Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter twenty-two

sebastian

Dinner is store-bought lasagna. I wish it was the kind with marinara, but this creamy vegetable stuff is alright, I suppose.

Mom dishes it up in silence. Dad is in one of his moods again; her response is always a prompt full-system shut-down. Generally, it's effective. I follow her lead: don't speak unless spoken to, nod at the stupid shit he says (let's go, Brandon), and laugh when appropriate (even if it's not really appropriate).

I've never completely understood why we react this way to Dad's incredibly incorrect extremism. I've seen the books Mom reads. Even if she's not super left-wing, she's not Mr. QAnon over here. She read her kindergarteners the book about the gay penguin dads, for Christ's sake. And she read All Boys Are Blue. Everything by Nic Stone, everything by Elizabeth Acevedo, everything by Mason Deaver. When she read Internment by Samira Ahmed, she made me read it immediately after her. So, I mean, like, come on. She should know better than to tolerate his bullshit.

I can't judge, though, because I also partake in the bullshit tolerating. However, I'm just out of high school, with no income and no real choice. One of us is the adult–adult here. And it's not me. Or Dad, for that matter.

He's taken his cap off for dinner tonight—surprisingly. He's prone to wearing hats around inside the house, something that drives Mom up the fucking wall. It's one of those petty arguments I'm sure all parents get into. Based on the way his curls are glued down to his forehead with sweat, and were obviously pressed down with a cap, I'm guessing he had it on earlier. And so I spend all of supper side-eyeing the pair of them, trying to figure out if Mommy and Daddy were fighting again.

There's not a lot of political talk from Dad, which is also surprising. Usually, moods like this call for the quoting of Tucker Carlson, the "disproving" of the benefits of hormone therapy, the mocking of "over-sensitive" leftist Twitter snowflakes. (Also the occasional—and incredibly homoerotic—hyping up of Elon Musk.) But tonight, he picks apart his Stouffer's lasagna in silent disdain.

Oh my god, they so got into a fight.

I want to try and poke and prod the two of them to try and get some information, but I know myself well enough to know that conversational subterfuge is not my strong suit. Any drama or conflict I could possibly hope to cause would immediately fall back onto me. So, I'm gonna say, not worth it? Yeah. Not worth it.

Still, the silence is just as awkward as it is deafening, and it's filling me with a sense of dread, just waiting to see how bad things will get.

"So...." I say, right after finishing my peas. I always eat vegetables first. Save the good stuff for last. And now, I'm halfway done with my dinner, meaning that I'll have an easy escape if things go wrong, but it won't be awkward if I stick around and stumble across any hints of inra-parental conflict. "How was book club last night?"

Dad is definitely giving me a suspicious side-eye, but he says, "Fine," all clipped and gruff and oh so manly-mannish. So. Fight definitely involved book club, then.

"It was fine," Mom agrees, too normal, too neutral.

Which all but confirms: the fight was at book club. Fuck, I have to know what went down.

"Well that's nice. What book did you guys read?"

"Her Majesty's Royal Coven," Mom says, avoiding eye contact with both of us while cutting up her lasagna into little bit-sized pieces. "Juno Dawson. Not my favorite, but I enjoyed it."

"It was shit," Dad says, turning to me like I'll understand. "By some trans-leftist freak. Pure propaganda."

"It's just a book," Mom says, still focused on her lasagna.

"It's brainwashing. That author wrote another book, that gay one." Gay feels like a dirty word coming from Dad's mouth. I try to keep a straight face. (Literally.) "Just porn, written for children."

"Have you read the book, Joseph?" Mom asks. Oh, fuck, here we go. Mom always stays silent about Dad's politics, but she's a big-time book lover. This could be it. Please. After years of Dad saying the stupidest, most out-of-pocket, fascist bullshit, please let this be the Day of Reckoning. I want to see Mom drop a hammer on him.

"I've read reviews," Dad says. "I know enough."

"It's not porn. It's educational material. Even if we don't think it's right, some kids need that."

We don't think it's right. Great. Yep.

"It's indoctrinating those kids," he insists. "They wouldn't need it if they didn't read it."

I'm keeping my responses bitten back, tucked away in a lump in the back of my throat. I want to ask him if queer people existed before this book did, but that might earn me a smack upside the head, so I refrain, and pray that Mom finally says something.

"Sex education fails all over America. We were definitely let down," Mom says. "You remember us in high school. We were idiots, because—"

"That's not the same." He always does this. Cuts her off. Because he's Dad. "I have a right not to want to read propaganda—"

"No one is saying that you don't, Joseph—"

"—and I have a right to expect my children not to be exposed to that!" Color floods his cheeks. Red. Always red. Angry, hot red. I decide it's high time that I scarf down my lasagna and prepare to skedaddle. "What, would you be comfortable if Seb read that bullshit?"

"That's not my point. Seb doesn't need it." Two sets of eyes flash in my direction, just a split second. My skin crawls. Were those suspicious glances, or...? "There are kids who do. It's not our place to judge, Joseph. But I would rather they be as safe as possible."

Dad shakes his head. Sweat-matted curls peel away from his forehead and shake with him. "That kind of book doesn't belong in a public library."

Mom opens her mouth to say something, right as I get up from the dinner table, my plate cleared. Her eyes follow me, and she just ... closes up. It's like I can see invisible curtains sliding in, shrouding her face. She gives Dad a tight-lipped smile and shrugs. "Well, alright, then. I do see your point, honey."

I try not to shake my head in disgust.

By the time I step out of the kitchen, there's a big fake smile plastered on my face, as big as if not bigger than Mom's. "Is it cool if I head over to Saanvi's now?"

"Are her parents home?" Dad asks.

"Oh, Joseph, he's eighteen. Does it really matter?" Mom asks. "Don't be silly."

I see a tendon shift in Dad's jaw. "Right. Fine. Be safe. And responsible."

"It's just boardgames," I assure him. And it is. I'm only headed to Saanvi's to pick her up to go to Harris'. I've enjoyed the past couple nights of Parcheesi. Granny Mac is fun as hell, and Saanvi is my best friend so I'm obviously having a great time, and being with Harris fills me with static electricity, this bubbly happiness. Even just subtly brushing our fingertips together gives me butterflies.

Honestly, anything is better than being here. Does that make me a terrible son? Because, if so, then fine. I'm the World's Worst Son. Sue me.

"Saanvi can come over sometime, you know," Mom says. "I miss my future daughter-in-law."

"Riiight," I say. "That's definitely happening."

"Jesus. Don't sass your mother," Dad says. He's already turned back to his lasagna. I don't think he really cares, he just likes getting to say something semi-dickish so he can feel some euphoric rush of douchebag energy.

Still, I'm sure to apologize before leaving. I don't need to give him a reason to lash out at me, because that? That's never fun.

I don't know what I was thinking earlier. I can't wait till college.