Ask the Passengers
Page 49

“I bet you do.”
“I never understood why we moved here. I mean, I understood you guys wanted us to have a different childhood, and she wanted to buy her grandmother’s house, but I don’t get it. You said fresh air and grass and space and country fairs and stuff, but I guess I could never figure out why you thought that was better. Different, yeah. But better? I don’t know.”
He nods.
“It wasn’t any better for you guys, was it?” I ask.
“Definitely not for me.”
I stare out my window again for a minute. I remember the move. I remember Ellis and me crying in the backseat of the car. We held hands the whole drive to Pennsylvania. We were so close. When we got to the house, which we’d already seen a few times, we sat on the love seat in the quiet room because it was closest to the door.
“We really thought you’d move us back,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Like if we’d have stayed on that green love seat for long enough, you guys would just change your minds.”
“Ellis took it hard,” he says.
“We all took it hard.”
“Not like she did, though. You don’t remember the whole doctor thing?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
He sighs. “You don’t remember the problems she had in school and how we had to send her to the psychologist?”
“I don’t remember any of that,” I say. Why don’t I remember any of that?
We park outside an office store. “You coming in with me?” he asks.
I go with him. We buy an extra-long USB cable and something that has to do with the word Ethernet. I make him go to the car first, and then I buy him an ergonomic stapler because I think he should have one.
When we start driving toward home, I take a deep breath and say it.
“So I’ve had a girlfriend since July, and I love her.”
“Okay,” he says.
“I don’t know why this is so important for me to tell you, but I’m a virgin. Seriously weird for me to be telling you that, I know, but this whole thing, it’s not about sex. I just fell in love, and it happened to be with a girl.”
“O-kay,” he says.
“When I told you I didn’t know if I was g*y, I was telling you the truth. I just know I’m in love—with a girl. I had no idea of anything past that. It’s very Socrates, you know? I’m not questioning my sexuality as much as I’m questioning the strict definitions and boxes of all sexualities and why we care so much about other people’s intimate business.”
He nods.
“But there’s a problem with that.”
He nods again.
“If I do all this Socratic shit the way I’ve been doing, I end up living in this weird limbo that’s no good for anyone. The world is made up of clear definitions, which is exactly why Socrates was put to death. People didn’t like him messing with their clear definitions, you know?”
“Okay,” he says. I’m so glad he’s stoned right now.
“So, I’m g*y. Until further notice. That way, I don’t have to think about it, my girlfriend doesn’t have to wonder about it and I can actually enjoy being in love with her because she’s awesome.” I have just ripped the last of the suspension notice into its tiniest parts, and I stuff the confetti into my sweatshirt pockets. “You and Mom don’t have to think about it, either. You can just be the couple in town who has a g*y kid right alongside Kristina’s parents and whoever else. And Ellis can just figure out a way to grow up and be my sister again.
“And if any of you has a problem with any of it, then it’s your problem. Being g*y is hard enough without having to worry about your family being weird about it.”
“Gotcha.”
We look out the windows for a while.
“For what it’s worth, we’re not like that. We have g*y friends, and we’re fine with it.”
“Yeah, but g*y friends isn’t the same as a g*y daughter,” I say. “Plus, you haven’t been fine with it, really, have you?”
“That’s different. You got busted for underage drinking.”
“At a g*y bar,” I add. “And you told me I was ruining Ellis’s reputation.”
“We worry about her. Because of—you know—the whole doctor thing when we moved, I guess.”
“Did you stop to think about what school was like for me last week?”
“We worried about you. But we knew you’d get through it, too. You kinda had to, right?”
I shrug.
He says, “Either way, you have to tell Mom now. I’ll help you, but you have to give her a little time to catch up. She’s not like me, you know?”
“By like you, do you mean stoned all the time?”
He opens the glove compartment and pulls out a pack of peppermint Life Savers and pops one. “See? I’m not completely stupid.”
We pull up to the curb. I give him the stapler. “Thank you for being so cool about this,” I say.
He’s too stoned to know what to say, so he just looks at the stapler and then back at me, then at the stapler again.
“What the hell happened to us, Dad? One minute we were hammering shit together in the garage, and then we just stopped.”
He lets a minute pass. “I dunno. I guess stuff happened,” he says.
“I miss making birdhouses. How are we going to keep our freak reputation if we don’t make them anymore?”
He takes his hand off the wheel and raises it in an oath. “I promise we will make more birdhouses.”
“Good.”
“Maybe this weekend?” I ask.
“You bet.”
As I walk onto the porch, where Mom is standing with her arms and lips folded, I say, “Yay! Astrid is home!” and toss my suspension-notice confetti as high as it will go, and because I ripped it up so small, it seems to stay in the air forever, like light snowflakes.
41
CAN YOU SAY AWKWARD?
“YOU’RE GAY NOW?” she says. Dad and I recoil a little. “You’re sure? You’re g*y?” Her frown wrinkles two deep vertical lines between her eyebrows. “Because last time we talked you weren’t g*y, remember? And you didn’t know if you were g*y. Remember that?”
I nod. “Yeah. I remember that.”
“So couldn’t we get here without all the lies?”
“They weren’t lies.”
She gives me a judgmental look. “Astrid, I know what a lie is. I’ve been around for forty-seven years.”