá the permission form after school, she says no without even looking at me. That’s what she always does. It’s like I don’t even deserve the dignity of eye contact. But I’m not surprised, of course not. I was prepared for this. I even wrote notes beforehand to help guide my argument. I beg and plead and tell her how much I want to go to college, how this will be a great opportunity, how I need this for my emotional and intellectual development. After about ten minutes of groveling, though, it’s clear she’s not having any of it.

“No daughter of mine is going to be sleeping in the streets.” “The streets? That doesn’t make any sense. I’m going to be in a

dorm.”

“You think you’re all grown-up. You’re only fifteen. You don’t even know how to make a tortilla.”

I’m beginning to froth with fury. Amá is so dramatic. Sometimes I want to run out of our apartment screaming and never come back. I don’t know what tortillas have to do with anything. “This is ridiculous. I want to go to college. I want to see the world. I never get out of this stupid neighborhood.” My bottom lip quivers. I’m almost starting to believe my own lie.

“You can live here and go to college, you know? That’s what Olga did.”

“Absolutely not. Never. I’d rather live in a barrel than stay here and go to community college.” Olga went there for four years and never even graduated. I’m not entirely sure what she was studying. Business something.

“How come Olga never felt the need to be out in the streets like some sort of Gypsy? She was always so comfortable here at home,

spending time with her family. Bien agusto, mi niña.” Amá looks up at the ceiling, as if she’s trying to talk to my sister in heaven.

“She was not a girl. She was a grown woman!” I don’t know why that pisses me off so much. I run to my room and slam the door. I hate when Amá sees me cry.

—

The night of the masquerade I try to read in the living room, but I can’t concentrate because I’m so jittery. I’m just waiting until my parents go to bed so I can slink out of the apartment. On Fridays, they usually go to sleep at about 9, which is so depressing. I’d hate to be old and lame and never do anything fun on weekends. That’s why I won’t ever get married or have kids. What a pain in the ass.

Half an hour after they’ve gone to sleep, I tiptoe to their door and listen. I hope to God I never, ever hear them having sex, because if I do, I might have to put poison inside my ears. Maybe they don’t have sex anymore, though. Who knows? Thankfully, I can hear them both snoring. I don’t understand how Amá sleeps through Apá’s terrifying growls.

I creep back to my room and stuff my bed with pillows and an extra blanket. I take one of my old dolls and put it where my head would be. I cover most of it, but leave some strands of her dark hair out to make it look more realistic. I’m pleased with myself for being so clever. If Amá opens the door and doesn’t turn on the light, it will definitely work. I’ve caught Amá peering in here some nights. She is so paranoid. If, for some reason, she decides to lift up the blanket, I’ve left a note saying I’m with Lorena because she’s having a crisis and that I’ll be back soon, don’t worry. I doubt it would help much, but it seems better than nothing.

Once I put on my only decent black dress, I text Lorena to come get me, and she says she and Juanga will be here in five minutes. I walk toward the door as quietly as possible. I’m afraid to even blink. It takes me an eternity to turn the doorknob because I don’t want to make any noise. When I shut it, I pray that I haven’t woken my parents.

Now I have to wait on the steps in the cold until they arrive. The sidewalk in front of our building has been crumbling for years,

and no one has ever bothered to fix it. The few trees on the street are scrawny and have already lost most of their leaves. I hope no one passes by right now. I’m so tired of being harassed by pervs around here. They’d probably bother anything with the semblance of boobs, human or not. I keep checking the time, silently cursing Lorena for lying to me about how long it’d take. What if Amá wakes up and sees me outside? What if someone notices me and rats me out? Our next-door neighbor, Doña Josefa, is always peering out the window and is the biggest chismosa I’ve ever met. I keep thinking and thinking of all the worst-case scenarios until I feel like a tornado of worry and consider going back to bed. This party better be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Finally, I see them pull up.

It turns out that Juanga doesn’t have a license, but he’s “borrowed” his dad’s car anyway.

“Don’t worry, bitch, I’m not going to kill you,” he says, cackling like a maniac when he sees my worried face.

We park in front of a gigantic warehouse just west of downtown. The street is dark, and the building looks ancient and abandoned. I’m convinced we’ll be raped and/or murdered, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to be a buzzkill. The only thing that comforts me is that there are a ton of cars parked outside, nice ones, too. Before we enter, Juanga hands us both masks. Mine is covered with peacock feathers and rhinestones, which is not really my style, but I’ll go with it.

I’m totally wrong about the apartment. It doesn’t look like a crime scene. In fact, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I wonder what these people do for a living because this place belongs in a magazine—Chinese lanterns, what appears to be real artwork, and intricately designed rugs. God, I would love to live in a place like this all by myself. I can’t wait to get out of our dilapidated apartment one day.

Everyone turns to look at us. We’re definitely the youngest people here. They can probably tell, even though we’re wearing masks. After a few minutes of awkward lingering, a large woman in a tight leather dress and red mask comes running toward us.

“Hey, bitch!” she says to Juanga, and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey!” Juanga squeals, and turns to us. “This is Maribel, our beautiful host this evening.”

“Such a pleasure,” Maribel says, giving a dramatic bow. Her dress is cut so low that I’m afraid one of her boobs will pop out. “Make yourselves at home. Don’t be shy. There are drinks in the dining room.”

The three of us make our way to the liquor. Lorena and Juanga pour some shots of I don’t know what. I refuse because the last time I drank shots of vodka with Lorena, I threw up so hard it came out of my nose. I open a beer instead, which I regret immediately. This must be what pee and bile taste like. The only other time I tasted beer was when I was twelve and secretly took a sip of Apá’s Old Style when he was in the bathroom. It was disgusting then, and it’s disgusting now. I drink it down fast without breathing through my nose.

The mask is uncomfortable on top of my glasses, and it’s making me sweat and itch. I would have worn my contacts, but I ran out. I’m afraid it’s going to give me a pimple, so I take it off. I zone out, watching the skyline, when a man in a Phantom of the Opera mask pulls me out to the dance floor. I have no idea who he is, but I don’t have to worry because everyone here is queer or trans. It’s nice not to have to deal with creepy-ass dudes for once.

The DJ is playing James Brown, and everyone is going wild, flailing their arms and screaming the lyrics. I’m not a good dancer, but I like the beat. Besides, I can’t look any worse than the man next to me, dancing like a Tyrannosaurus rex. After a few songs, I begin to loosen up. When I shake my shoulders like the drag queens, they laugh and clap. I’m fascinated by the women here. Even if they’re fat, they move as if they think they’re fabulous. I wish I could be like that.

As I spin around with a lady in a catsuit, someone taps me on the shoulder. A small woman, wearing a silver mask, tilts her head, as if she’s trying to figure out how she knows me.

“Yes?”

“Wait, are you Olga’s little sister? Julia?” she yells over the music.

“What? Who are you?” I shout back, giving her major side eye. I have no clue who she is.

“You don’t remember me?” She takes off her mask. “Obviously not.”

“I’m Jazmyn, remember? Olga’s friend from high school. Look at you! All grown up.”

Then it comes to me—Jazmyn, with the overbite and droopy eyes. I remember her name was spelled stupid, too. Even as a kid, I thought she was insufferable. “Kind of,” I say, uninterested. I don’t feel like talking to her. I don’t want to explain.

“Aren’t you a little young to be at a party like this? How old are you again?” There are nosy people everywhere I turn, apparently.

I pretend not to hear.

“Oh man, I spent so much time at your house. Olga, Angie, and I were inseparable sophomore year. I remember you were such a sensitive little girl. Always crying about something.”

I roll my eyes. Why does everyone remind me how much I sucked as a kid?

“You know, I haven’t seen Olga in years. I ran into her when I was shopping a few years ago. She kept going on and on about this guy she was in love with. She was all excited. I had never seen her so happy.”

The music gets louder, and I can feel the bass thumping throughout my body. “Wait, what? Do you mean Pedro the aardvark? Or was it someone else?”

“What?” Jazmyn cups her hand to her ear.

“The dude that looked like an aardvark! Pedro!” I use my hand to illustrate a snout since she can’t understand, but she is still confused. Jazmyn moves in closer. I can feel her hot breath on my face. “So how is Olga? We didn’t keep in touch after I moved to Texas. I come back every once in a while. This is my cousin’s party.” She points to Maribel, who blows us kisses.

“She’s dead.” I refuse to say passed away, like everyone else.

Why can’t people say what they mean?

“What?” Jazmyn looks confused.

“I said, she’s dead!” I feel the beer slosh around in my stomach.

The room is twirling now.

“I can’t believe this….We…we…were friends.” Jazmyn looks like she might cry. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her. “How did it happen? She was so young. Oh my God.”

“She got run over by a semi. It happened in September.”

I can’t go anywhere without talking about my dead sister, and every time I do, I think I might pass out or throw up. Jazmyn’s eyes well up with tears.

I leave her standing there, and run to the bathroom. When I bend over the toilet, nothing comes out. I splash cold water on my face, which smudges my eyeliner and mascara. I try wiping my makeup with a piece of toilet paper, but I still look like the Joker. I’ll just have to put my mask back on. I take a few deep breaths before I go back outside. I’m having a hard time breathing at a normal pace, like my body suddenly forgot. Maybe Jazmyn wasn’t talking about Pedro. I rush out and look for her all throughout the loft. I even look outside, but she must have left. I don’t see her anywhere. I find Juanga and Lorena doing shots in the kitchen.

“Here, take this. You need it.” Lorena hands me a glass.

The smell of it makes my stomach flip, but I drink it anyway. It burns my throat and sends a pleasant warmth all throughout my body. My muscles begin to soften. No wonder so many people are alcoholics.

—

I’m drunk by the time Juanga and Lorena are ready to go home. I don’t know exactly how many drinks Juanga had, but I’m one hundred percent sure he shouldn’t be driving. What choice do I have, though? How else would I get home?

I can barely keep my eyes open, but I can feel Juanga swerve all over the expressway. When we get off the exit ramp, he slams on the brakes so hard I nearly hit my head on the back of Lorena’s seat.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he slurs.

I hope to God that Juanga doesn’t kill me, because then Amá would truly go crazy. It’s nearly time to wake up and start the day again. The sky is still dark, but it’s beginning to brighten. There are beautiful, faint streaks of orange over the lake. It looks like it’s been cracked open.

I think of Jazmyn’s face when I told her about Olga. Everywhere I go, my sister’s ghost is hovering.