My mother decides to kick off my summer vacation with an announcement—she knows that I’m gay. Her level of support is shocking, dangerously close to crushing. How do I break it to her that this latest attempt to snoop into my life is probably way off base? I say probably because I haven’t had a crush on anyone since back in the eighth grade. Not since before . . . well, before.
I remind myself to breathe, that she doesn’t know everything, and that I’ve had my fair share of heart-deforming crushes. The seventh grade Valentine’s Day party comes to mind, when I watched Juniper Cade drop a bag of chocolate candies into Gordon Pinkney’s sweaty little hand. I still hate his face and all the Hershey’s Kisses he shoved into it. It’s not like I’ve been openly straight with my mother, but where the hell is this coming from? My emotions turn end over end. No one can push my buttons like this woman. I remember a tip my aunt gave me to help deal with moments like this.
Don’t react. Take a deep breath and calmly respond.
I inhale and take my frustrations out on my bowl of ice cream, smashing it down with the back of my spoon. Stirring it into half-melted bliss. But just in case this is all a joke, I decide to play along. “So, how long have you known that I’ve been playing for the other team?”
Her voice has an all-knowing ease to it that comes after her second glass of wine. She copes her way. I cope mine. “A mother knows these things, Salem. Just look at the way you mix your ice cream. I think it’s wonderful!”
I cough out a laugh. “So, smushing my ice cream somehow makes me super gay?”
“No! Not super gay. More like . . . oh, I don’t know. Frankie gay!”
We must be way past two glasses of wine. Buttons pushed. Reaction loaded in the chamber. “What? Who? This is insane!”
“You know Frankie. The bartender at TGI Fridays. He’s so handsome and funny. I just love him!”
She does adore him. He holds on to her purse whenever she forgets it at the bar. She’s offered him the spare bedroom in our house at least a dozen times. I can picture his red-and-white striped shirts hanging in our laundry room. Flair badges lined up neatly on top of the dryer.
My voice is smaller, less sarcastic than I want it to sound. “I’m Frankie-the-mixologist gay. Got it. Since we’re okay with flair, maybe I should borrow some eyeliner for the party tonight.”
Her blue eye shadow hints that she has plans of her own this evening. “Stop it, Salem! You’re gay, not a transvestite!”
Wow . . . It amazes me how she can talk for days about things she knows nothing about. “Oh? Well, thanks for clearing that up. Listen, Mom. I’m not––”
She grabs the sides of my face and squishes my cheeks until my lips look like a fish. “I just need you to know that I love you, and I will be proud to march with you in the gay parade.”
Now there’s a parade. “Great! We can march behind the rainbow unicorn float and smush our ice cream.”
“Salem, I’m being serious! Since it’s just the two of us, I—” She chokes on her last word and holds a chocolate syrup-stained napkin up to her eyes.
Now I’m starting to understand what this is all about.
I close my eyes and breathe, pretending what’s happening isn’t actually happening. I’ve been waiting for a good day. I’ve been trying my best to feel normal.
If she says his name, I’ll lose it.
My body is buzzing with a mix of irritation and guilt. Her cheeks are flushed. This might be real emotion I’m witnessing. “Mom. It’s all good. We’re good. Just the two of us.” It’s not like there’s been a shortage of testosterone over the years. Four husbands and three divorces. “You’re doing a great job.” I cough, which makes it sound like it was hard to say, but it wasn’t. My compliment is genuine, despite all of her craziness and her fondness for boxed wine.
She’s full-on sobbing now. “Things have been good, right? I’m sorry. I just worry that I’ve coddled you too much. Or maybe not enough. That I’m not supporting you the way you need. The way your father would have.”
She did suck at puberty milestones. I remember the first time I asked her to buy me some deodorant. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she said, “You don’t need that ’til you go to college!” She bought me a yellow J. Crew sweater instead of the deodorant. Bright, urine yellow. That’s how that rite of passage was managed. Probably best that I didn’t mention my constant erections.
I drop my spoon into the empty bowl, which somehow reminds me that it’s my turn to talk. “Please, Mom. Things are good. I think we––” My phone dings. A text from Jace. Thank God. “Sorry, Mom. That was Jace. He’ll be here soon to pick me up.”
My thumbs respond. HURRY.
I avoid any further eye contact, hoping this might end our conversation. I stare out the kitchen window above the sink. A chemtrail stretches across the westering sky. Painted clouds expanding for miles. Melting into a chemical haze.
“Jace King? Mmmm.” She’s not done yet. “You always have spent a lot of time with him. What a cutie that one turned out to be. But, if you say you’re not gay, then you’re not gay. I’ve been wrong before. Maybe you’re unisex? That’s a thing now, you know. I heard Whoopi and Joy talking about it on The View.”
Did she just say . . . “Unisex?” Better and better. “I think you mean bisexual, and this conversation couldn’t be any more over.”
She waves an irritated hand through the air. “Whatever you are and wherever you find love is fine with me. Just don’t pick a buffalo. Your grandmother said it’s just as easy to marry rich as it is to marry poor. You remember that.”
“Don’t marry a unisex buffalo. Got it.” I drop my bowl in the sink and head to my room.
She stops me before I make it to the hallway. “Salem. Be safe, and have fun tonight. I love you, my baby boy. How much do you love your mother?” She waits impatiently for my answer. “Salem?”
My eyes roll freely, because she can’t see them. “Text me if you need a ride home,” I tell her.
I close and lock the door to my bedroom, even though she rarely follows me in here. I shake off our conversation by pushing shuffle on my phone. “Graceland Too” by Phoebe Bridgers starts to play. A repeating acoustic chord accented by the gentle twang of a banjo pours from my portable speaker, filling every corner of the room. A space that’s not nearly sophisticated enough for a melody this immaculate. Like, her melancholy chorus would sound even better if I peeled those Pokémon stickers off my headboard and painted the walls black and the ceiling purple. I decide that everything in my room looks lame, except for the guitar leaning against my desk chair.
I tie on my shoes and check my look in the mirror. My hair looks like total crap. Did I use conditioner instead of shampoo? I did, didn’t I? Why do the bottles have to look so much alike? There’s no time to obsess or rewash this mop on my head. I pull my bangs forward, then bat them off my face again, and then, I see him. I try to focus back on the music. To unsee it, but there’ve been these moments lately, when I hold my face just right and squint a little at the mirror, that I find my brother looking back at me.
I’m just about the same age now.
My phone dings, intruding again. Better than my thoughts. Three notifications. Three rambling texts that could be condensed into two words. I’m here. Despite my hair, I catch myself smiling as I pull my brother’s old denim jacket over my vintage Mötley Crüe t-shirt. It’s officially summer break, and a person who semi-successfully made it through their junior year of high school deserves to be happy. I unlock my door and make an effort to keep the smile going a little while longer. I pass my mom on the sofa and wave goodbye with the limpest of wrists, just to keep her guessing.
I step outside and find the night air is even colder than I expected. When you live in the buckle of the Rust Belt, the weather can’t help but suck. One day, I’ll move away to California. Start a new life next to the ocean and see how it goes. At least I’ll never have to drive in the snow again.
Jace smiles and waves, then his eyes dart back to the vanity mirror on his visor. It lights up his face. He’s been so cheerful and enthusiastic lately, especially this time of the night. I hope it’s contagious.
“Salem! Get in here! Tell me you watched my video!”
Jace has the most subscribed to YouTube channel at our school. His videos are the one thing in life he loves more than his eyebrows. He started with posting our prank videos. Bendy Tree Spider-Man and Old Man Jumps in Your Swimming Pool both have millions of views. They’re awesome, but the video he’s talking about is his latest and strangest obsession . . . News Bomber. Whenever a news camera crew sets up on the street, he wanders around in the background on camera.
The first time it happened was by accident. We were having our first big snowstorm of the season. Jace walked out of a shoe store and slipped on a patch of ice. He flopped around ’til his back pockets connected with the sidewalk, packages flying in every direction. The reporter tried to help him up while the camera was still rolling. Then they both slipped and crumpled to the ground, the microphone smacking Jace on the side of the head. The staticky thumping sound it made was right out of a cartoon. And then, silence. The mic was totally broken, so they both just sat on the ice and waved at the camera.
Everyone at school saw it. Some of the older kids gave him shit, but mostly, he collected at least a hundred high fives that day. The wind of YouTube destiny blew through Jace’s salon-perfect hair that fateful afternoon. The rest of his elaborately costumed, on-camera appearances have been fully planned out. He tracks down the reporters at the most random locations.
I decide to try to make his head explode. It’s a fun little hobby I have. “Video?”
“Shut up! I texted you like thirty times! Do you know how much planning goes into pulling one of these fabulous productions off? News Bomber Six is a masterpiece!”
I crack a smile. “I watched it like ten times. Totally hilarious! The stars aligned for you this time. I liked the giant taco hat. Classy touch.”
“Right? Thank you! I’m going to the stadium tomorrow afternoon. I’m pretty sure Channel 19 will be there. I think they’re setting up for some car show? Wait, no. It’s that air show thing. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be giving them the show. You wanna come with?”
I do, and I don’t. “I guess. I don’t want to be on camera, though.”
“Oh, Salem. Always behind the camera. Never the star.” He blinks to show off his new colored contacts. He spends a good amount of time and cash on his look, but it pays off. Girls at school are always OMGing about him. They love his clothes, his surfer-dude hair, his deep voice. It’s like they don’t even notice his nose anymore. My mother used to tell him his face would grow into it. It doesn’t matter. The “Snotlocker” nickname has vanished. “Jason” rebranded himself as “Jace,” and a shiny new ball of confidence was born.
Or so he’d have you think.
He likes to put out an “I don’t care” attitude. I’ve been his friend since the second grade. I know he cares . . . a lot. He proved that every Friday during our sophomore year. He would wear a suit to school. Ugly as all hell. Red plaid. Pants and jacket. He paid five bucks for it at a thrift store, then shelled out ten times that much having it tailored to fit him perfectly. I asked him once why he wanted to deal with all the attention that came with it. I’ll never forget his answer. “Because from now on, I don’t hide from anybody, and they’ll never forget me.”
“Nice! I’m digging the new blue eyes. Thanks for picking me up. Not a second too soon. You should have heard my mother going on and on tonight.”
Jace pushes a cassette tape into the dashboard. “No worries. Anything for my guitar player, and why would tonight be any different? Your mother is such a total shit storm sometimes.” He holds up his hands and cocks his head apologetically. “Sorry. No, not really.” The volume knob gets twisted. “How much do you love Duran Duran?” He dances in his seat and twirls an apricot scarf, his latest thrift store find. I don’t have to check. I’m more than sure that his socks match it perfectly. “So, the plan is a little soiree over at Karen’s house. Her dad is at some conference out of town again. We’re meeting the rest of the boys there. The usual Three Bs.” This is Jace lingo for badass brats and bitches. A phrase that makes me cringe. I’m relieved when he doesn’t use the actual words. Some things still sound sort of counterfeit coming from the mouth of the modest kid I used to know. “Sound cool?””
Karen and Jace are besties. Jace is best friends with all of Karen’s girlfriends. When he hangs out with them, he looks like the coach of a girls’ softball team. Jace gives them the attention they crave. And in return, we always have something to do on the weekends.
“Cool.” It occurs to me, as the scarf whirls, that maybe he’s as queer as a three-dollar bill. It would make sense. How have I never . . . I shake the thought out of my head, realizing that it’s her voice driving these thoughts. “Get out of my head, Mom!”
“What? Your mom texting you already?”
“Huh?” I guess I said that out loud. “No. Sorry. Never mind.” A change of subject would be great right about now. “Is this your new Waldo tape?”
Jace meets Karen and her friends every day after school. They sit on a wall near the library, pretend to smoke cigarettes, and gossip. Once a week, they choose a new ’80s band to listen to and be consumed by. Always recorded on cassette tape. Karen dubs them for everybody. She also dubbed their group The Waldos—because of the wall, not because it’s the nerdiest extracurricular activity ever. I tried to play along for a while. I would listen to the tapes on my mom’s old Sony Walkman. The bands were cool enough at first, but then they lost me with The Smiths. I know people love that band, especially the Waldos, but I had enough crap going on in my life. I didn’t need my music to be depressing, too.
“Yes! And I love it! I want to hear everything by this beautiful band. You have to see the bass player’s hair. All I’m saying is that blonde bangs are a must. I need to bring that look back by September.” He pulls his fingers through a few loose strands falling over his eyes. “I also need a cocktail, but I’ll settle for a beer. Should we try to buy some?”
That sounds way too illegal. I don’t even like beer all that much. “I’m sure Grey or Kevin will grab some.”
Jace is driving with his knee, which makes me nervous. “Or worse! Kevin might bring some more of that swill wine he makes in his shed.” He shudders. “Never drinking that donkey piss again.” Kevin is an Eagle Scout. Besides regularly demonstrating “scout spirit,” he put his merit badges to practical use and learned to make blackberry wine. We all shared a half-dozen mason jars full and laughed until we puked purple. I get queasy just thinking about it.
We pass by our high school. Two spotlights light the front sign that reads, Congratulations, HILLTOPPERS! Have a happy and safe summer vacation.
Then I notice it. Sure, there’s a spelling error, but there’s also something far more spectacular.
“Slow down!” I’m experiencing the most brilliant and understated senior prank ever. Some mastermind removed the “C” from Chardon High School. So simple, yet so effective. “Check it out, Jace. We are going to be the proud seniors of Hard-On High School!”
“No way! That is brilliant! How have we never thought of that before?” Jace rolls down his window and screams, “I love you, hard-on!” Given my earlier thought, this sounds even funnier.
We sing along with the Duran Duran tape, changing lyrics to “hard-on” here and there. “New Hard-On Monday” is an instant classic. The jokes are the kind we laughed at in the fifth grade, but still somehow seem to do the trick.
My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. Side one of the cassette carries us to Karen’s driveway much quicker than I expect. I half-remember a conversation that we’re not calling Karen, Karen anymore. “So, did we all settle on Kay-Kay, or was it Kiki? Is that still a thing?”
Jace growls in frustration. “Neither. She hated every name that I came up with. I had my heart set on calling her Kiki. She’s such a Kiki, right?” It seems like every day, there’s another cringeworthy video on Facebook about an entitled, middle-aged woman with a bad haircut demanding to speak with the manager. A “Karen” gets angry at the smallest mistake an employee makes. A “Karen” calls the cops on a kids’ pool party. Our Karen is not at all a Karen. It’s an unfortunate name to have these days, so Jace has been trying to come up with an acceptable nickname. “I warned her that if she doesn’t settle on one soon, I’m just gonna call her by a really bad stripper name for the rest of her life. I was thinking, D’lishus.”
“Oh, fancy!” I laugh. “Please tell me there’s an apostrophe after the D.”
“Is there any other way to spell it?”
Karen’s house is on a huge piece of property, complete with a barn that’s home to a horse and a small pond that she calls Bass Lake. You can catch a turtle in it, but never a fish, never mind a bass. Chardon is what people in small towns call the sticks, which makes them feel better about their own shitty little town. “At least we don’t live in the sticks.” I like where we live. It’s peaceful and most of the people are really nice, as long as you don’t talk about politics or religion. Parents would say that we don’t have the stress that comes with living in a big city. Kids would say it’s fine, because we’d be bored no matter where we lived and at least here, we get a ton of snow days off of school.
We’re just south of a bigger small town, basically in the middle of nowhere. We have more than our share of dirt roads and tractors. All the farms surround a gas station that sells blue Slurpees and live worms. We’ve bought their worms before, but never for fishing. We used them for one elaborate prank that involved a bucket, two dozen nightcrawlers, and a cordless drill. When you’re bored, pranks help to pass the time.
There’s not much to do in Chardon, short of playing guitar and starting a rock band. So that’s what we did. My brother taught me enough chords to keep up with Grey, Kevin, and Jace. We get together in Grey’s garage to practice all the time. We can get through a few punk rock songs, but we all pretty much suck. We have no delusions of talent or a future career involving a tour bus.
I did come up with a kickass name for the band––The Dukes of Hazardous Waste. Awesome, right? The name alone got us our only two gigs. Our debut performance was at the St. Francis Church “My God is Better Than Your God Festival.” We extended our three songs into a thirty minute show, set up between a petting zoo of baby goats and the candy castle bounce house. Parents were irritated, and children were frightened.
Our second gig was at Phil Bateman’s sixteenth birthday party. “Phunkmeister” Phil set up a light show for us that was brighter than an airport runway. All in his tiny, hundred-and-ten-degree living room. Adding a fourth song to our repertoire made it no problem for us to jam for nearly three hours. We played “Beat on the Brat” more times in one night than The Ramones played it in their entire career. I learned that dehydration can make you dizzy and have you seeing spots out of the corner of your eye for up to two days. The price you pay for rock ’n’ roll. This show did, however, provide us with an audience of around fifteen people, half of which were the Waldos. At least there were no farm animals.
The tires crunch over the gravel driveway. My window is down. The air smells like Karen’s neighbor is grilling steak—the best smell of summer. Her house comes into view, past a small gathering of evergreens. Two stories of grandeur, with twin chimneys like massive stone bookends. Way bigger than my house, but still inviting. The front porch is lit behind four towering pillars. A few cars are parked next to the house. I recognize all of them. We are fashionably late, as usual. I hesitate before I take off my seatbelt. Something in my gut tells me this night is a disaster waiting to happen. It’s kind of sad when you know the outcome of the night before you even leave the car.
I remind myself that I don’t have any psychic superpowers.
Jace puts the cap on his lip balm and snaps the vanity mirror shut. “Damn, I look good tonight. With or without blonde bangs. Let’s do this!”