“Come to Daddy.”
I pause, then cringe. Since my joyous discovery of porn, phrases like that have been outlawed. Once, I almost jabbed Brook Henry for jokingly using that phrase with Lucy. It would’ve been a short fight. Brook is a swimmer with sweet muscles and godly height and he’s fast. I’m kind of a disaster just walking. It’d make a great viral video.
I slice a generous piece of cake, dump it into a bowl, then exit the kitchen. Under my breath, I hum a POP ETC song. Something about the rhythm guitar and upbeat lyrics thrums in me.
Suddenly, my jam session dies. Soft music is coming from down the hall, from the living room. Over a song I don’t recognize, I hear my mom’s tickled-laughter and my dad’s unbelievably bad singing voice.
“O-kay.”
I tiptoe toward the living room. If they’re having sex, I’m demanding a bigger budget for pocket money at Emory—and a new car.
When I peek in, there’s no horrifyingly gross stuff happening on our sofa. Nope. Just my parents. Dancing to music.
Correction: This is gross. The music is definitely something ’80s. Something about the rains and Africa. As much as I live and breathe for music, I tend to stay in my own indie pop lane or whatever Lucy and Rio force me to listen to. This is a Dad song. His “classics” are ’70s rock and ’80s dance tunes.
I scout the scene. Most of the furniture has been displaced. The coffee table is angled in the corner. Part of the cream sectional sofa is shoved against the far wall. Any possible tripping hazard has been removed—well, except Dad’s two left feet.
Watching my parents is strange. They shimmy-shuffle more than they dance. In the warm light of the standing lamp, Dad’s hair looks like a copper crown. Forget-me-not blue eyes follow his feet, probably counting his steps. A serene smile dominates Mom’s baby doll face. Locks of blonde hair fall across her pale skin. Under Dad’s large hands, she’s small and fragile.
This is unacceptable Sunday behavior. It’s also kind of hard to look away. My parents are the perfect opposites: muscular computer nerd and peppy wedding consultant.
The song changes. I know this one: Tears for Fear’s “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” Dad has no concept of romantic music.
“I love this song,” Mom says, of course.
“I know.” Dad’s grin is ridiculous. But Mom laughs into his shoulder.
Sometimes, I wonder if, in ten years, I’ll be helplessly in love, so unexplainably consumed by a connection to someone that we’ll still have date nights, hold hands for no reason, dance on Sunday nights. Is that sort of thing hereditary? Not that I have to worry. Being adopted cancels out the romantic gene, right?
It’s not that my parents’ ability to keep the spark alive isn’t admirable. But they can have the whole “sappy romance” thing. Relationships are a total buzzkill. So are breakups, especially the crying part. God, I don’t miss that part. Bowls of ice cream cake and Clover are all I need, thanks.
No love story waiting to happen here.
* * *
Mornings in the Cameron house are ridiculously fun. I’m not a morning person, at all. I hate being talkative and smiley and joyous anytime before ten a.m., but my family has a way of bringing it out of me.
I shuffle into the kitchen Monday morning with the worst hangover—a two-days-away-from-school-isn’t-enough hangover. Thankfully, my dad has the perfect cure—his world-famous French toast. If Bobby Flay is the king of southwestern cuisine, then my dad is easily the emperor of southeastern breakfast breads.
Since I was a kid and could use my baby teeth to mash food around in my mouth, I’ve been addicted to French toast. No offense to pancakes and waffles lovers, but there’s something ethereal about fluffy, cinnamon-y bread fried in butter. Dad is always coming up with new versions, none more phenomenal than his chocolate and banana recipe. Saliva gathers as if my mouth’s a wading pool when I anticipate the salted-caramel syrup that goes on top.
“Perfect timing, kiddo,” Dad says. With one hand, he ruffles my bedhead-disastrous curls while his other hand flips a thick slice of toast.
It’s like watching an artist. Dad doesn’t need fancy brioche bread either. I’ve witnessed him take regular, store-bought wheat bread and turn it into sopping, eggy pieces of nirvana.
“Hungry?”
I grin weakly before zombie-limping toward the breakfast table. Mom is already midway through her first mug of coffee. Sunlight pours from the nearby window to cast a golden veil over her as she absently flips through a bridal magazine. She hums and sips. Before she leaves for work, Mom will demolish another cup.
I pause to hover over Willow. She’s sitting on her knees to lean over the table and read the Sunday comics. Of course, Willow’s definition of “reading” is just a bunch of mumbling and tracing her index finger over the art. It’s very serious business.
Sunday comics are Willow’s life, along with Bert, her stuffed Batman doll she’s carried around since she was a tot learning to walk. No judgment here. I still have a corner of the blanket my grandma quilted for me as an infant. It’s tucked into a drawer in my room though. I’m sentimental, but I’m also a junior in high school.
I kiss the top of Willow’s strawberry blonde crown before flopping into the chair next to her. “Mondays are the worst.”
“Doctors have found that the reason so many people hate Mondays is because they try too hard to change themselves over the weekend, creating mental and emotional confusion.” Over her mug, Mom winks.
“What doctors, Mom? The ones on primetime medical dramas?”
“No.” Mom raises a sharp eyebrow. “The ones that say sarcastic teenage boys are more likely to have their phones cut off by Tuesday for being unforgivably rude before their parents have had their proper caffeine fix.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t have one of those teenage boys, right?”
“It is, Remy.” She looks at me, her eyes as brown as hickory wood. “At least you’ll be the coolest-dressed kid on a Monday.”
I smile at my long, knobby fingers. Mom has never had a problem pointing out my awesome fashion sense, even before I came out. Maybe she knew? Was it my obsession with bright colors and cardigans? I doubt it. It might’ve been my mild crush on Nick Robinson. Very mild. But, let’s just say I didn’t see Jurassic World four times for the dinosaurs.
Thing is, my mom didn’t make a big deal about those things. Neither did my dad. Coming out to my parents was tough and scary and kind of a tear-fest. An entire month of losing sleep over what they would think. How they’d react. And if their adopted, black son would just become an afterthought now that, guess what, he’s gay too!