I spend Saturday locked in my room, not even getting out of bed to eat. Usually, when something’s bothering me, I get up and dance until I feel better. Or at least until I’m too tired to be upset. Today, though, I just can’t bring myself to move. I can barely get up to go to the bathroom. Today is not a dancing day. It’s a sulking day, and that’s okay. My dad knocks on my door around noon.

“You hungry, mija?” he asks. He’s rarely home on the weekends, and if it were any other day, I’d be jumping at the opportunity to spend time with him. He’s always been so good at making me feel better. He’s really easy to talk to—at least about problems that aren’t his own. Talking to him about what happened with my mom is like pulling teeth. I guess it’s not a problem he thinks he can solve. But I can’t move. I can’t even talk. Papi opens the door and peeks inside when I don’t answer. “You okay?”

I can’t look at him right now or I’ll cry again, so I pull my sheets over my face and roll over.

He sighs. “I guess you want to be left alone. ’Stá bien, mija. I’ll be here when you want to talk about it,” he says gently. The problem is, he won’t be. He’s never home, and I’m wasting my chance to take advantage of him being here.

I shut my eyes when the door closes, but it opens again just a few minutes later, and my mom walks in, sitting herself on the edge of my bed.

“Well?” she asks with an anticipatory smile on her face.

“Well what?” I ask.

“How was the party? How are you and Luis? He seems like such a nice boy!”

The mention of his name clogs my throat, and I can’t bring myself to utter another word, so I repeat what I did with my dad, pulling the covers over my head and rolling over.

My mom does not take the hint.

“May I?” she asks.

I let out an “aagh!” instead of the word no. She’s asking me if she can touch me, probably to rub my back through the blanket, but I can’t be touched right now.

There’s a long pause. “Okay, mija. Let me know when you want to talk …” She sounds sad, but I can’t think about her feelings right now.

I don’t pull the blanket off myself until she gets up and leaves my room, clicking the door closed behind her.

I don’t even bother feeling sorry for myself. I’m just numb. Just tired.

I’m not sure how much time I lose dissociating in my bed. Boo is sitting on my chest purring like she does when she’s worried about me. I heard cats don’t just purr when they’re happy, but they also purr when they’re stressed as a way of self-soothing. When I’m stressed, Boo sometimes snuggles up and purrs on my chest, and I think it’s her way of trying to make me feel better.

I stare at the dark spot in the ceiling where the white paint is peeling. And even though it doesn’t feel like that much time has passed, the setting sun lights my room with an orange tint from my bedroom window. The sounds of rush hour traffic outside are already dying down, and I still can’t move.

So I sleep.

Or try to. The sun goes down and the lights go out, but my mind won’t rest. I stay laying restlessly in bed for hours until I finally check my phone. It’s almost three in the morning. Thank God tomorrow’s Sunday. Today. Whatever.

I stretch out my leg, looking for Boo at the foot of it to bring me comfort, but she’s not there. I sigh and hunch over the side of my bed, peeking underneath it. Boo’s big green eyes stare back. Sometimes she sleeps underneath my bed, but I wish she’d just stay consistent.

“It’s okay, Boo,” I say, making kissy noises to try to coax her out from under the bed, but she doesn’t budge. I flop back down in bed and close my eyes, trying my best to fall back asleep, but it’s no use. My mind is too loud for sleep. All I can think about is last night. I keep replaying it in my head, wondering if there was something I could have done differently, but I come up blank every time. There’s no way I can sleep if I can’t get him out of my head.

I reach for my headphones on my nightstand and start playing my emo playlist on Spotify. This is what I usually listen to when I’m feeling shitty for any reason. After two songs I’m fully awake and fully emo, and I need to get it out somehow. I usually don’t just get up and dance in the middle of the night—it’s mostly a “get out my pent-up after-school anxiety” kind of thing, but I’m tired of lying in bed sulking, and a good dance vent seems like the only thing to get it all out of my head right now.

I sit up in bed, starting out just using my upper body, waving my arms around and throwing my head from side to side. But eventually my whole body wants to move, so I crawl out of bed. I put my hands on my knees and start flipping my hair wildly, and then I throw myself on the floor into a somersault. I get back on my feet and attack the air in front of me, punching and kicking and swinging my arms as close to on beat as I can manage. I pretend Luis is standing there, and that I wouldn’t feel guilty beating the shit out of him for how he made me feel last night.

For the first time, I give myself permission to fight. To feel my feelings where no one else can see. I throw myself onto the floor again and kick my foot in the air, then roll so I’m on my belly on the floor. I throw my head back and close my eyes, and then I let myself fall to the ground, and I just lie there for the rest of the song. I don’t realize I’m crying until the music fades out.

I let myself sob until I finally fall asleep, right there on the floor.

It isn’t until Monday rolls around that I’m forced to get out of bed. I snooze my alarm again and again until I completely run out of time to get ready. There’s no point in waking up early today. Besides, Boo is cuddled up next to me, and isn’t it against some kind of law to move a sleeping cat?

Usually, I wake up at least an hour before I have to leave for school so I can pick out an outfit and straighten my hair. Normally, I try to wear something that will get me noticed, to make up for my lack of talking, even though it never really works. People ignore me no matter what I wear.

I don’t care about that today, though. I lay in bed staring at the plastic stars stuck to the corner of my bedroom ceiling. Two of them are still glowing, but most of them lost their glow years ago.

It’s almost as if Boo knows I’m running late, because she stretches and hops off my bed, freeing me to get up. I usually look forward to going to school. I’m good at it, and something about the structure and predictable schedule makes my little autistic heart happy. But today, I’m dreading it. I finally force myself to throw my comforter off and roll out of bed. Posters and articles of Jose Antonio Vargas, Ida B. Wells, Janna Jihad, and other journalists I look up to line my walls. Janna Jihad (a young Palestinian journalist and my current biggest inspiration) would tell me to get up and make my mark today. But that’s what I thought I was doing when I went to that party …

I head toward my closet and push through all the rompers and colorful dresses. Nothing feels right. Today isn’t like other days. Today, I don’t want to be noticed, let alone look in a mirror.

I throw on a pair of sweatpants and a baggy sweater, then grab my pocketknife and stick it in my sweatpants pocket. My mom gave it to me about a year ago, when I started regularly walking around by myself. She said you can never be too careful, and I think she’s right. I always take it with me since I walk to and from school alone. Our apartment is only a five-minute walk from school, but it still makes me feel safer.

Part of me wishes I pulled the knife on Luis at that party. I dig my nails into my palms. I totally had the power to make him stop, and I just … didn’t. What is wrong with me?

I force myself to stop thinking about it by making eggs on toast for myself and Mom and Dad. I set both their plates down on the kitchen counter for them to find later. Mami’s still sleeping on the couch. I try to leave before my dad comes out of his room for work. I shovel down my own toast and walk quietly toward the door. Just as I reach for the knob, his bedroom door opens.

“Morning, mija. How was that party? Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. I knew he’d bring it up eventually since he knows something happened based on my behavior over the weekend.

“It was … fine.” I shrug. I wish he wouldn’t ask because I don’t like lying to my dad. I reach for the doorknob again so he doesn’t try to prolong the conversation. Instead of asking more questions, he rushes over to me and kisses my...