Cute, Cozy, Queer Stories

Part 18: Mom & Dad & Andy

Most people assumed Andy was Charlie's and Christa's stepparent. Maybe his dad's... girlfriend? Or boyfriend? It depended on who you asked. And what they assumed usually said something about them.

The stepparent story didn't stick for long. Once people found out they all lived together—Charlie, Christa, their mom, their dad, and Andy—people didn't act the same.

In gradeschool, it hadn't seemed any different to Charlie. Some of the other kids had their mom's boyfriends at soccer games, or their dad's girlfriends at the school plays. They all seemed to get along well enough, and Mom and Dad and Andy did too. Maybe it was because most of them couldn't figure out if Andy was a boy or a girl. Back then, Charlie answered those questions the same way Andy always had.

"They're whatever they want to be."

For a while, that answer seemed to be enough, for the other kids, at least. But the other parents would squint their eyes and make a face and ask more questions. And, as the years went on, the other kids would make that face too, and ask more questions. More years passed and they all started to laugh. Then they would jeer.

"Mom, what's a 'tranny'?"

The dinner table got silent. Mom and Dad and Andy exchanged identical looks, their eyebrows shooting up. Sitting at the table, Charlie had only been seven, but knew then Christa said a bad word. She'd heard the other girls say it. He knew, because he'd heard them say it, too.

"That's not a nice word to call somebody. It's a mean name, and it's not something that we use," Dad said. "Where did you hear that?"

Christa looked at her plate and shrugged. "I dunno."

Mom and Dad asked her again, but she didn't tell the truth.

"People who say things like that," Andy shrugged a shoulder, giving that half-smirk, half-wince like they ate something sour "they just don't know or don't like people who are different. If a kid says that to you, it's because they don't know what it means. They heard it from somebody else and they thought it was funny. Just ignore them."

There were more words. More names. Eventually, much sooner than it should've, that misty confusion burned away.

Andy was different. And not just because they were a "woman with a mustache" like one of Charlie's friend's moms said, or a "guy with tits" like one of Christa's soccer coaches said. Andy was covered in tattoos. Charlie used to drive little cars in between the ink lines when he was little, which always seemed to make Andy smile. Andy's hair was a different color, different length, different style, all the time. And Andy was fun. They knew how to snowboard, surf and waterski, they drove the boat the fastest when the family went tubing together, they went to rock concerts, they knew how to box and they got into fights, they crashed cars, they could speak in other languages, they went to far-away places and brought back weird gifts and even weirder stories.

Charlie always loved Andy, and loved that they were different. Christa loved Andy, too. But, at some point, she stopped loving that Andy was different.

"Would it be okay if only Mom and Dad came to the game?" Christa looked at her plate again, and Charlie remembered three years ago when she said the bad word that the other kids had taught her.

Mom studied Christa, and she only glanced. Spinning noodles around his fork, Charlie watched the perplexed looks come over Mom's and Dad's and Andy's faces.

"You don't want Andy to come?" Mom asked.

Christa only shrugged. She was thirteen, but it was like she was ten again. Charlie felt smaller than he was too.