elliot

My mother has discovered vegan chorizo, and now, there is no escaping it.

I mean, my mom's cooking is pretty excellent, so it's not as if I can complain. We've had the supposed "chorizo" every day for at least one meal as she figures out what she likes, what she doesn't like. Today's breakfast is some weird take on huevos motuleños, I think—there's our usual assembly of eggs, tortillas, frijoles, salsa roja, and peas, and then, the inescapable vegan chorizo.

We hardly ever do regular huevos motuleños at our house, but when we do, it's amazing. Usually, Mom gets this cheap ham (this time, tofu) and chars it, and it's just the best. It's definitely different with the chorizo, though. Messier, for certain. A little spicier. With the creamy, runny, egg yolk, though—it's awesome. My parents have been half-assing vegetarianism for years now, among other diets (like that time they tried to work out diets based on their blood types), and occasionally, something rad comes from it.

Dad and I are both about done by the time the coffee machine finally goes off. Mom watches our plates with her typical unimpressed look, and I grin at her. Dad and I are both tall—he's six-two; I'm taller—and trying to get us to eat at Mom's tiny pace is basically impossible.

"So, how was the Front last night, mija?" Mom asks, sweeping in through the kitchen door to get the first cup of coffee. Next to me, Dad attempts to impale a pea with his fork.

I stand to bring my dishes into the kitchen. Beneath the table, Bader thumps his tail as I walk by. "It was fine," I say, knowing Dad can still hear me from the dining room table. Every meal with my parents quickly feels like some kind of fun interrogation. (Sometimes the 'fun' is sarcastic.) (It's usually sarcastic.)

I make sure to rinse off my plate before sticking it in the dishwasher. Last week, Dad and I had this big, stupid argument over my dish-washing habits, so now I'm doing as he asks out of spite. "Same people were there as usual. I ended up going to Neema's afterwards. It was just ... eh?"

"Not your scene?" Dad asks, second in the coffee line.

"Not my scene," I concur.

Mom sets out two mugs on the counter—one for me, one for Dad. "Does 'eh' mean you had fun and don't want to tell us, or does 'eh' mean you want us to leave you alone about the fun you didn't actually have?"

Dad takes the bigger mug. Typical.

"I had fun," I insist as she winds behind me and back out into the dining room. She's already dressed for the day, khakis that emphasise the curves I wish genetics had given me, blue polo advertising her insurance firm in neat white stitching. Pretty sure she has to go talk to Drivers Ed kids today about how trying in school makes life cheaper. I myself remain a sceptic.

Dad rifles for oat milk in the fridge, too noisily considering it's in the same place it is every day. "So, you just don't want to tell us of the fun?

"Oh that is most definitely it. Yes." I catch the miniscule dregs of the coffee and compensate, like every morning, by introducing a somewhat-depressing amount of creamy oat milk. It leaves my coffee more grain than bean. "I woke up this morning and figured I'd skip out on all the drugs I drank and all the drinks I injected into my veins, and about how I knocked up, like, three prostitutes—"

"Only one prostitute too many," Dad says, already sitting down and returning to his Daily Front newspaper crossword.

Mom is working on her huevos motuleños again, but I can tell she's really more in it for the chorizo. Her posture is straight backed, little legs crossed with care. Sometimes, I wish I were that delicate. Mom has one of those model faces combined with a body too curvy to be on anyone's runway, but was definitely made for the screen. It's stupid. I just look like a slightly darker-skinned Dad with A-cups.

She watches me as I sit back down at the table with those stupid omnicient Mom eyes. "Were the girls there?"

By 'the girls,' she means the swim girls. Brooklin. Amber K. Taffy.

See, my parents never found out why I actually quit the swim team. As far as they know, I just realized my school workload didn't vibe with swim practice, so quitting was the healthier option. Because, telling my parents the truth would also be telling them that I'm gay. And I don't think I'm quite ready for that yet.

"They were there," I say, even though I'm really wishing the conversation never took this turn. "I spoke to them a little bit. I wasn't there long, though. They were off doing ... swim things." Maybe that will sell them? To say my parents are strict about night swimming would be an understatement. They're certain I'll drown, like Natalie Wood, or one of Mom's cousin's neighbour's sons (at a swimming pool birthday party, in broad daylight, when he was six).

I've always had this weird dream about swimming at night, all by myself, just gently gliding through the waves. I love swimming, but competitive swimming wasn't for me. The appeal to me was always finding a quiet place to exist alone. The ocean at night sounds more than ideal.

But like also, with my luck, I'd probably die, so we're not gonna touch it.

Dad nods into his coffee mug, his focus solely on his crossword. He's only half-listening at this point, as indicated by our usual morning schedule.

Usual morning schedule also means that it's about time for Mom to rag on me for something, and that I should prepare to disappear.

Mom stretches her coffee mug out in front of her and examines it. It's this plain white thing we got from IKEA when I was, like, five. We used to have six, but I'm pretty sure I broke two. "So," she says, "they didn't want to hang out with you?"

"No, no," I say, even though they maybe didn't. Not after what Taffy lied to them about, at least. Again, context that involves my luxurious closeted existence. "I just didn't want to go night swimming. Besides, we're not really close anymore. It's more fun hanging out with Neema and Dun—"

"You should have more friends than just Neema and Duncan, though," Mom says. Her finger absentmindedly flicks the handle of her mug. "More girls your age."

Here we go. "I'm fine, Mom."

"Are you, though?" Mom asks, still flicking away at the mug. It makes this pixie-like noise I decide would be onomatopoeiaed as kink. "You've been acting so strangely over the past year. You cut your hair—honey, you look like Natalie Portman."

"If Natalie Portman were trying to infiltrate an all-boys school," Dad adds, because of course this he listens to. "An all-boys school for twink lumberjacks."

"That was so all-over-the-place, it hurt." I just need to laugh them off for another minute or so, then plead the age-old excuse of "I have work in three hours let me do the things." Some mornings, I'm able to skip breakfast in its entirety—Duncan and Neema go for runs on the beach most days, and some times, I deign to join them.

Mom reaches across the table and taps the scratched surface a few times, supportively (because, God knows I'm not going to let her hold my hand right now), then draws back into herself to drink from the mug instead of just flick it. Absentmindedly, I stroke Bader's fur with my foot.

Next to me, Dad stretches out his legs. I just wish I could disappear. "We love how confident and mature you've become, Elliot," he says. I do my best to avoid both their gazes. "And we know you're still finding yourself. But—"

"But Ellie, you have got to let us in. We want to know what's going on with you. What's really going on with you."

"There's nothing going on with me," I mutter. So close to excuse time. So. Close. With my parents and their gang-up sessions, there's this sweet spot for escape. Get out too soon, and they'll just bring it up again later. Stay too long, and there's not getting out of it.

"Elliot."

"Mom, I am fine." I stand, taking my coffee with me. A little bit splashes up onto my shirt, but it's completely whatever. These pyjamas were dirty anyways.

Dad's eyes follow me. "You sure about that?"

I can't catch a break, can I? "What? What does that mean?" I'm edging dangerously close to "stay too long" territory, but I don't care. Last night sucked so badly. I don't need this morning to follow suit.

"You cut your nails about twice a week. What's up with that?"

"What?" Oh God. Imagine a world where I have to explain to my parents the reasons I cut my nails so short, so often. The mere thought makes the back of my neck prickle. I'm not sexually active or anything—I just really hope that someday, somewhere, some girl will see my short nails and think to herself, "Ahhh, a lesbian, yes."

I don't need my parents to know this. I mean, the context is a little much.

Dad raises his brows. Previously-nutmeg-ginger hair has some shots of white now. I try not to focus on one particularly long hair, which juts out contrarily and curls away from his face, against gravity.

"What?" he echoes.

I roll my eyes, trying to play it off as a joke. (Even though my lesbian girlfriend romanticising is hardly a joke, parents.) "Whatever. I need to get ready for work."

Mom checks her tiny leather watch. "Ooftah, I need to get going to work. Adiós, mija. Now, Hooker, don't forget to actually charge your phone today." My dad rolls his eyes, but she doesn't notice. She's already up and headed towards the door. Saved by the bell, it seems.

"Love you," I tell her, telling myself that being this pissed at her every morning doesn't change that. And, really, it doesn't. It's just a slight frustration, a miniscule blip. My parents are awesome—they just don't seem to understand me.

"Peace out," Dad calls after. The door clicks shut, and I'm almost at the stair landing when his voice stops me in my tracks: "We're never going to stop loving you, you know that, right?"

"Of course," I say, peeking my head around the corner so he can see me. "That's kind of a given, Dad."

He snorts and shakes his head slightly. "If only you'd treat it like one."

I take this as my dismissal. He doesn't call me back.

-

There's an Instagram for Hulhazy Front High School—hulhazyteabitches—that usually has very little interesting content to share. Soandso has a small penis. Suchandsuch doesn't know how to use their small penis. It's a lot of tiny penis bashing, actually.

Today, however, it's fairly abuzz.

Neema sends Duncan and me a screenshot of the post whilst I wait in the pool parking lot, because Duncan doesn't have Instagram and demands we keep him in on all the insipid gossip. Instead of just following what the two of them are saying, I bring up the account and scroll down a multiple posts to find the one that has instigated all the drama.

Every post is just a screenshot with private messages sent to it, but this one ... this one is bad. Like, three screenshots bad.

jace westerfeld is such a fucking slut. two months ago he was dating chloe delgado and like everything was awesome and they were super cute together and then he broke up. a bunch of people have been saying that he's been fooling around all over with a bunch of GUYS and like none of us told chlo because it was not cool and we didn't want her boyfriend being a fag to ruin her summer or anything but like jace, keep it in your pants. your so disgusting.

so yeah!!!! jace literally showed up to the front last night with some ugly girl boy thing and paraded him around in front of us and chlo and like NO ONE WANTS TO SEE THAT LITERALLY SO GROSS. chlo was really upset because she's still hung up on jace (srry bby but its true) and then we all had to make sure she was okay because fukkin jace doesn't understand that a, no one wants to see that and also b, to make chlo watch that is just gross and wrong and he should be ashamed but he won't be because he's literally the worst.

also i heard that the guy totally gave him head down by the pride rock so like ew. disinfect the space before you use it like you don't know what nasty shit is there now so yeah. fuck. jace. westerfeld.

I stare at my dimmed phone screen for a moment, then scroll through the comments. Most of them are impartial underclassmen asking who is Jace, there was something at the Front last night, and a plethora of other stupid things that shouldn't be the main takeaway from this.

It had to be one of the swim girls. Who else was hanging out with Chlo last night? Also, we're the only people who call her "Chlo"—everyone calls her "Chlo-ay," because she's hella weird and people seem to love that she hates the pronunciation.

This ... this was not cool.

The two posts up are from people who saw Jace with that guy last night—some ugly girl boy thing? How?—and express completely opposing views over said sighting. One says that Jace is a really good guy, and that if Chlo didn't have herpes and "god knows what other crazy bumpy shit," maybe she wouldn't have to look at "two guys being dudes." The other springs to her defense, saying that love can be love, but no one needs to see their gross PDA.

The last post, though, is ... weird. It's some random person talking about how sad it is to see people lashing out online with such—they actually use the word—vitriol. It's short, but the conclusion is: leave Jace and that guy alone. One of the comments says they're dumb, because knowing what's on the tea account contradicts everything that was just said. Some likes, zero responses.

Neema and Duncan are speedy back-and-forthing in our group chat, making jokes about how people clearly don't understand the true purpose of the Pride Rock, named after the IKEA-looking thing in The Lion King.

Pride rock should be gay, says Neema. Pride rock deserves gay.

We don't even deserve the gay of Pride Rock!!! Duncan says. It's just too beautiful!!!!!!

I tell them I'm going to work, then shut off my phone.

I don't know why exactly the tea account makes me so uncomfortable—it always has—but this just feels wrong. Over-the-line. Jace was tagged in each post (which makes it feel more wrong somehow), and I stalk his profile for a couple minutes.

He's a normal guy. Stocky wrestler type. A lot of pictures of the beach, or of Jace, some girl with short hair, and random sports people. Like, I wouldn't even guess he was queer. Should the fact that he is change anything, though?

I turn my data off before tossing my phone in my bag. A week ago, I got in trouble for browsing Reddit while at the concession's stand, and even though most of my shift is always spent staring at peeling lead paint, what with no one to talk to and zero customers, I might as well please the boss man.

When I step out of the car, the air is heavy, like last night, and clouds gather in the distance. Days like this, I wish it would rain and rain and rain nonstop. Firstly, because I'd really love to go home, but secondly, because Tita always says that rain is a new beginning, a gift.

Hulhazy could certainly use one of those.

A/N (August 8, 2021):

My musical closed today. No more being a virgin sex slave bride for me!! Whoops!!!!