“When will this torture end?” Yazz asks as Mom sends another potato off to its early grave.
“Dad’s not home yet?”
“No,” Yazz says. “If he was, do you think any of this would be happening?” She points at the mess and shakes her head exasperatedly.
“You two do know I can hear you, right?” Mom asks.
“Of course,” I say, just as Yazz says, “That’s the point.” We turn to look at each other and smile.
“Other children try to encourage their parents.”
“Mom, please, I’ve been encouraging you to stop all afternoon.”
Mom walks to the fridge and removes some carrots. She returns to her chopping board. We watch as she dices them—poorly. They all end up different sizes. Yazz reaches for a few of Mom’s victims. With no other choice, I take a seat beside my sister. I grab a piece of carrot and pop it into my mouth. The only thing Mom can’t ruin is raw vegetables.
“How did your assignment with your friend go? What was it for?” Mom asks me.
“Drama.” I groan. “I have to perform.”
“Just try your best, honey. It may not be much, but it’s something.” Mom and Yazz share a look before laughing.
I know what that look means. I was once cast as Joseph in the Nativity play at church, and I spent most of it just staring blankly at the audience—and when I did deliver my lines, they were mumbled. It was a complete disaster. The one plus side of that was that Sunday school allowed me to be in the background from then on. Which suited me just fine.
“Ag nee,” Dad says from behind us. Sometimes he uses Afrikaans phrases, like this version of “Oh no.” “I thought I smelled something burnt.” He rests one hand on my shoulder and the other on Yazz’s.
“Save us, please,” Yazz says, her eyes never leaving the page of her comic book. She pushes her large black-rimmed glasses back into place.
Dad crosses the kitchen in long strides and hugs Mom from behind. Even after twenty years, they continue to act like a young couple in love. The thought makes me think of Bryson. Are the dare’s rules the same or different between two guys? Just how exactly will our relationship work? Granted, it will only be four days—a relationship shorter than the life span of a housefly. So it’s not like it’s real or anything.
Distracted, I pop a carrot into my mouth and end up choking. Yazz pats my back—hard.
“I feel the same way,” Yazz says. “The sight is rather unpleasant.”
With a final sigh, she stands and leaves the kitchen. Mom takes the vacated seat. She picks up a carrot and chews.
“Besides drama, how was school?” she asks. “Anything exciting happen?”
“No, what? Why would you ask that?”
She stares at me with her mouth open and half a carrot hanging there. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”
“No,” I say too quickly and too loudly. I am a murderer still holding the murder weapon. Before I can confess to Mom, I make a hasty retreat out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
“It’s obvious that something happened,” Mom calls after me.
“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Dad offers.
“I wonder if it’s a girl.”
“You think so?” Dad asks.
I should say, Actually, I have a boyfriend. But the thought of coming out to my parents scares me. I’ve heard them discuss “homosexuality” and how it’s a “sin” before…but that’s always been about other people. Will their feelings change when they find out their son is gay, too? The uncertainty keeps me from saying the words.
Among all my family, I’m referred to as a late bloomer. My one saving grace has been that brief relationship with Louise Keaton. While my cousins have all been actively dating for years, I have feigned no interest. I often wonder how long my excuses will last. How long until the obvious truth will be revealed? Sorry, Mom and Dad, it’s never going to work out between any girl and me. In fact, dear family, I am very interested in dating—just not girls.
Give me an Adam’s apple and some stubble, and let’s set the date, shall we?
My bedroom is at the end of the hall on the second floor. The wall color changes with each new year to a different shade of blue—my favorite color—and currently the walls are painted a very light blue. There are two large bookshelves that take up the left wall, and they are overflowing with all my favorite books—mostly fantasy and young adult. There are also a few of Mom’s mysteries shoved in there because her shelf is too full.
My computer and desk sit before the window. The desk is littered with some of my yet-to-be-done assignments, and my idea journal is open to where I previously worked. Just last night I spent a good twenty minutes world-building for this fantasy book that I have been writing for the better part of the year. It’s my goal to finish this draft before I graduate and head off to New York City for college.
I fall face-first onto my bed. I pull my phone free and scroll through my social media notifications looking for his name. When I realize what I’m doing, I stop myself. How did I get to the point of waiting for Bryson Keller to text me?
I type a quick note about my mom cooking tonight in the three musketeers group chat before opening up Instagram. One of the first posts is from the Fairvale Academy Herald. For the past two months, every Monday, the newspaper has updated the feed with who the belle of the ball is for the week. But now all we have is a very large question mark.
My eye catches on Shannon’s username: Seriously, who is it?
It’s the most liked comment on the picture.
I can’t help but wonder what everyone would say if they found out that it was me. In a perfect world, no one would bat an eye and I’d be free to post about my “relationship” with Bryson—just like the girls before me.
I pull open my Thinking playlist. Almost instantly the latest slow-tempo song from the Graces comes to life all around me. The ballad is about feeling lost and insecure. My music choice has always been a point of teasing from my cousins. While they like hip-hop and R&B, I have always preferred rock or indie music.
Being mixed race is tough—it’s like being caught between two races. I’m expected to look a certain way or act a certain way or like certain things. It’s like there’s a list of things I’m meant to be, and if I’m not, then I’m not authentic enough. I’m not Black enough for some and not White enough for others.
As the music plays, I lose myself in my memories of today. Coming out has always been this thing that I dreaded and feared, but now I feel a sense of relief. Even if Bryson is the only person who knows I’m gay, there is at least one person who knows me—the real me.