69 pages • 2-hour read
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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of antigay bias and suicidal ideation.
The broken mirror functions as a symbol of Yami’s fractured self-image and her journey toward self-acceptance. When Yami first punches her vanity mirror after seeing Bianca and quitting her job, she observes, “I like this new reflection better. It’s cracked enough that I’m hardly recognizable. Splintered in all the right places” (1). This initial act of violence against her reflection symbolizes her rejection of herself, particularly her lesbian identity that was forcibly exposed. The broken mirror represents how Yami sees herself: damaged, fragmented, and preferably unrecognizable.
Throughout the novel, the broken mirror continues to serve as a reminder of Yami’s struggle with self-acceptance. She mentions that she “still can’t use the mirror in [her] room” (25), suggesting that she remains uncomfortable with confronting her true self. The mirror’s brokenness parallels Yami’s compartmentalized identity as she navigates different spaces—presenting a straight facade at school while privately acknowledging her attraction to Bo. The author employs this symbol to illustrate how forced exposure of one’s identity can create internal fractures that take time to heal.
The mirror reappears most dramatically during Cesar’s mental health crisis. As Yami processes her guilt and grief, “[t]he cracked mirror in [her] room mocks [her]. It zooms in on [her] runny nose and wet eyelashes” (317). In her emotional turmoil, she punches it repeatedly until “every bit of shattered glass falls from the vanity” (318). This destruction represents Yami’s breaking point—her final rejection of hiding and fragmentation. Significantly, after this moment, Yami begins a journey toward wholeness, publicly embracing her sexuality and relationship with Bo. The symbol evolves alongside Yami, from representing self-rejection to signifying the shattering of pretense that allows her to live authentically.
Jewelry and beadwork function as a multifaceted symbol representing cultural heritage, economic necessity, maternal connection, and artistic expression. For Yami, helping to create and sell her mother’s handcrafted pieces becomes both a financial lifeline and a tangible connection to her Mexican identity. The intricate nature of the beadwork symbolizes the complexity of Yami’s own identity formation as she navigates multiple aspects of herself—Mexican American, LGBTQ+, Catholic, student, and provider.
The jewelry-making process itself becomes symbolic of heritage preservation. Yami describes how “the colors she chooses grow more vibrant when they’re woven together, like the design gives a life to them that wasn’t there before. Her beaded necklaces, earrings, and bracelets all remind [her] of Mexico” (14). This description parallels how Yami’s own identity becomes stronger and more vibrant when she integrates all parts of herself rather than compartmentalizing them. The author uses this symbol to illustrate how cultural knowledge and practices are transmitted across generations, even when physically separated from their origins—just as Yami is separated from her father in Mexico.
Economically, the jewelry represents both necessity and empowerment. When Yami revamps her mother’s Etsy store, she transforms their financial situation while simultaneously honoring her mother’s craft. She observes that “the angular patterns feel like they belong in a Mexican calle being sold to anyone passing by” (182), highlighting how their economic activity connects them to cultural tradition. The jewelry symbolism intensifies when Yami begins saving money to potentially support herself and Cesar if they’re rejected for being LGBTQ+, positioning the craft as both cultural expression and survival strategy.
Perhaps most poignantly, the jewelry symbolizes the deepening relationship between Yami and her mother. Initially, jewelry making is primarily economic, but by the novel’s end, it becomes a bonding activity. When they work together after Cesar returns from the hospital, Yami thinks, “We used to do this together for fun when we were little, but it’s been years. […] It feels like exactly what we’ve been missing” (350). The beadwork symbolizes how relationships can be mended and strengthened through shared creative endeavors, mirroring Yami’s own journey toward wholeness.
The Mayan Code of the Heart—“In Lak’ech Ala K’in”—serves as a central motif throughout the novel, representing Indigenous identity, ethical responsibility, and interconnectedness between individuals. First appearing in the bathroom mirror where Cesar has taped it, the code contains the lines
Tú eres mi otro yo / You are my other me. Si te hago daño a ti / If I do harm to you, Me hago daño a mí mismo / I do harm to myself. Si te amo y respeto / If I love and respect you, Me amo y respeto yo / I love and respect myself (26).
Lines from this poem form the titles of several chapters, and this credo becomes central to understanding the relationship dynamics between characters, particularly Yami and Cesar.
Reyes uses this motif to explore the relationship between self-harm and harm directed toward others within relationships. When Cesar considers suicide, the code takes on devastating significance—by harming himself through shame, he has also harmed Yami. During their reconciliation, Yami challenges him: “You’re the one who said it. In lak’ech. I know you know what it means. ‘Tú eres mi otro yo. I love you, so I love myself. I love myself! And I know you love me, too’” (334). Through this confrontation, the author illustrates how self-acceptance and love for others are inextricably linked, a central theme in the novel.
The motif also functions as a linguistic marker of Mexican Indigenous identity. Cesar “wears his indigeneity on his sleeve” and “says ‘in lak’ech’ instead of ‘same’” (26), demonstrating how language preserves cultural connection. For Yami, who feels “less Indigenous somehow” without her father present (26), the phrase becomes a way to reclaim part of her heritage. This dimension of the motif emphasizes the novel’s exploration of intersectional identity and cultural preservation.
Significantly, the code transcends biological relationships. When Bo reveals her struggles with feeling disconnected from her Chinese heritage, Yami responds with “In lak’ech” (129), extending the philosophy to her developing romantic relationship. The novel culminates with Yami telling Bo, “Tú eres mi otro yo” (385), signifying that true love requires seeing oneself in another. Through this motif, Reyes illustrates that authentic connection—romantic, familial, or platonic—demands recognition of shared humanity and interdependence, challenging the Catholic school’s attempts to divide and categorize people based on sexuality.
The pervasive motif of secrets and lies appears throughout the novel, highlighting the psychological burden of concealment and the complex ethical terrain that LGBTQ+ youth must navigate to survive in hostile environments. Nearly every central character engages in deception—Yami hides her sexuality, Cesar conceals his relationship with Jamal, Bo invents a fictional girlfriend named Jamie, and they collectively maintain an elaborate ruse about Cesar being on the football team. Reyes employs this motif to illustrate how societal and religious pressures force marginalized individuals to construct protective falsehoods.
For Yami, living with secrets becomes physically and emotionally taxing. She describes feeling like “a secret agent or a spy. […] [She] can present compartmentalized versions of [her]self to each person [she] know[s], and no one needs to know about [her] undercover identity” (89-90). This spy metaphor appears repeatedly, underscoring how Yami has internalized the need for strategic concealment. However, the author complicates this motif by showing how secrets isolate Yami from potential support systems, particularly in how she and Cesar both suffered in silence after being outed at Rover High.
The ethical complexity of secrets emerges through Yami’s internal debate: “It’s not like I can come out once and be done with it, either. I came out six times already […] If I’m ‘living a lie,’ then so is every straight person who’s never ‘come out’ to every single person in their life about their sexuality” (215). Through this reasoning, Reyes challenges the notion that LGBTQ+ individuals bear full moral responsibility for their concealment, highlighting instead the unjust systems that necessitate such secrets.
When Yami finally tells her mother, “I’m lesbian,” the liberation she feels demonstrates the psychological cost of maintaining secrets. Similarly, when Cesar admits, “I’m bi,” it creates a momentary connection between the siblings. The author juxtaposes these positive revelations with the devastating consequences of religious shame, as when Cesar reveals that he broke up with Jamal because “[i]t was [his] penance” (332). Through this multifaceted motif, Reyes explores how secrets and lies can both protect and harm, serving as necessary survival strategies while simultaneously preventing authentic connection and self-acceptance.



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