Autoboyography
Page 31
Our family seems almost savage in comparison. I mean, we aren’t knuckle-dragging, monosyllabic oafs, but Mom has been known on occasion to tell Hailey to “knock it the hell off” at the dinner table, and once or twice Dad has taken his meal into the living room to get away from the sound of Hailey and me bickering. But an even more noticeable difference is the closeness I have at home that I only really understand now that I’m here with this warm but docile group of strangers. Over spaghetti and meatballs, the Scott family has been known to have an in-depth conversation about what it means to be bisexual. Over Bubbe’s kugel, Hailey actually asked my parents if you can get AIDS from giving a blow job. It was horrifying to me, but they answered it without hesitation. Now that I’m thinking about it, if Sebastian came over for dinner, I’m pretty sure Mom would send him home with some bright, affirming bumper sticker.
Maybe those kinds of dinner conversations—minus the blow job talk—happen here behind closed doors, but I don’t think so. Where my parents might dig a little deeper in an effort to understand Sebastian and his family, I’m not really surprised that nobody asks why my mom left the church or why Dad no longer goes to synagogue. Those conversations are hard, and I’m but a lost sheep passing through their obedient flock, most likely impermanent. And this is the bishop’s house. Happy, happy, joy, joy, remember? Everyone is on their best behavior, and nobody will pry or make me feel uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be seen as polite. From my experience, Mormons are nothing if not polite. This is who Sebastian is.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mom and Dad are waiting up for me when I get home, mugs of tea that have grown cold in front of them and tight, expectant smiles in place.
Of course I couldn’t lie to them on my way out the door about why I’d be eating elsewhere, but it wasn’t an easy exit, either. They’d stood on the porch and watched me drive off, wordless. I honestly felt like I’d been stealing something.
“So?” Dad asks, patting the barstool beside him at the counter.
The chair scrapes across the tile, and we wince. For some reason, I find the jarring cacophony hilarious, because it’s already a pretty loaded moment—me, home from dinner at the house of the bishop, whose son I’m sort of falling in love with, my parents disapproving vehemently—and the horrible screech seems to only lend more weight here.
My parents have their own kind of secret language; an entire conversation happens in their single shared look. I work to swallow the hysteria bubbling up in my throat.
“Sorry.” I sit down, slapping my hands on my thighs. “So. Dinner.”
“Dinner,” Mom echoes.
“It was good. I think?”
They nod. They want more.
“His family is super nice.” I widen my eyes meaningfully. “Super. Nice.”
Mom laughs a little unkindly at this, but Dad still seems more concerned than anything.
“But it wasn’t, like, a date,” I clarify. “I mean, obviously. This wasn’t me meeting the family. It was just dinner.”
Mom nods. “They like knowing his friends, especially if they don’t know you from church.”
I stare at her for a few beats. “That’s exactly what Sebastian said.”
“Think about it,” she tells me. “Everyone they know goes to their church. Having your son—especially if you’re a bishop around here—spending time with someone who isn’t LDS? You want to make sure they’re okay.”
“Except I’m not, at least not as far as they’re concerned.”
I can tell Mom doesn’t like this answer, but she waves her hand, like she wants me to keep going. So I tell them about the evening and how his parents met in high school. I tell them about my gaffes about Emily, and Mom’s past. Mom makes a face—because these shouldn’t be gaffes at all. I tell them that we talked about his mission again, for only a second though, and they listen the entire time, rapt.
Still, I can see the worry etched into tiny lines in their faces. They are so genuinely afraid I’m going to fall for him, and it will end in heartbreak for one or both of us.
“So . . . you liked them?” Dad asks, ignoring the way Mom turns and stares at him like he’s a traitor.
“Yeah. I mean, they didn’t feel like my tribe, but they were nice enough.”
Now it’s Dad’s turn to make a face. Family is everything to my parents, but maybe especially to my father because, obviously, Mom’s parents aren’t in the picture. My dad’s family makes up for it in spades. His mother comes to live with us for three months every year and has since I was a newborn. Since my grandpa died six years ago, she doesn’t like being home alone, and Dad is happier when she’s here under his roof. After she’s with us, she goes and stays with his brother and sisters in Berkeley and Connecticut, respectively, taking turns with the grandchildren.
If I could have Bubbe here year-round, I would. She is amazing, and witty, and brings a certain type of comfort into the house that we can’t seem to muster when it’s just the four of us. My parents are great—don’t get me wrong—but Bubbe makes things feel warmer somehow, and over the last two decades my parents have been married, Bubbe and Mom have grown very close. Dad wants a relationship like that with us when he’s older, and for us to have it with our in-laws, too. Honestly, it probably bothers him more than it bothers Mom that she doesn’t talk to her parents anymore.
I can see these thoughts pass over Dad’s face as I’m talking, and I reach out, patting his shoulder. “You look stressed, Dad.”
“I haven’t often seen you . . . invested in someone before,” he says carefully. “We worry this isn’t the ideal first choice.” His eyes move away, to the window.
Taking a deep breath, I try to think of the best thing to say. Even if what he says is true, that truth feels like a sticker on the surface of my emotions: easy to peel off. I know Sebastian isn’t right for me. I know how likely it is that I’ll get hurt. I simply care more about trying than I do about protecting myself.
So I tell him what I think he wants to hear: “It’s just a crush, Dad. He’s a nice guy, but I’m sure it will pass.”
For a second, he lets himself believe this. Mom, too, stays notably silent. But when he hugs me good night, he holds me tight for three deep breaths.
“Good night, guys,” I say, and jog upstairs to my room.
It’s only eight on Friday night, and I know I won’t be tired for hours still. Autumn texts that she’s going over to Eric’s. I’m relieved that I won’t feel guilty for bailing on something with her yet again and send a long string of eggplant emojis to which she replies with a long string of bird flip emojis.
I wonder if Sebastian updated his emoji keyboard and what he feels about having that crude gesture on his phone, whether he’s even noticed it, whether he’d ever use it.
Everything, everything circles back to him.
• • •
Mom is on a run, Dad is at the hospital, and Hailey is stomping around the house, complaining that no one does any Saturday-morning laundry anymore.
I point out that her hands aren’t broken.
She punches me in the side.
I put her in a headlock and she screams bloody murder, trying to reach up to claw at my face, screaming, “I hate you!” loud enough to shake the walls.
Maybe those kinds of dinner conversations—minus the blow job talk—happen here behind closed doors, but I don’t think so. Where my parents might dig a little deeper in an effort to understand Sebastian and his family, I’m not really surprised that nobody asks why my mom left the church or why Dad no longer goes to synagogue. Those conversations are hard, and I’m but a lost sheep passing through their obedient flock, most likely impermanent. And this is the bishop’s house. Happy, happy, joy, joy, remember? Everyone is on their best behavior, and nobody will pry or make me feel uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be seen as polite. From my experience, Mormons are nothing if not polite. This is who Sebastian is.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mom and Dad are waiting up for me when I get home, mugs of tea that have grown cold in front of them and tight, expectant smiles in place.
Of course I couldn’t lie to them on my way out the door about why I’d be eating elsewhere, but it wasn’t an easy exit, either. They’d stood on the porch and watched me drive off, wordless. I honestly felt like I’d been stealing something.
“So?” Dad asks, patting the barstool beside him at the counter.
The chair scrapes across the tile, and we wince. For some reason, I find the jarring cacophony hilarious, because it’s already a pretty loaded moment—me, home from dinner at the house of the bishop, whose son I’m sort of falling in love with, my parents disapproving vehemently—and the horrible screech seems to only lend more weight here.
My parents have their own kind of secret language; an entire conversation happens in their single shared look. I work to swallow the hysteria bubbling up in my throat.
“Sorry.” I sit down, slapping my hands on my thighs. “So. Dinner.”
“Dinner,” Mom echoes.
“It was good. I think?”
They nod. They want more.
“His family is super nice.” I widen my eyes meaningfully. “Super. Nice.”
Mom laughs a little unkindly at this, but Dad still seems more concerned than anything.
“But it wasn’t, like, a date,” I clarify. “I mean, obviously. This wasn’t me meeting the family. It was just dinner.”
Mom nods. “They like knowing his friends, especially if they don’t know you from church.”
I stare at her for a few beats. “That’s exactly what Sebastian said.”
“Think about it,” she tells me. “Everyone they know goes to their church. Having your son—especially if you’re a bishop around here—spending time with someone who isn’t LDS? You want to make sure they’re okay.”
“Except I’m not, at least not as far as they’re concerned.”
I can tell Mom doesn’t like this answer, but she waves her hand, like she wants me to keep going. So I tell them about the evening and how his parents met in high school. I tell them about my gaffes about Emily, and Mom’s past. Mom makes a face—because these shouldn’t be gaffes at all. I tell them that we talked about his mission again, for only a second though, and they listen the entire time, rapt.
Still, I can see the worry etched into tiny lines in their faces. They are so genuinely afraid I’m going to fall for him, and it will end in heartbreak for one or both of us.
“So . . . you liked them?” Dad asks, ignoring the way Mom turns and stares at him like he’s a traitor.
“Yeah. I mean, they didn’t feel like my tribe, but they were nice enough.”
Now it’s Dad’s turn to make a face. Family is everything to my parents, but maybe especially to my father because, obviously, Mom’s parents aren’t in the picture. My dad’s family makes up for it in spades. His mother comes to live with us for three months every year and has since I was a newborn. Since my grandpa died six years ago, she doesn’t like being home alone, and Dad is happier when she’s here under his roof. After she’s with us, she goes and stays with his brother and sisters in Berkeley and Connecticut, respectively, taking turns with the grandchildren.
If I could have Bubbe here year-round, I would. She is amazing, and witty, and brings a certain type of comfort into the house that we can’t seem to muster when it’s just the four of us. My parents are great—don’t get me wrong—but Bubbe makes things feel warmer somehow, and over the last two decades my parents have been married, Bubbe and Mom have grown very close. Dad wants a relationship like that with us when he’s older, and for us to have it with our in-laws, too. Honestly, it probably bothers him more than it bothers Mom that she doesn’t talk to her parents anymore.
I can see these thoughts pass over Dad’s face as I’m talking, and I reach out, patting his shoulder. “You look stressed, Dad.”
“I haven’t often seen you . . . invested in someone before,” he says carefully. “We worry this isn’t the ideal first choice.” His eyes move away, to the window.
Taking a deep breath, I try to think of the best thing to say. Even if what he says is true, that truth feels like a sticker on the surface of my emotions: easy to peel off. I know Sebastian isn’t right for me. I know how likely it is that I’ll get hurt. I simply care more about trying than I do about protecting myself.
So I tell him what I think he wants to hear: “It’s just a crush, Dad. He’s a nice guy, but I’m sure it will pass.”
For a second, he lets himself believe this. Mom, too, stays notably silent. But when he hugs me good night, he holds me tight for three deep breaths.
“Good night, guys,” I say, and jog upstairs to my room.
It’s only eight on Friday night, and I know I won’t be tired for hours still. Autumn texts that she’s going over to Eric’s. I’m relieved that I won’t feel guilty for bailing on something with her yet again and send a long string of eggplant emojis to which she replies with a long string of bird flip emojis.
I wonder if Sebastian updated his emoji keyboard and what he feels about having that crude gesture on his phone, whether he’s even noticed it, whether he’d ever use it.
Everything, everything circles back to him.
• • •
Mom is on a run, Dad is at the hospital, and Hailey is stomping around the house, complaining that no one does any Saturday-morning laundry anymore.
I point out that her hands aren’t broken.
She punches me in the side.
I put her in a headlock and she screams bloody murder, trying to reach up to claw at my face, screaming, “I hate you!” loud enough to shake the walls.
