Saturday, August 13, 2022 (Reread)

Ari and Dante are two Mexican-American boys navigating teenage-hood. It’s a quiet simmering novel. To pick this up means you’re peering into the mind of a boy in the suburbs, a stream of consciousness of sorts. And it is equal parts introspective, light-hearted, elusive, and devastating. Mind you, not devastating in all the ways queer people are all too familiar with. It’s devastating because it sees you, it understands you, and it aches because it’s nothing you’ve ever felt before. At least, that’s the only way I can rationalize why I end up in snot-filled disgusting tears every time I finally finish this book. Its chapters are short and its prose is quip to match. 

Ari is as insular and alone and freedom-seeking as one constantly is in the gripes of young adulthood. It’s one of the few novels I feel capture this feeling so perfectly. The anguished and flighty hormonal mood swings, mixed in with the specific flavor of repression you experience as a gay teenager. I’m admittedly wary of the sequel since nothing I feel can rival this. Nonetheless, its existence doesn’t change the fact that I’ll always have this warm little moment with Ari and Dante to go back to whenever I so choose. I love it I love it I love it I cherish it. To read this is to peer into my soul just a little bit—it's a looking glass. It reminds me to be kind to what I see.