Autoboyography
Page 14
Dad reaches for the phone, and his face softens when he reads it, but then a cloud crosses through his eyes. “Are you seeing each other?”
Hailey snorts.
“No,” I say, ignoring her. “Jesus, you guys. We’re working together on the project.”
The table falls into a cloying, skeptical silence.
Mom can’t help herself. “Does he know about you?”
“About how I turn into a troll at sunset?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Tanner,” she says gently. “You know what I mean.”
I do. Unfortunately. “Please calm down. It’s not like I have a tail.”
“Honey,” Mom starts, horrified. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding—”
My phone buzzes in front of Dad. He picks it up. “Sebastian again.”
I hold my hand out. “Please?”
He returns it to me, frowning.
I won’t be in class this week.
Just wanted to let you know.
My chest seems to splinter, a fault line splitting straight down the middle, and it battles with the brilliant sun blooming there because Sebastian thought to text me with a heads-up.
Everything okay?
Yeah. I just have a trip to New York.
Are we doing this? Are we casually texting now?
Ooh, fancy.
Haha! I’m sure I’ll look lost the entire time.
When do you leave?
Mom sighs loudly. “Tanner, for the love of God, please stop texting at the table.”
I apologize under my breath and stand, sliding my phone faceup onto the kitchen counter before returning to my chair. Both of my parents have that surly, aggressively quiet thing going on, and a glance at my sister tells me that she’s living her best life watching me get in trouble for once.
Amid the scraping of silverware on plates and the sound of ice clinking in glasses of water, a thick awareness swirls around the table, and the resulting self-consciousness makes my stomach tighten. My parents know I’ve had crushes on guys before, but it’s never been a reality like this. Now there’s a guy, with a name and a phone. We’ve all been so cool about it, but I realize, sitting here at this silent dinner table, that there are layers to their acceptance. Maybe it’s easy for them to be so cool about it when they’ve all but told me I’m not allowed to date any guys in Provo. Am I allowed to have crushes on guys only once I’ve graduated and who my parents select from an acceptable pool of intelligent, progressive, non-LDS males?
Dad clears his throat, a sign that he’s searching for words, and we look at him, hoping he’ll pull this plane up in time. I expect him to say something about the elephant in the room, but instead he lands squarely in the safe zone: “Tell us about your classes.”
Hailey launches into a retelling of the injustice of being a sophomore, how she’s a midget with a top-row locker, how disgusting the girls’ locker room smells, and how globally annoying guys are. Our parents listen with patient smiles before focusing in on the things they actually care about: Mom makes sure she’s being a good friend. Dad mostly cares that she’s busting her ass in academics. I check out halfway through her braggy answer about chemistry. Having my phone ten feet away means that 90 percent of my brain is focused on wondering whether Sebastian has replied and whether I can see him before he goes.
I feel jittery.
To be fair, meals are a peculiar affair anyway. Dad comes from an enormous family of women whose primary satisfaction in life is the care of their husbands and children. Although the same was true in Mom’s LDS household, in Dad’s family it centered on food. The women don’t just prepare meals; they cook. When Bubbe visits, she fills our freezer with months’ worth of brisket and kugel and makes quiet, mostly well-intended observations about how her grandchildren largely survive on sandwiches. Over time she has outgrown her disappointment that Dad didn’t marry a Jewish woman, but she still struggles with Mom’s work hours and our resulting reliance on takeout and packaged food.
And despite her antireligion worldview, Mom was raised in a culture where women are traditionally in the homemaker role too. To her, not packing our lunches every day or joining the PTA is a feminist rallying cry.
Even Aunt Emily struggles sometimes with guilt over not focusing a bit more on the making and keeping of her home. So Mom’s compromise was to let Bubbe teach her how to prepare certain dishes, and she tries to make a huge batch of them every Sunday for us to have throughout the week. It’s a questionable endeavor, but we kids are, if nothing else, sporting about it. Dad is another story: He’s picky about food. Even if he considers himself as liberal as they come, he still has some traditional holdouts. A wife who cooks is one of them.
Mom watches Dad eat, gauging from how fast he shovels it in how good it is. That is to say, the faster he eats, the less he likes it. Tonight Dad barely seems to chew before he’s swallowed. Mom’s normally smiling mouth is turning down at the corners.
Focusing on this dynamic is helping distract me, but only barely.
I look over at my phone. Having left it screen-side up, I can tell a call or text has just come through: The screen is lit. I shovel matzo ball soup in, scalding my mouth, until my bowl is clean, and excuse myself, standing before either of them can protest.
“Tanner,” Dad chides quietly.
“Homework.” I rinse my dish, slotting it into the dishwasher.
He watches me go, giving me a knowing glare for throwing the only excuse at him that he won’t debate.
“It’s your night for dishes,” Hailey calls after me.
“Nope. You owe me because I did bathroom duty last weekend.”
Her eyes communicate the mental bird flip.
“Love you too, hellcat.”
Running up the stairs, I dive into my texts.
My heart spasms, tight and wild. He’s sent me five.
Five.
I leave Wednesday afternoon.
I have meetings with my editor and the publisher on Thursday.
I haven’t met the publisher yet. I’ll admit I’m nervous.
It just occurred to me that you’re probably eating dinner with your family.
Sorry, Tanner.
With frantic fingers, I reply.
No, sry, my parents made me put my phone away.
I’m so happy for u.
I type my next thought and then—with my breath held high and tight in my lungs—I quickly hit send:
I hope u have an amazing trip
but I’m going to miss seeing u in class.
I wait a minute for a reply.
Five.
Ten.
He’s not stupid. He knows I’m bi. He has to know I’m into him.
I distract myself by scrolling through Autumn’s Snapchat: Her slippered feet. A sink full of dishes. A close-up of her grumpy face with the words “current mood” scrawled beneath it. Finally, I close my social media and open my laptop.
I need to know what I’m dealing with here. Growing up in California, I knew Mom’s family was Mormon, but the way she used to talk about it—in the rare moments she even did—made me think they were some weird cult religion. Only once I moved here and lived among them did I register that I knew nothing except the stereotypes. It surprised me to learn that, although other Christian faiths might not agree, Mormons consider themselves to be Christians. Also, a huge portion of their free time is spent performing service—helping others. But other than their no caffeine, no booze, no cursing, and no humping rules, it all still seems like a vague cloud of secret churchiness to me.
Hailey snorts.
“No,” I say, ignoring her. “Jesus, you guys. We’re working together on the project.”
The table falls into a cloying, skeptical silence.
Mom can’t help herself. “Does he know about you?”
“About how I turn into a troll at sunset?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Tanner,” she says gently. “You know what I mean.”
I do. Unfortunately. “Please calm down. It’s not like I have a tail.”
“Honey,” Mom starts, horrified. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding—”
My phone buzzes in front of Dad. He picks it up. “Sebastian again.”
I hold my hand out. “Please?”
He returns it to me, frowning.
I won’t be in class this week.
Just wanted to let you know.
My chest seems to splinter, a fault line splitting straight down the middle, and it battles with the brilliant sun blooming there because Sebastian thought to text me with a heads-up.
Everything okay?
Yeah. I just have a trip to New York.
Are we doing this? Are we casually texting now?
Ooh, fancy.
Haha! I’m sure I’ll look lost the entire time.
When do you leave?
Mom sighs loudly. “Tanner, for the love of God, please stop texting at the table.”
I apologize under my breath and stand, sliding my phone faceup onto the kitchen counter before returning to my chair. Both of my parents have that surly, aggressively quiet thing going on, and a glance at my sister tells me that she’s living her best life watching me get in trouble for once.
Amid the scraping of silverware on plates and the sound of ice clinking in glasses of water, a thick awareness swirls around the table, and the resulting self-consciousness makes my stomach tighten. My parents know I’ve had crushes on guys before, but it’s never been a reality like this. Now there’s a guy, with a name and a phone. We’ve all been so cool about it, but I realize, sitting here at this silent dinner table, that there are layers to their acceptance. Maybe it’s easy for them to be so cool about it when they’ve all but told me I’m not allowed to date any guys in Provo. Am I allowed to have crushes on guys only once I’ve graduated and who my parents select from an acceptable pool of intelligent, progressive, non-LDS males?
Dad clears his throat, a sign that he’s searching for words, and we look at him, hoping he’ll pull this plane up in time. I expect him to say something about the elephant in the room, but instead he lands squarely in the safe zone: “Tell us about your classes.”
Hailey launches into a retelling of the injustice of being a sophomore, how she’s a midget with a top-row locker, how disgusting the girls’ locker room smells, and how globally annoying guys are. Our parents listen with patient smiles before focusing in on the things they actually care about: Mom makes sure she’s being a good friend. Dad mostly cares that she’s busting her ass in academics. I check out halfway through her braggy answer about chemistry. Having my phone ten feet away means that 90 percent of my brain is focused on wondering whether Sebastian has replied and whether I can see him before he goes.
I feel jittery.
To be fair, meals are a peculiar affair anyway. Dad comes from an enormous family of women whose primary satisfaction in life is the care of their husbands and children. Although the same was true in Mom’s LDS household, in Dad’s family it centered on food. The women don’t just prepare meals; they cook. When Bubbe visits, she fills our freezer with months’ worth of brisket and kugel and makes quiet, mostly well-intended observations about how her grandchildren largely survive on sandwiches. Over time she has outgrown her disappointment that Dad didn’t marry a Jewish woman, but she still struggles with Mom’s work hours and our resulting reliance on takeout and packaged food.
And despite her antireligion worldview, Mom was raised in a culture where women are traditionally in the homemaker role too. To her, not packing our lunches every day or joining the PTA is a feminist rallying cry.
Even Aunt Emily struggles sometimes with guilt over not focusing a bit more on the making and keeping of her home. So Mom’s compromise was to let Bubbe teach her how to prepare certain dishes, and she tries to make a huge batch of them every Sunday for us to have throughout the week. It’s a questionable endeavor, but we kids are, if nothing else, sporting about it. Dad is another story: He’s picky about food. Even if he considers himself as liberal as they come, he still has some traditional holdouts. A wife who cooks is one of them.
Mom watches Dad eat, gauging from how fast he shovels it in how good it is. That is to say, the faster he eats, the less he likes it. Tonight Dad barely seems to chew before he’s swallowed. Mom’s normally smiling mouth is turning down at the corners.
Focusing on this dynamic is helping distract me, but only barely.
I look over at my phone. Having left it screen-side up, I can tell a call or text has just come through: The screen is lit. I shovel matzo ball soup in, scalding my mouth, until my bowl is clean, and excuse myself, standing before either of them can protest.
“Tanner,” Dad chides quietly.
“Homework.” I rinse my dish, slotting it into the dishwasher.
He watches me go, giving me a knowing glare for throwing the only excuse at him that he won’t debate.
“It’s your night for dishes,” Hailey calls after me.
“Nope. You owe me because I did bathroom duty last weekend.”
Her eyes communicate the mental bird flip.
“Love you too, hellcat.”
Running up the stairs, I dive into my texts.
My heart spasms, tight and wild. He’s sent me five.
Five.
I leave Wednesday afternoon.
I have meetings with my editor and the publisher on Thursday.
I haven’t met the publisher yet. I’ll admit I’m nervous.
It just occurred to me that you’re probably eating dinner with your family.
Sorry, Tanner.
With frantic fingers, I reply.
No, sry, my parents made me put my phone away.
I’m so happy for u.
I type my next thought and then—with my breath held high and tight in my lungs—I quickly hit send:
I hope u have an amazing trip
but I’m going to miss seeing u in class.
I wait a minute for a reply.
Five.
Ten.
He’s not stupid. He knows I’m bi. He has to know I’m into him.
I distract myself by scrolling through Autumn’s Snapchat: Her slippered feet. A sink full of dishes. A close-up of her grumpy face with the words “current mood” scrawled beneath it. Finally, I close my social media and open my laptop.
I need to know what I’m dealing with here. Growing up in California, I knew Mom’s family was Mormon, but the way she used to talk about it—in the rare moments she even did—made me think they were some weird cult religion. Only once I moved here and lived among them did I register that I knew nothing except the stereotypes. It surprised me to learn that, although other Christian faiths might not agree, Mormons consider themselves to be Christians. Also, a huge portion of their free time is spent performing service—helping others. But other than their no caffeine, no booze, no cursing, and no humping rules, it all still seems like a vague cloud of secret churchiness to me.
