A wide gap follows us, like the parting of the Red Sea, as we walk through the cafeteria to get in line. Nobody wants to get close to me. They might catch “the gay disease,” or maybe something even worse. Contamination. It’s a fog I have to cut through as we get our food.
But I cut through it.
The Unstable Table shimmies as we sit down. I eat my salty Tater Tots, ignoring all the stares. “Hey,” Zack says, “what’s the difference between an ostrich and a sanding belt?”
“What?” I ask.
“An ostrich has an o in its name,” Zack says. “Boy, English is confusing. F w ddn’t hv vwls t wld b vn wrs. That’s No-Vowel for—”
Something thwacks me on the back of my ear. I cup a hand to my head to stop the stinging and look behind me to see Ron, laughing at the Stable Table, readying another perfect shot with another pencil.
“Ignore them,” Madison says. “They’re not worth it.”
I don’t look at Ron, or at almost all the other people at his table. I look at the one kid there who isn’t laughing. Connor sits quietly, gazing at the wall.
“What do you think he’s thinking about?” Zack asks.
“I don’t know.”
Another pencil. This one hits my shoulder.
A teacher comes over and tells Ron to knock it off, which makes the pencils stop, but it doesn’t stop him from sticking that finger in the air (you know the one) and dangling it around, low enough so the teachers won’t see but high enough for me to notice.
Connor still doesn’t move.
Why do we get crushes on people? It’s so random. Zack had it bad for Penny even though she was kind of a psychopath, and I’ve got it bad for Connor even though he’s kind of a homophobe. What’s even the deal?
“Alan Cole,” a bossy voice says. “You’ve really gotten yourself into a mess of trouble this time, haven’t you?”
Madison wrinkles his nose. “If you’ve come to make fun of Alan, you can take it up with me first.”
Talia pushes up her glasses. “I’m Sapling class president. I represent all students equally, regardless of race, gender, or sexual orientation. This is why I’m class president and you’re not.”
Madison opens his mouth again, but I cut him off and ask, “What is it, Talia?”
“I came by to tell you the student council supports you and all your life choices. That’s all. It’s obvious I’m not wanted here, so I’ll go now.” She pauses. “Good luck.”
“Wait,” I say before she walks away. I look back at Ron and his friends, currently going “Aaaaaalaaaan, Aaaaaalaaaan” over and over again under their breath. “Are you still looking for an idea to make a difference in school?”
Talia perks up. “Of course I am.”
“And you still want to pay me back for the election?”
She nods. “Use my favor or lose it.”
I motion for Madison, Zack, and Talia to huddle around me, and I smile. “Let me tell you about my cretpoj.”
When I get home, Mom is doing dishes in the kitchen. She looks at the clock on the wall, the clock that’s absorbed years, maybe generations of memories. It ticks, tocks, ticks, tocks. In, out, in, out.
I walk up to Mom and give her a hug.
At first she doesn’t react. Then, slowly but surely, her arms wrap around my back, and we embrace. When I break free, her face looks different, like she almost remembers what muscles you need to work to make you hug a person. The last time we hugged, she was taller than me.
Then I see someone sitting at the kitchen table. Nathan is spacing out, playing with one of his toys, a little top he whittled when he was five with his name painted on every inch. He keeps spinning it, watching it fall over, spinning it, watching it fall over, spinning it.
I watch my brother. Mom watches him too. He doesn’t even acknowledge we’re there. His eyes are glazed over, foggy. He’s checked out.
My focus snaps away from Nathan as the front door slams shut.
Mom’s whole body tightens.
Dad walks in and smashes his briefcase onto the kitchen table, knocking Nathan’s top over. He massages his temples and looks around the kitchen, taking in Mom, then me, then finally Nathan. With one swift movement he extends his talons and snatches up Nathan’s top. Nathan, still in a daze, barely reacts. Dad hands it to me. The message is clear: get rid of this.
I take the top, admiring the little, shaky Nathans across it. I wonder what five-year-old Nathan felt when he wrote this. Pride at being able to spell his name when he was so young? Desire to put his name out there, wherever he could, however he could?
Dad is watching me, fiery eyes shooting heat vision. Mom is watching me too, hands over her mouth. I look up at Dad, walk to the kitchen table, and give the top back to Nathan.
My brother finally blinks, finally notices I’m there. He looks at me, then Dad. Me, Dad. Me, Dad.
My father grabs the top from the table again. This time he doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he walks over to the garbage can and drops the top inside.
Nathan watches, dull eyes taking in the scene. He looks down.
I walk over to the trash can and pick up the top. I brush off the little bit of lettuce on the tip, then I hand it back to Nathan, laying it right next to his hand. His eyes bug out. He looks at me, then Dad. Me, Dad.
Dad lets out a low, guttural growl. I raise my eyes to him, unblinking. We stare at each other, father and son, mirror images separated by age.
He raises a fist and winds it up behind him.
“Jimmy!”
He stops in midpunch.
Mom calls out again, “Jimmy!”
Dad looks at her, at Cindy Cole, his wife, the mother of his two children. He looks at me as I shake but still stand, like he hasn’t looked at me in forever. He looks at Nathan the same way. He looks at his fist, now also shaking.
He lowers his fist.
His breathing comes loud and hard, his shoulders heaving with an irregular beat. His eyes aren’t the eyes of a hawk. They’re the eyes of a man. A very, very scared man.
He takes a very sharp breath. Then another. Like the oceans are opening under him. Like he’s fighting a rising flood. Like he’s out to sea as a great tidal wave strikes.
Like he’s drowning.
Moving one foot in front of the other, Dad leaves the kitchen and walks upstairs.
Mom puts her hands over her heart. After looking at me and Nathan, she follows her husband upstairs.
Then it’s just Nathan and me in the kitchen.
I walk over to the table and pick up the top. Gently I push the toy into Nathan’s hands. I close his fingers around it.
We watch each other. Cole and Cole.
I head upstairs.
It’s a quiet night at 16 Werther Street. Only Mom and I sit at the table for dinner. She takes a plate up to Dad and Nathan, but otherwise the table is missing half the family. Mom and I talk a little, mostly about the food. At the end of the meal, she smiles at me. An honest, genuine smile.
That night, after dinner, I grab my new sketchbook, and I start my cretpoj.