“You do know a lot of those names sound very Mexican.” “What’s your point?” “I’m just saying.” “Look, Ari, I want him to be Mexican. I want him to be all the things that I’m not. I want him to know Spanish. I want him to be good at math.” “And you want him to be straight.” “Yes,” he whispered. I couldn’t stand to see the tears running down his face. “Yes, Ari, I want him to be straight.” He sat up on his bed, covered his face with his hands—and cried. Dante and tears. I sat next to him and pulled him close to me. I didn’t say anything. I just let him sob into my shoulder.
