Ask the Passengers

“We want to know if you’re g*y,” Mom says. “We can’t really go any further with you until we know the truth.”

“You can’t go further with me? What does that mean?” I ask. “As parents?”

Dad says, “We’re doing the best we can, but with all your lying, we don’t think we can get you back on track until everything is out in the open.”

Back on track. Can’t go any further. Sounds like they’ve been watching Dr. Phil or something. “I didn’t know I was off the track,” I say. I go to the cabinet and fetch a few Rolaids and chew on them.

“You didn’t?” Dad says.

“For Christ’s sake, Astrid, look at you!” Mom says over him.

I look at myself. I look exactly the same as I did a week ago, before Atlantis got busted. I look exactly the same as I did five months ago, before I started kissing Dee in the walk-ins. “I don’t look any different than I did last week, do I?” Frank hops up onto the kitchen counter, crosses his arms and snickers.

“I think your mother means your criminal record.”

“And the lying!” she adds.

“And the lying!” Frank says.

“Oh,” I say. And then I notice what’s different: It’s the curtains. All the curtains are down. Even the privacy lace ones. That’s what’s in the pile next to the ironing board. Mom is washing and ironing all of the curtains.

Which is why it’s so bright for a dreary November afternoon.

“Well? Can you tell us the truth?” Dad asks.

“How come you’re ironing the curtains?” I ask.

“What?”

“That must have taken you all day. Why didn’t you get them washed and pressed at the dry cleaner?”

Dad leans forward. “Does this mean yes?”

“Yes?” I ask. I already forgot the question.

“Are you g*y?” Mom asks.

I sigh. “I have no idea,” I say. Frank sighs and rolls his eyes.

Mom perks up. “So, we went from I’m not g*y, I was just in a g*y club to dance to I don’t know.”

“Right,” I say.

“So does this mean yes?” Dad asks again. I look at Frank Socrates, and he says, in my head, Settle for nothing less than the truth. Even if the answer is I don’t know.

“No,” I say. “It means I don’t know. It’s really not as easy as you’re making it.”

“Don’t give me that,” Mom says.

“What?”

“It’s not a choice. Either you’re born g*y or you’re not born g*y,” she says.

“While I appreciate your strict categorization and policies of g*yness, I can’t say that I know one way or the other. So, logic tells me that if I was born g*y, then I should know that I am g*y, which means, by your rules, no. I am not g*y. Because I don’t know.” They stare at me. I start writing a list on a piece of notepaper as I talk. “But if it’s about love and attraction to people of the same gender and a possibility of maybe being in love with a girl, then the answer could be yes. But I wouldn’t call myself g*y. It just wouldn’t seem right to real g*y people. Especially if they were born knowing for sure, like you say they were.”

“Jesus Christ! Can you just cut the sarcasm and answer the damn question?” Mom yells.

“I just did answer the question,” I say, still writing without looking up.

“You can’t give us a yes or a no?” Dad asks. I can tell he’s dying to get out to that garage as soon as humanly possible. He’s nearly drooling.

“Not really,” I say. “Sorry.” However, I can give you a leave-me-the-hell-alone-why-does-it-matter-so-damn-much-and-it’s-none-of-your-goddamn-business. Love you. “It’s just not as simple as you’re making it out to be. I don’t think every g*y person can be clearly defined and kept in a nifty little box, you know?”

After a minute of silence, Dad says, “So you’re not going to tell us.”

“I just told you.”

Mom says, “Frankly, I’m even more disappointed than I was before we started.”

I sigh. I’m exhausted by them. I’m exhausted by me. I’m exhausted by having to be me, with them.

I finish my list. It reads: Here is a list of things you can put in a box: Puppies. Lipstick. Jump ropes. Jewelry. Card games. Hair accessories. Love letters. Spoons. Office supplies. Nail polish. Art projects. Leaves collected on an autumn walk. Cereal bowls. Popsicle sticks. Used staples. Books. Action figures. Weapons of mass destruction. Model cars. Pictures of loved ones. Thumbtacks. I put it in my pocket.

Mom says, “Kristina’s mother says that going to that bar was your idea. We can’t figure out where you’d come up with that idea if you haven’t been lying to us. I’d like to know when you first went there, and I want to know how you got in and—”

“Wait. What?” I look at her. “What did you just say?” This particular piece of bullshit was fine as a stupid high school rumor, but this is different.

“I talked with Kristina, too. She told me you had to drag her there.”

I stare at her. I become Very Serious Astrid. I sit up straight. I take a deep breath. “Kristina said that I dragged her to Atlantis?”

“Yes. She said she’d never thought about it before because she and Justin were meeting their friends on those double dates they used to take.” She winces a bit with the term double dates.

“That’s complete bullshit,” I say. “I can’t believe she said that.”

Frank says, “Really? I can.”

“I don’t have any reason to disbelieve her, do I?” Mom says.

Mom sits there with her eyebrows up in a judgmental arch.

“Like—only her entire freaking life was a lie, Mom. And all of you bought it! Only a few weeks ago you were asking me about her and Justin and Homecoming. How about that lie?” I yell.

“Well.” She stops for a second as if she’s about to say something nice. “Until she and her mother come here and tell me they lied, I believe them. They’re good people.”

“And I’m not?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says.

“She dragged me there after bugging me for months. She didn’t even know about—uh.” I stop.

“About what?” Mom asks.

“About any questions I might have about stuff like that.” I send love to myself for playing that so vague. Astrid, man, you’re smooth. I love the way you just made that completely obtuse. Nice save.