Héctor blew his nose on a napkin. “I don’t know,” he finally said, once he could talk. “How is this happening to me? I feel like I’m never going to escape this. I’ll always be what he called me.”

“But you made some friends, didn’t you?”

“Huh?”

She named them.

Aishah.

Jackson.

Taylor.

Sal.

Juliana.

(She wasn’t sure about Carlos, either.)

“And you wouldn’t have made those friends if you weren’t a good, interesting person,” she said. “These people want to be around you, Héctor.”

“I guess,” he said, taking another bite.

“No ‘I guess’ allowed. I’m right.” She pointed the elotito at him again. “I think this Mike and Frank have gotten in your head, papito. And you’re starting to believe them.”

He’d been so down on himself for a long, long time. Maybe his abuela was right.

She reached across the table and held his hand. “Just because Mike and his friends are mean and insecure doesn’t mean they’ll always have power over you.”

“Insecure?” he asked. “Mike isn’t insecure. He’s so confident.”

“Those don’t mean the same thing,” she said, shaking her head. “You can appear incredibly confident on the outside, but be consumed by insecurity on the inside.”

“But how is Mike insecure?”

“Some boys are raised to believe that there are things they’re not supposed to do as boys,” she continued. “Like dance. Or wear makeup. Or do theater. Or be an artist.”

“But . . .” He scratched at his head with his free hand. “That doesn’t make any sense. I do all those things, and I’m still a boy.”

Then he thought of Sal, of how brave and scary it was for them to do what they wanted and not be a boy or a girl, but who they really were.

This gender stuff seemed so complicated sometimes.

“I know, nieto,” his abuela said. “That wasn’t as big of a deal back in San Francisco. But not everyone is as open about this kind of stuff.”

“So why can’t Mike just leave me alone? None of what I do affects him at all!”

“Oh, I can’t explain everything about him,” she said. “And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to excuse him. He still sounds like un baboso.”

“Abuela!” Héctor cried, nearly choking.

“I’m just saying. I don’t like anyone who makes you feel that way about yourself.”

“I just wish I had told you earlier,” he said.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle the hard stuff,” he said. “You told me to do things by myself, remember?”

She frowned deeply. “¿Cuándo? No recuerdo eso.”

“At the carnicería,” he explained. “And I know you dealt with Abuelo leaving you all on your own and—”