by Julie Murphy
We all peer around the corner to see a woman with bouncing chestnut curls and a perfectly round face sorting through piles of receipts as she sits behind a polished, commanding desk. When I imagined Adam’s mom barking orders at the car wash, this is not the woman I had in mind. The wall behind her is a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, with a set of French doors leading into the foyer and another into the kitchen. On the other wall is a large picture window that fills the room with natural light from the setting sun.
Something about this house makes me feel like I can breathe. It’s different from the McMansion where Viv’s birthday party was. I’m not intimidated by this house. I just never want to leave it.
“Way to rat me out, Mom,” says Adam.
Ruth side-eyes me from where she stands on the other side of Freddie. Ruth and Saul’s parents are southern and formal. Well, I guess you could call them stiff. I can see she doesn’t quite know how to react.
The French doors leading into what I’m guessing is the kitchen open and a petite woman with glossy black hair swept into a loose ponytail enters with a beer in each hand. “For my queen,” she says, and hands Adam’s mother one.
She takes it but eyes her suspiciously. “Don’t think this makes up for the mess of receipts you threw on my desk this afternoon.”
She holds one arm up innocently. “I am but a simple woman who needs her wise and patient wife to sort through the graveyard of her finances every quarter.”
I gasp. Audibly. I don’t mean to. But oh my God. Adam has two moms and never told us. I look to Ruth and find that her eyes are just as wide as mine. Freddie grins, and I can’t tell if he knew too or if he’s just making an effort to be polite, unlike Ruth and I. But of course he knew. He must have.
Ms. Garza, the first one, with chestnut curls, turns to Ruth and me. “Children, a lesson to you: never marry down.”
Ms. Garza, the second one, assaults her wife’s cheek with kisses. “Or,” she says, “marry your accountant. Especially if she’s pretty. Looks and brains, I tell ya.”
“By the way,” the first Ms. Garza says, “you can call me Pam, and my wife here goes by Cindy. Having two Ms. Garzas under one roof can be a little confusing.”
Cindy laughs. “Or when Adam would call for Mommy when he was scared to go to the bathroom by himself in the middle of the night.”
“When was that?” asks Freddie. “Last week?”
Pam and Cindy both laugh, their heads knocking together.
Adam rolls his eyes, but I feel so taken aback. I look to Ruth again, the shock on her face finally dissolving. The Garzas really do keep to themselves, and they live on the outskirts of town, so I guess this isn’t so huge of a surprise, but I feel weirdly cheated to just now find out that two women married to each other live right here in my tiny town and I never even knew.
I glance at Adam again and back to his moms, who are whispering to each other, and then back to Adam. Adam—perfectly good, nice, respectful Adam—has no idea how good he has it. Sure, having gay parents in Mississippi isn’t a total breeze, but his parents love each other and they’ve built this whole incredible life for him and his sister.
“Adam, son,” Pam finally says, “are you going to introduce us to your friends?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods to Freddie. “Y’all know Freddie from the car wash.” He turns to Pam. “Mom, he spent the night after Julia’s party, remember?”
His little sister’s birthday party. The night we snuck into that pool. I cringe at the memory.
“Ah,” Pam says, “yes, but he was in too much of a hurry to stick around for my French toast.”
Freddie laughs nervously. “Yes, ma’am. My gram needed me home early that day. Not only will I make it up to you in the future, but I’ll make you the egg dish of your choosing.”
I ignore the way my body sings with affection for him.
Pam smiles, and I see that it’s her smile that Cindy probably fell in love with. She has the kind of smile that’s wide and dazzling and defines her entire face when she aims it in your direction.
“And this is Ramona,” Adam continues, “and Ruth.”
Cindy’s eyebrows pop up. “Well, this is the first time Adam’s ever brought ladies home.”
Adam’s cheeks turn beet red. “We’re watching Star Wars,” he says.
“Well, you’d better leave the door open to that movie room, mister,” Pam tells him.
A movie room? An entire room dedicated to watching movies?
“Mom,” he says, “they’re lesbians. And not even with each other.”
Cindy’s lips twitch for a moment, like there’s something she wants to say to us. For a moment, I wonder if she has some weird yet wonderful bit of middle-aged-lesbian advice to impart to us. But instead she just treats us like we’re totally normal, which is somehow even better. “Leave the door open like your mother asked.”
Beside me, Ruth smiles.
Freddie steps forward in his usual charming way. “Thank you,” he says, “for having us over on a school night.”
“Manners, eggs, and girls who don’t even want to sleep with our son,” says Cindy. “Y’all are welcome here anytime.”
“Anytime,” Pam echoes, her smile warm and genuine.
I nod. Some part of me feels tender and exposed, but not in a bad way. It’s a small gesture, but it has big meaning.
The three of us follow Adam up the stairs as he and Freddie take turns swatting each other with lightsabers.
The movie room is a dark, windowless space with three deep-brown leather love seats. Ruth and Adam each claim their own love seat, so Freddie and I are left to share the one in the middle.
Before sitting, I hesitate for a moment as I realize how close together we’ll be. But it doesn’t matter, because we’re friends. Just friends. And besides! We’re in a room with Adam and Ruth. How much more unromantic could it get?
“Hey,” says Ruth in a voice that’s a cross between a whisper and a shout. “When exactly were you going to tell us that you have two moms?”
Adam shrugs. “They’re my parents. When were you going to tell me you have a mom and a dad?”
Ruth shakes her head. “No, that is not the same thing.”
I swallow back a laugh. “I mean, Adam, we’re lesbians. You having two moms would’ve given you major gay street cred with us.”
He throws up his arms. “I don’t know! They’re my moms. I didn’t really know how to be like, hey, P.S. my moms are super gay for each other. It’s not like I’m ashamed of them. But they’re my parents. I don’t know.”
“And you didn’t tell us either!” Ruth says to Freddie.
Freddie shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”
Except that it is. But maybe Adam is protective of his moms or maybe he felt awkward just throwing it out there. I don’t know, but knowing they’re here . . . well, it’s a nice feeling.
Adam doubles back to the door and cracks it open before starting the movie, which plays from a projector overhead. The room is so dark that it’s easy to believe we’ve been transported to a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
I’ve sat, curled up with my dad in our little trailer, watching every Star Wars movie in almost every order imaginable. Dad prefers to start with Episode I. He says that trilogy is the worst, so it’s best to get it out of the way anyhow, but Adam starts with Episode IV: A New Hope, the first movie ever released in the series.
Freddie quietly hums along to the music, and when he catches me smiling at him, he whispers, “What? It’s not like I’ve never heard the theme song.”
On one side of us, Adam mouths every single line, and on our other side Ruth is asleep before Luke accidentally plays R2-D2’s message meant for Obi-Wan Kenobi.
“Why do Leia’s buns make me so hungry?” asks Freddie. “Like, they just make me want cinnamon rolls.”
“Oh my God, shut up,” says Adam.
“And there are literally zero black people in this movie.”
“Bro,�
�� says Adam, “the whiteness is blinding, I get it, but this movie is super old. And at least you end up getting Lando Calrissian.”
“Lando who?” asks Freddie while R2-D2 dukes it out with a gang of Jawas.
“Lando Calrissian,” I say. “And he ends up being a traitor.”
“Who ends up being a good guy,” argues Adam.
“Who still starts out as a traitor,” I say.
“It’s not perfect, okay? Can we just watch the movie?”
Freddie cracks a few jokes about how old everything looks. But still, it doesn’t take long before he is simultaneously riveted by Luke and Leia and laughing at Han Solo’s cockiness.
Because I’ve seen this movie so many times, it’s easy to get caught up in watching Freddie.
He sits with his hand between us, palm facing up. I tell myself it’s just the way he’s sitting, but it feels too much like an invitation to ignore.
I rest my hand next to his so that all that’s touching is our pinkies. I think I do it to prove to myself that we can be friends. We can touch and it can mean nothing—or well, as much as it means when my hand brushes up against Ruth’s or Adam’s or Saul’s.
But instead what I find is that my heart, my whole heart, has made its way to my pinkie along with all the blood that runs through my veins. My heart pounds in that one little finger as it barely brushes against his.
The light from the screen cascades over Freddie, creating a silhouette, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and his pinkie crosses over mine, like we’re making some kind of promise. A silent pinkie-swear in this great big house as we watch a movie about a fatherless boy who’s searching for his one true home in a great big galaxy.
We sit like that until Adam turns the lights back on as the credits roll. Then the two of us quickly pull our hands away. Ruth slowly wakes up, yawning and stretching. Freddie and I sit with our arms crossed over our chests, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. As my eyes adjust, I realize that Freddie and I are much braver in the dark than in the light.
DECEMBER
TWENTY-TWO
The next morning I’m sluggish as my legs pump the pedals of my bike. Sharing a twin bed with Hattie has turned into a regular occurrence. She’s stopped even bothering to try sleeping in her full-size bed with Tyler. He gets too sweaty, she says, and your room is the first one off the AC vent. It’s true that my room is cooler than my dad’s and Hattie’s, but I keep thinking that’s not the only reason she’s taken up residence in my room.
Having Tyler in our house feels like a stranger’s begun occupying the room next to mine. The thought of him living in our house and eating our food—all free of charge—grates on me more and more every day. I know Dad feels it, too. He’s just too nice to say so.
And truthfully, my head was too full of questions last night for me to ever shut down and fall asleep. The only conclusion I came to was that Freddie and I must do everything we can to stay friends. And friends don’t make a big deal of holding hands—or pinkies?—during movies.
As I fly down the hill to Freddie’s, I kick my legs out and let the pedals spin on their own. The drive home last night was only slightly awkward, and I totally chickened out and asked Freddie to drop me off before Ruth.
When I drop my bike in Freddie’s driveway, Agnes is sitting on the porch, drinking her morning coffee. “Brought your swimsuit?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The front door swings open as Freddie comes walking out with his gym bag hanging from his shoulder.
“All right, kiddies,” says Agnes. “Let’s motor.”
“Shotgun,” I call, trying my best to act normal.
Freddie walks himself to the backseat.
“Not gonna fight me for it?” I ask.
“I think that’d be a losing battle.” He half smiles, but his voice is flat.
A little twinge of disappointment settles in my belly.
We drive with the windows down as Agnes listens to her talk radio show.
At the YMCA, the only car in the parking lot belongs to Carter, the old man who works the front desk in the mornings.
The three of us drop our bags in the locker rooms and change into our suits before heading out to the pool. Agnes takes her usual end lane and Freddie beside her and me beside him. We all dive in and begin to swim our laps, each hitting our rhythm.
I love the way my body reacts to water. I know that I’ll pay for pushing myself as hard as I am this morning, but in this moment I can’t feel my muscles burn. I am weightless, and my brain is on autopilot as my body does exactly what it is supposed to do. I can hardly remember that I’m exhausted and frustrated and confused. I barely let myself blink, though, because every time I do, I see Freddie’s freckles.
I swim back and forth and back and forth. The only thing that stops me is Freddie as I’m about to do a flip-turn to make another lap.
“It’s gettin’ late,” he shouts, his voice muffled as I shake the water out of my ears. “We better hit the showers.”
I nod into my heaving chest. “Right.”
Freddie pulls himself out of the pool and then turns to offer me a hand, but I pull myself up. It takes me a minute to find my balance after swimming so furiously for almost an hour, and he timidly steadies me by my elbow.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
The woman in the black Speedo, who is always coming as we’re going, sits on the bleachers, stretching her arms over her head. “You didn’t look like a mess out there,” she says.
Freddie turns to me, a question in his expression, but I motion for him to go ahead without me and he obliges.
After weeks of unsolicited comments, the woman finally extends a hand to me and says, “Prudence Whitmire.”
I shake her hand. “Ramona.”
“You ever swim on a team?”
“No, ma’am.”
She nods. “Figured as much.”
A dead quiet sinks between us as I realize that’s all she was going to say. “Well, it was nice to meet you.” My voice is too perky, but it’s the best I can do to hide my disappointment at her criticizing my swimming skills.
But she hasn’t dismissed me yet. She stands and walks the two steps down the bleachers to me. Standing on level ground, I can see that she’s quite petite and barely even comes as high as my chest. “Listen,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re some kind of prodigy or anything, but I just retired as head swim coach over at Delgado Community College in Slidell. If you ever decide you want to swim for more than fun, and maybe learn a thing or two while you’re at it, maybe I could help you get a foot in the door there.” She shrugs and walks off toward the diving blocks.
“Thanks?” But she doesn’t hear me over the music from the early-morning water aerobics class.
As I walk to the locker room, I file her offer away in my permanent memory bank. It’s a nice gesture that unfortunately doesn’t mean much to me. I can’t imagine there’s much scholarship money for community college swim teams. Still, there’s a little hiccup in my rib cage from being flattered, even if it was in the most bizarre way.
Steam billows out from the stall where Agnes is already showering.
Thankful for the privacy, I strip out of my swimsuit and hang the towel from my bag on the hook outside my shower stall.
The water heats up quickly and opens my chest, forcing me to breathe clearly. I use the shampoo and conditioner in the dispensers, even though I know Hattie would kill me for not using the color-safe stuff she buys at the beauty shop.
The faucet in Agnes’s stall stops, and a few minutes later she says, “I’ll be waiting in the car, dear.”
After she leaves, I rinse the conditioner from my hair. I turn off the water and dry off for a moment before wrapping my towel around my chest. I get as far as putting on my underwear when I hear a loud crack and then the power goes out. It’s not until this moment that I realize that I am in a windowless interior room. I hold my hand up in front of m
y face but see nothing. Total darkness. Panic bubbles up from my chest and into my throat. I reach out frantically and find the lockers to my left.
“Ramona?” a voice calls.
It’s Freddie. In the women’s locker room.
“I’m in here,” I say. “But I can’t see anything.”
“Carter’s looking for flashlights out front, but he’s not having much luck.”
“Okay, so what does that mean for me?”
“I guess they were working on some lines and a generator blew.”
I turn to grab my T-shirt, but instead trip over the corner of a bench.
“Are you okay?” calls Freddie.
“Just kind of disoriented.”
“Do you want me to come in? I can try to use my cell phone for light.”
I pull my towel tighter around my chest. “Um, yeah. Go ahead.”
“Marco?” His voice is playful, and it eases my anxiety. Logically, I know that there’s no one in this locker room except for Freddie and me. But the dark makes me feel claustrophobic.
“Polo,” I answer. We would play Marco Polo on the beach with Hattie all the time when we were kids. Freddie always wanted to play on dry land, and Hattie and I would sneak off into the ocean, because we knew he’d never try to find us there.
“Marco?”
“Polo.”
We go back and forth a few times as he follows my voice to the far corner of the expansive room. And then I see the light from his phone as he rounds the corner.
“Here,” I say. “I’m right here.”
He lifts his phone so that it’s shining on me.
I squint and block my eyes with my hand.
“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.” His words are clipped, and I don’t have to see him to know he’s blushing.
“I couldn’t see,” I tell him.
He holds his phone out to me. “Here. Take this. I’ll turn around and wait for you down there.”
“Thanks.”
Quickly, I tug my jeans up my still damp legs and put my bra and T-shirt on. After shoving my wet swimsuit into my duffel, I turn to see Freddie still standing with his back to me a few lockers down. His shoulders rise up and down evenly, like he’s taking meditative breaths.