I looked at my dad. Then I looked at my mom. Then I looked down at the floor. “They hurt Dante,” I whispered. “You can’t even tell what he looks like. You should see his face. They cracked some of his ribs. They left him lying in an alley. Like he was nothing. Like he was a piece of trash. Like he was shit. Like he was nothing. And if he would have died, they wouldn’t have cared.” I started to cry. “You want me to talk? I’ll talk. You want me to tell you? I’ll tell you. He was kissing another boy.” I don’t know why, but I couldn’t stop crying. And then I stopped and I knew I was really angry.
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