Page 46 of Crossed

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“I’msurprised you evenwantQuin involved,” Dalia says the next evening, scrunching her nose.

I tilt my head as I drain the pot of macaroni shells, confused by her statement. “What? Why wouldn’t I want him included?”

Moving to the side of the sink, I cut open the foil packet of cheese and pour it in the bottom of the heated pot before grabbing the macaroni, dumping it back in, and mixing it.

“Quin!” I yell. “Dinnertime!”

The pitter- patter of footsteps comes down the hallway, Quinten appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Finish this first and then dinner,” he says.

“Deal.” I nod.

I don’t know what “this” is, but he loves to barter, and usually I allow the compromises, wanting him to have a sense of self- agency.

He smiles, and the sight of it makes my chest warm. When he goes to his bedroom to finish whatever task he was on, I put my attention back on Dalia.

“I mean, it’s called the Festival ofFools, Amaya,” she continues. “It’s ableist as fuck.”

“Well…yeah,” I reply slowly. “I’m not a fan of the title, but what can I do about it? You want me to keep Quin from being able to be part of something to make a statement?”

Guilt swims through me, but it’s irritating to have Dalia talk to me like I haven’t agonized over every aspect of anything involving Quinten.

I shake my head, mixing the shells and cheese to keep it warm. “That won’t do anything except keep us in solitude and ostracize us even more.”

“You don’t know unless you try.”

I slam down the wooden spoon, splatters of orange skating across the counter. “Ihavetried, dammit. You really think I sit by and do nothing? The first year after my mom left, I went to the county meeting, begging them to change it.” I spin around, crossing my arms over my chest. “And do you know what they said? ‘It’s tradition. It’s not aboutyou. It’s about history.’ And then I went the next year. And the next. And the fucking next.”

“Oh,” Dalia says.

“Yeah,oh. And fuck you, Dal, for assuming.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just…” She sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. “He’s my little dude, you know? I can’t stand the thought of anything hurting him.”

Empathy douses my anger. “Yeah.”

Dalia glances down the hall. “I just worry he’ll look back one day and think we were complacent, you know?”

I grab a bowl from the cupboard, scooping the shells into it and moving to the table where she is. Sitting down, I reach out and grip her hand in mine. “I get it, okay?Believeme. But the truth is that we can only protect him so much, and even when wedo, we’re still going to live through it. It’s painful sometimes to realize that other people don’t understand or…or don’t care. And it fucking sucks.” Emotion clogs my throat, tears burning behind my eyes. “It sucks to know you have the best kid in the world and can’t protect him from everyone else’s ugliness.”

She nods.

“But he’s got me.” I shrug. “And now he’s got you too. And heknows, Dalia. He knows we’d burn the world just to make him smile. And I have to believe that one day, he’ll have others. Not everyone can be as awful as the people in Festivalé, right?”

Dalia sniffles, wiping a stray tear from the side of her cheek.

“You’re right. I’m just a sensitive bitch.” I laugh, squeezing her hand.

“Do you think he even wants to be in the play?” she asks.

I shrug. “He seemed excited about it when I told him. Quin!” I holler out again, standing up and walking to his room.

He’s on his iPad, his finger moving furiously over whatever app he’s playing.

“Dinnertime, dude. Just bring it with you.”

He grabs it without ever looking up and makes his way into the kitchen, climbing into his chair and picking up the fork to his side, stabbing one piece before slipping it in his mouth and going back to his game.