The Diary of Ryan Ross

chapter eleven

November 29, 2004

My dad is just now remembering Brendon, my "friend."

"So when is your friend coming over for dinner?" He asked me last night, at dinner. He's obsessed with the idea that I have friends and they want to come over for a home cooked meal. Ironically, we were eating pizza when he asked. I grabbed two slices and tossed them on my plate.

"What friend? Spencer?" I asked. "Dad, Spence doesn't want to come over."

"Not Spencer, that, oh what's his name? Brandon? Brady? I know I'm in the ballpark, right?"

"Brendon, Dad," I laugh, and he smiles.

"I was close," He says, grabbing a piece. "When's he gonna come eat dinner with us? I'd love to officially meet him, you know?" This is murky water; I don't think letting my dad meet Brendon is a very good idea. Like, he doesn't know that Brendon is my boyfriend. I mean, I don't think he'd pissed about it, I just really want him to stay the hell away from my personal life.

"Bad idea, Bren's a sloppy eater," I said. I stuff a mouthful of pizza into my mouth. "You don't want him, like, spitting all over the table."

"Oh, please Ryan. You were too at one point," Dad retorts. "C'mon, invite him and I'll cook us up a feast."

"Fine," I replied, taking my plate to the living room along with the home phone. I dial Brendon's number, which I've memorized by heart now. He picks up after the fourth ring.

"Ryan?" I hear Brendon ask. He probably hasn't memorized my number, or maybe he has. Maybe he answers every call with 'Ryan?'

"Hey," I reply, nonchalantly. He's quiet for a moment and I get nervous. "Are you busy, I don't know, tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow's Tuesday."

"Yeah, I know the date, Brendon," I snap. He's silent again and I feel like a douchbag. "Uh, my dad wants you to come over for dinner."

"You told him?!" He yelled. "Oh my god, Ry, I'm so proud!"

"No, I didn't tell him. He just wants my friend, Brendon, to come over for dinner." I explain. "He's always wanted that classic "son-has-over-friend-and-is-acting-happy-and-content" thing. I don't know. Just say yes,"

"Okay then, yes," Brendon said. "When should I be there?"

"One second," I hold my hand over the phone. "Dad, when should Brendon be here?" I yelled.

"Seven?" He says, but it's more like a question.

"He says seven."

"Okay, then I'll see you at seven." He replies.

"Okay," I'm not sure if he's waiting for me to say something, so I hastily add, "Goodnight."

"Night," He hangs up.

I walk back into the kitchen, untouched plate of pizza in hand. My stomach hurts now, and I really don't feel like being around my dad right now, considering he just pulled out his vodka.

"I'm going to bed." I say.

"It's only eight. You didn't touch your pizza," He argues. I know he's trying, and I hate that. He's so pathetic. It's sickening.

"I'm not hungry. Night," I say simply, turning around to the staircase.

"Goodnight, Ry!" He calls from the kitchen. He always does this when we eat together. The absence of mom kills him, just looking at her empty seat. He always breaks out the vodka like the weak peice of shit he is.