Camila had been six years old the day her father left. She had been sitting on the front steps of their small house in Queens, watching the two brothers from across the street toss a football back and forth. She remembered that Juan, the younger of the two, pushed his brother into a puddle of water left over from a long week of rain. They'd yelled and thrown punches at each other until their mother came running out of the house waving a leather belt in one hand. The boys then scattered in opposite directions, laughing as they ran.
Camila had watched the mother roll the belt around her hand (in a way that made Camila think of a snail) and head back into the house. With nothing left to watch, Camila was forced to listen. Behind her, inside the door to her own life, her brother cried, and her mother and father yelled. Then, without warning, all of it stopped.
In the sudden silence, the screen door sounded louder than usual. Her father's footsteps were drowned by the painful screech of the door swinging closed. He walked by her and turned around at the last step. "I'm sorry, Karla." He said, before walking away.
Since then, her only communication with her father had been in the form of the occasional letter turned occasional email, and in the checks he sent each month. He was as faithful in his financial contributions as he could never be in his marriage to her mother. She could never hate her father, Camila knew, but she had yet to forgive him. Fourteen years was not enough to mend that kind of wound. Perhaps a lifetime wasn't, either.
His latest email stared back at her from the list on her monitor, and Camila read it without responding. Was she okay? Sure. Had she received his latest check? Yes. What was new? Well, other than her stepbrother being gay, not much.
"You look joyful this evening." Dinah walked into Camila's bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed. "Homework?"
"Father."
"Ah." Dinah nodded, and popped open the can of soda she was holding. After a long sip, she asked, "Any updates from the family about you-know-who admitting he's you-know-what?"
Camila sighed, placing the laptop next to her on the bed and leaning forward. "I'm pretty sure they've gone into complete denial at this point. Mom called earlier and she didn't even mention it. It's as if it never happened."
"So, what, the''re just going to pretend he's straight?"
"I really don't know."
"Have you talked to Harry yet?"
"No. I honestly have no idea what to say to him."
"I'm sure he doesn't care what you say, as long as he knows you support him." Dinah cocked her head to the side. "You do support him, right?"
Camila looked pointedly at her best friend. "Of course I do! It's just... it's Harry, you know? Harry. I just can't picture him... you know..."
"Taking it up the—"
"Aaargh!" Camila covered her ears until she was certain it was safe to unclog them. "That's not quite what I meant. I just don't picture him, being... gay. He's just Harry, my geeky—"
"Extremely hot..."
"Step brother."
"Why are the hot ones always gay? How is the human race expected to survive if only the ugly people are breeding, you know?" She paused. "Present company excluded, of course."
"Thanks for that."
"I'm just saying, there's going to come a point when no one is going to want to sleep with each other because everyone is too damn ugly."
"Mmm, I'm not sure about that. Sometimes, really ugly people have really good looking kids."
Dinah looked incredulous. "Like who?"
