The Inexplicable Logic of My Life

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

Maybe I’d always had the wrong idea as to who I really was.

“It’s a question of fairness. And apparently it’s also a question of school policy.” Mr. Infante had this really angry look on his face. “My son just called you what you are.” My father didn’t flinch, didn’t skip a beat. “I happen to be gay. I don’t think that makes me a faggot. I’m also a Mexican-American. I don’t think that makes me a taco bender. I don’t think that makes me a beaner. I don’t think that makes me a spic. And I don’t think that makes me an illegal.” There wasn’t any anger in his voice—​or on his face. It was as if he were a lawyer in a courtroom, trying to make his point to the jury. I could tell he was trying to think of what he was going to say next. He looked at Mr. Infante. “Sometimes,” he said, “our sons don’t fully understand the things they say. But you and I, we’re men. We do understand, don’t we?”

I had a theory that everyone has a relationship with words—​whether they know it or not. It’s just that everybody’s relationship with words is different.

When is the right time for anything? Who knows? Living is an art, not a science.

“F all those bitches.” I hated that word. “Have some self-respect, Sammy. The B word is the N word for girls. I hate that. What kind of a feminist are you, anyway?” “Who said I was a feminist?” “You did—​when we were in eighth grade.” “I didn’t know shit in eighth grade.” “Look, just don’t use that word around me. It pisses me off.” She stopped using that word around me. But sometimes she did say things like She’s such a B.

We’d been so sure of ourselves, but now we were lost.

“Did anybody ever tell you that you talk in clichés?” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “You’re never there, Mom. You’ve never been there.”

“I don’t know,” Dad said. “We’ll just have to see.” Uncle Mickey had this strange look on his face. “Well, just don’t let her fucking die there.” Everyone was quiet for a long time. Then my dad said, “Mickey, we’re not going to let her die there.” Aunt Lulu looked at Uncle Mickey. “We don’t know that she’s dying.”

You know, when I was young, I tried my damnedest to divorce my family.” “Why?” “It was too hard, too messy, too complicated. I sort of lived in a self-imposed exile for a good many years. I went away to college, lived my own life, chased my dreams, tried to face some demons.

family. I tried to pretend I didn’t belong to anyone.” “What changed, Dad?” “I changed. That’s what changed. Me. I didn’t want to live without my family. I didn’t. And then there was you.” “Me?” “Yeah. Your mom was living here. She needed help. I came back.” “You really loved my mom, didn’t you?” “Best friend I ever had. You brought me back to my family. I want you to know that.” “Me?” “Yup.” He stopped talking. He pulled over to the side of the road. “Here, you take the wheel.”

Solo te haces menos. You know what that means?” “I know Spanish, Dad.” “Yeah, but do you know what that means?” “I think it means that it’s not other people who make you feel like you’re alone. You do it to yourself.”

“I know you sometimes think that people are like books. But our lives don’t have neat logical plots, and we don’t always say beautiful, intelligent things like the characters in a novel. That’s not the way life is. And we’re not like letters—”

There wasn’t anything broken inside my dad, even though some people thought there was because he was gay. But those people were wrong. They didn’t know him.

I’m making a fist. This is my fist. I want to punch a wall and tell God to make Mima well. And after that, punch Him too. I want to punch Eddie’s lights out and make him tell Sam he’s sorry. I kept thinking I just might turn out like the guy whose genes live in me. And I kept hating that thought.

That made me smile. But then I noticed she had a sad look on her face. “You know, Sally,” she said, “I think I’d be afraid to be a mother. I don’t think I’d make a very good one.” “Hey,” I said. “I think you’d make a great mother.” “What makes you say that?” I pointed to my heart and tapped on it. “Because you have a lot of this. That’s all it takes.” “You’re like your dad, you know that? I mean, I know he’s not your real—” “Yes, he is.” She nodded. “Yeah, he is.” And right then I wished with all my crooked heart that my dad had been the man who’d fathered me.

I watched as they drove away. I thought about last night’s storm. One had ended, and another one was beginning.

Somehow, because she was all over the map, it helped me to not be all over the map. That didn’t make sense, but me and Sam, what we had, well, it had a logic all its own.

I didn’t particularly care for being reduced to a sweet boy. My father saying things like that to me was one thing, but a stranger? Anyway, it wasn’t true. And why the hell was I thinking this crap while Sam was in the other room with a heart that would never be unwounded again?

She was driving. And she was drunk. God, who does that? Who pulls shit like that? She had a daughter.” “Calm down, Lina. Just—” “Just what?” “Let’s just do this. For Sam. Her mother’s dead. It was an accident.” “Her whole life was an accident.” “So how long are you going to stay mad?” There was a pause, and I could picture my dad taking a drag from his cigarette. “You’ve been mad at her for how long?” “My whole fucking life.” “So you’re going to keep a grudge? She’s dead. Really? Let it go.”

Her mother had left a note on the bathroom mirror, written in lipstick: just because my love isn’t perfect doesn’t mean i don’t love you.

WE SAT ON Sam’s bed, looking around the room. I’m not sure what we were looking for. She texted me. We did that sometimes, texted each other even though we were in the same room: I can’t live here. Me: U don’t have to Sam: where is home? Me: I’ll be ur home She leaned into me. “Get me out of here, Sally.”

Then I got a text from Sam: The world has changed. Me: We’ll make it through Sam: I love u and ur dad. U know that, right? Me: We love u back Sam: I won’t cry anymore Me: Cry all you like Sam: I didn’t hate her Me: I know Sam: Slumber party? Me: Absolutely

“Give me a song, will you, Sammy?” “What?” “I need a song. Give me one.”

Did anyone else get the Casablanca reference because they love old black and white films. I love it !!

“Sometimes I wish we could sleep through all the bad stuff,” I said as we sat down. “You know, like the song. Wake me up, you know, when it’s over. It would be good to sleep until we woke up wiser.” “I like that song—​but it doesn’t work that way, does it, Salvie?”

“How could I forget? So we’re into sad. No, even worse, we’re into voyeurism? Looking in on or making up other people’s tragedies. Great.” “Sounds good to me.”

I read her text: I’m grieving. U can deny me nothing. I texted her back: U need a therapist. She read the text and smiled—​then put down her cell. “No,” she said. “I need other people’s tragedies.”