Jack offers his brother an eyepatch, marked with a skull and crossbones. “You can be my first mate!”
“I thought I be your first mate!” I gasp, throwing myself over the armrest of the sofa. “Oh, the betrayal! From me own captain!”
If nothing else, this supposed study session has given me a chance to work on my horrible English accent. I’d give Dick Van Dyke a run for his money.
Jack giggles and rushes to my side as Lock sneaks through the ship/hospital/living room toward the hall in the back of the apartment. Lock told me they’ve been here for months now, but there’s still a pile of boxes sitting untouched in the corner. Clear evidence of a severe downsize of living space.
“You’re still my first mate,” Jack tells me, handing over the other eyepatch.
I strap it on, both eyes covered now.
“Oh my god! I’ve gone blind! It must be shark fever!” My hands shoot in the air, grasping for Jack and tickling his belly.
Jack howls with laughter as I chase him blindly around the living room until I slip on a stuffed dolphin and faceplant into the soft carpet. The little sea captain tackles me, stabbing me with a plastic syringe in attempts to heal my nautical ailments.
“I’m a goner, captain.” I flip over onto my back, seizing Jack’s thin arm to pull him closer. This will be good. I’ve been rehearsing my go-to death scene speech. “It’s getting so dark… Tell my husband and the kids that I love them…” I gasp and cough and sputter, giving my best performance. It’s truly spectacular. Move over, Leo. I’m coming for your Oscar.
Jack’s looking at me funny when I lift an eyepatch.
“Something wrong, buddy? Sea lion got your tongue?”
“You said husband.” His little voice is uncertain, eyebrows drawn down. “But you mean wife, right?”
“No, I mean husband,” I tell him. When he doesn’t seem to get it, I add, “I’m gay, Jack.”
“What’s that mean?” he asks. No judgment, just looking for answers.
Oh shit. I guess I shouldn’t just assume everyone had the same upbringing as me. Double shit. Am I really going to have this conversation right now? Where the hell is Lock?
“West?” Jack’s eyes are boring into my soul.
Oh boy. Here goes nothing.
“It means I like other boys,” I explain, trying to keep it simple. How does he not know this? Don’t they go over it on Sesame Street these days? “It means I’ll marry a boy someday, not a girl.”
“But who will be the mommy?”
“There won’t be a mommy,” I tell him. “There’ll be two daddies.”
He chews on that for a minute. “I don’t like that,” he says finally.
My heart skips a beat. “And why’s that?”
“Because I miss my daddy.” He swings his toy sword slowly back and forth. “Why does someone else get two of them?”
Lock hasn’t said anything about his father, and I’m a naturally curious (nosy) person, so I look back to the hall to make sure the coast is clear before I ask, “Where is your daddy?”
“Mommy says he isn’t here anymore.” He pulls up his shirt to scratch his belly button in true little kid form. “That’s why we moved.”
Lock walks back in before I can ask another question, and Jack rushes over to him.
“Lan! West is gay! His kids will have two daddies!”
Oh jeez, this kid has no chill.
Now, Lock is looking at me like I’ve slapped him in the face. He shakes his head, looking down at his little brother. “Hey, buddy.” His voice is calm, even though I can see his hands are full-on trembling. “Why don’t we eat dinner in our PJs? Go change and wash up.”
Jack sheds his hat, bolting for the hallway and leaving me with his pissed off brother.
Lucky me.
He doesn’t say anything, just stands there, hands quivering, eyes locked on me.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, crawling to the recliner to help myself off the floor.
“What did you tell him?” His words come slowly, like he’s funneling them.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why is my six-year-old brother talking about gay? He shouldn’t even know what that word means!”
“Whoa, whoa.” My hands raise in a surrendering motion. “Why are you freaking out about this? You know I’m gay right?”
“Duh!” Lock huffs. “I just-It’s just-I can’t-There isn’t…”
I take a few steps and place a hand on either shoulder, forcing his brown eyes to finally meet mine. “I get it, dude. I didn’t mean anything by it, honest.”
He nods, eyes falling to the floor. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to...get all crazy.”
I smile at him, hoping to chase away the dreary look he’s been wearing all night. His brow droops down, forming wrinkles no teenager should have. He’s much cuter when he isn’t scowling. “No worries. Crazy is fun, at times.”
The faintest smile plays on his lips but vanishes just as quickly.
I catch myself lingering, so I pull my hands back.
He clears his throat. “Want to help me with dinner?” he asks.
“Um…” I scratch the back of my head. I should probably tell him about the last time I tried to use the oven, and how it’s impossible to get the smell of burnt cookies out of your clothes. It’s even harder to scrape melted plastic off oven grates. “There’s a good chance I’ll fuck everything up, but what the hell?”
Lock twitches. He does that every time I curse. I’ve given him a lot of reasons to twitch.
We both head into the cramped kitchen to get started. Jack barrels into the room a moment later at full speed, yelling, “Captain Jack is hungry for flesh!”
“On second thought.” I catch Jack around the waist, hoisting him into the air. “Why don’t I keep the pirates at bay while you cook?”
Lock grins. It’s a nice change.
“So, if you add all these together…” I drag my pencil across the scrap paper. “You’ll come up with the surface area for the polygon. What did you come up with?”
West mutters under his breath then drags his teeth along his bottom lip, scribbling furiously on his own paper.
“Thirty-two square inches?”
“Um…” I double check my measurements. “Not even close.”
“Shit! This sucks!” He slams the pencil down, narrowly avoiding landing his elbow in the plate of untouched mac and cheese.
“Keep it down,” I urge him. “Unless you want to try to learn all this with a screaming six-year-old in the background.”
“Fair point.”
We’ve been working for almost two hours now, and it feels like we’re going in circles. While West is still driving the struggle bus, I have managed to glean a few things from the effort. One: West is kind of impatient. Not surprising, considering he’s probably never wanted for anything in his life.
Two: just because I’m good at math doesn’t mean I’m good at teaching it. My stupid twisted tongue isn’t helping anything.
Three: this is making me think of my tutoring sessions with Dad. And that’s the last thing I want to think about.
“Maybe we should call it a night?” West lets out an infectious yawn. His lips curl into a snarl as he exhales.
“We can get this,” I say, stifling my own yawn. I don’t want West to feel like he’s wasted his time. Or that he doesn’t have to pay me.
But then the door opens, and ice spills into my veins when I hear the jingle of my mother’s keys. It’s way later than I intended.
“Lan?” Her voice drifts from the door, and then there’s the sound of scattering papers and a dull thud. “Damn it! How many times have I told you to put your shoes up?!”
“Excuse me,” I whisper to West who’s nodding off at the table.
This is bad. Mom probably hasn’t checked her messages which means there’s a stranger in her home. I’ve got to run interference.
Mom stoops down, gathering the mess of files spilled across
the linoleum. Stress has twisted her features, aging her five years in a matter of months. It’s something I don’t point out. How strings of gray hair show against her dark natural color, bags leeching any vibrancy from her once bright eyes. The way her clothes hang on her like old drapes, and even the deep ochre color of her skin looks faded and lifeless. Everything about her screams broken.
We’re all still mourning. I guess, just in different ways.
“Sorry about the shoes,” I say, scooping up an armful of papers.
Her sigh is a birthday balloon deflating, sad and whiny. “I’m sorry I yelled.”
We haven’t strayed from our routine since we moved. Yell, snap, fight, apologize, rinse and repeat. I’ve tried to skip a few steps as of late and go straight for the apology. It keeps things brief.
Once she’s gathered her documents, she sets the impressive stack on the kitchen counter, wrinkling her nose as she spies the pot with a layer of burnt mac and cheese at the bottom. That’s what you get when you trust the sixteen-year-old to cook dinner, Mom.
“Where’s Jack?” she asks, opening the fridge to grab her own dinner—a bottle of white wine.
“He’s been asleep for two hours,” I say, folding an arm against my chest. It helps keep my mouth in check, holding back the words rattling around my ribcage. “It’s ten thirty, Mom.”
She pauses, looking at the stupid clock on the oven because she can’t just believe her son.
“Oh.” She pours her glass, leaving the bottle on the counter. I’d put it away for her, but it would be a waste of time. It’ll be empty soon.
That’s all I get. No thanks or acknowledgement of my efforts to keep this family from falling apart. Nothing new there.
“Hey, Lock?” West pokes his head around the corner. “I’m gonna tap out. Maybe we can try this again tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I answer before I can stop myself. “See you at school.”
“Later.” He gives us both a wave then leaves through the front door.
“Who was that?” Mom asks, already down to half a glass. She works fast.
“Someone from school.” I grab a sponge from the sink, avoiding her stare as I scrub a cheese stain off the counter. “I’m tutoring him.”
She doesn’t say anything, just continues to glare at me. I count the number of circles it takes to remove the orange residue.
“What?” I ask when there’s no more cheese and I can’t take the silence.
“I don’t want you bringing people into our home without my knowledge.”
Home. How can she call it that? This place isn’t home. My home is thousands of miles away, clear across the country. Does she not feel the same way?
“It wasn’t from lack of trying. If you check your phone, there are three missed calls and a text message.”
“I don’t appreciate that tone, Lachlan.”
“And I don’t appreciate the fact you’re never here, Mom,” I snipe. It’s too late to take it back, so I keep laying into her. “How am I supposed to run everything by you when I can’t reach you?”
“That’s not fair. I have to work. It’s not like I have a choice.”
How many times does she tell herself that in a day? That she’s making the right decision by staying late at the office or volunteering to run herself to death for execs who pay her no mind instead of coming home and being a mom. I’d be a fool to think she stays away for any other reason than to avoid us.
But I don’t say any of that. I toss the sponge into the sink, saying, “He’s paying me, so unless you get home at a decent hour so I can meet him elsewhere, we’ll be right here.”
“Lachlan—”
“Good night, Mom.” I turn my back, so she can’t see the tears welling in my eyes.
The door to my bedroom closes, and I fall face-first into my neatly made bed, letting out a scream of frustration into a pillow.
I don’t know how much more I can take.
“Do you really think he’s—?”
“I’m almost one hundred percent positive there’s a fifty-fifty chance.”
Chels smacks my shoulder. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s gay math. Sorry. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, whatever.” She pouts, stabbing a strawberry with her fork.
Our lunch table sits deserted today, only Chels, me, and Silent Steve brooding at the end. I don’t know if Silent Steve’s name is actually Steve, but he doesn’t object to it. Or anything for that matter. Oh god, is he even real? I’m way too sober to be thinking like this.
“Lock!” Chels waves him over to the table. He sits across from us. “Where’s Shay?”
“She said she had to suffer through a student council meeting.” Lock sets his tray down, shedding his backpack. There’s a colorful assortment of pins on the front, but I don’t have time to decipher them before he slides it to the ground.
“Oh, lame.” Chels pops the murdered berry into her mouth, staining her otherwise perfect teeth. “I was going to ask if she’s planning on being there Saturday.”
“Does it matter?” I say with a laugh. “Half the school will be there.”
“It certainly does matter!” Chels looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “We’ve been over this. If she comes, she’ll bring her brother, and if she brings her brother, I can finally cross him off my list!”
Ah, yes. Who could forget Chels’s list of boy toys. She appreciates a good list. It’s one of the many reasons she’s my favorite person. She’s running out of names, so I understand her desperation. She’s so close to completion.
“List?” Lock echoes. He hasn’t touched his food. Something we have in common.
“Don’t ask,” I warn him.
“Ooo! There’s Derick.” Chels shoots out of her seat. “He’ll be my backup, just in case. Catch you two later.”
I wave as she saunters off to the table of football players, unfastening the top button of her blouse. I sigh, tossing a glance over my shoulder to Lock. “She’s a mess.”
He doesn’t respond, just sort of stares off into space. I admire his expression. My face constantly betrays my thoughts, letting everyone know my secrets. He also has these big hands with fingers long enough to be a piano prodigy. They fiddle with the drawstring on his hoodie. I wonder how they’d feel twisted up in my hair?
“You alri—”
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, leaning over his tray.
“Um…okay? Apology accepted.”
He doesn’t elaborate, just moves his fidgeting hands to his lap.
“Care to fill me in on what you’re sorry about?”
“Last night,” Lock chokes out. “I didn’t mean to get so upset.”
Oh. This is about the gay thing.
“It’s chill,” I tell him, though it really isn’t. “Jack’s just a kid. I was helping him understand. Or, at least, trying to. No biggie.”
Lock just nods, biting his bottom lip.
And because I’m a piece of shit with no social tact, I can’t help but ask, “Are you gay, Lock?”
I can practically see his pulse skyrocket, russet cheeks darkening as his eyes dart back and forth. He’s quiet and obviously uncomfortable. I have that effect on people.
“I’m sorry,” I back-peddle. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or any—”
“It’s complicated,” he interrupts then adds, “Like, beyond complicated. Like, solving a Rubik’s cube while hurtling off a cliff and knitting your own parachute.”
“That’s very specific.”
“Specificity is one of my better qualities.”
“Right. That’s good to know.”
An awkward silence falls over the table, no thanks to Silent Steve. Why’s he so quiet? I bet he never has to worry about saying the wrong thing. If he exists, that is.
“What did I miss?” Chels asks as she slides onto the bench beside me. She’s unfastened her shirt so far down I can see the red lace of her bra.
“N-Nothing,�
� stammers Lock, finally using his fork to push around a pile of peas.
“Uh-huh.” Chels cuts her eyes to me, but mum’s the word. I couldn’t tell her what was going on even if I wanted to. Lock is a very confusing individual.
Is it weird I find that kind of hot?
“Yes! That’s it!” I quickly rein in my excitement.
We’re day three into West’s tutoring marathon and he’s managed to do something right. Okay, that’s harsh. He’s doing a lot of things right. Just not the things that count.
“Fuck yeah!” West leaps from his seat, beating his chest like an ape. “I am man! Take that, numbers!”
“Shh!” There’s no way Jack is still asleep after that outburst, but that doesn’t keep the smile from my face. Maybe I’m not such a bad teacher, after all. I think I may have inherited a little of Dad’s—
“We should celebrate.” West’s eyes are shining in a weird kind of dewy way. They still catch me off guard, their depths bluer than should be possible. It makes my chest ache for home. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, looking into the kitchen. “I-I think there’s some ice cream in the freezer. Lactose free, of course.”
“Oh my god, you’re adorable. You should totally come to Chels’s party tomorrow,” he says, gathering his things. It’s almost eleven, but it’s Friday night, so we’ve been working late. Mom’s MIA which is no surprise.
“A party?”
A real live high school party, like from the movies? I seriously don’t think I have the mental fortitude for that. That’s so many people. In a cramped, unfamiliar space. The ache in my chest transforms into a tightening noose just thinking about it.
“I can’t,” I say, focusing on steady breaths through my nose. How many pots are hanging above the sink again? Three. Four. Five. No, wait, it can’t end on five. I need to count something else.
“Why not?” West pouts, zipping his backpack closed. It looks new. Much nicer than any backpack I’ve ever had. It also matches his shirt, which rides up ever so slightly when he shrugs the pack onto his shoulders.
Lock & West Page 2