I’m not grateful that I’m gay.
Maybe that means that I hate myself.
And I’m wondering if I told you that, I’m wondering how you’d feel? How can I not want to be gay and love you at the same time? The thing I’m most grateful for is you. How does that work? The only thing I know about sexuality is you. Me and you. That’s all I know. And the only word that comes to mind is “beautiful.” Dante, there are so many things I don’t get. There are so many things I’m still so confused about.
But the one thing that I’m not confused about is that I love you. I’m not a faggot. And neither are you. I won’t label myself with an ugly word when what I feel for you is so fucking beautiful.
Oh, and there’s one thing I want to ask you. Do you think I’m a paragon of responsibility? Just thought I’d ask.
Sixteen
DANTE CALLED ME ON THE phone and made an announcement. Dante loved to make announcements. “We’re going to have Thanksgiving at my house.”
“We are? Who’s ‘we’?”
“You and your mom and dad and Cassandra and her mom.”
“How’d that happen?”
“My mom’s been on a cooking spree. She calls it nesting.”
“Nesting?”
“Yeah, she says a lot of women nest when they’re pregnant. They want to cook and clean—you know, like birds building a nest. Our house is spotless. I mean, even my room is spotless right now. It gives me the creeps to walk in there. My mom’s nesting is serious business. So she’s all about the turkey and stuffing and the mashed potatoes and the gravy and the cranberries. And my dad’s going to bake some bread. And Cassandra’s mom is going to bring a couple of side dishes, and your mom’s going to bake the pies.”
“And I know nothing of this because?”
“Because you’re Ari, and you don’t pay attention. I mean, even though you’re very nearly socialized—”
“Very nearly socialized?”
“You know, you can still be pretty socially distant, Ari.”
“Socially distant? Is that like a new Dante concept? Never mind.”
I could hear him laughing as I hung up the phone. I wasn’t mad. More annoyed. Even people you loved could annoy you.
* * *
I decided to make my own contribution to Thanksgiving. I called a flower shop and told them I wanted to order something appropriate for a Thanksgiving dinner. “A nice centerpiece for the table, perhaps?” the lady said.
“Yes,” I said.
“We can arrange that. Only you’ll have to pick it up yourself. We’re fully booked on deliveries.”
“I can pick it up,” I said.
So, on Wednesday after school, I drove to the flower shop, and paid the nice lady, and she had one of her employees open the door for me—and she even opened the truck door for me as I placed the centerpiece on the seat of the truck.
“I’d put it on the floor,” she said. “That way if you make too quick a stop, it won’t tip over.”
These people knew their business.
I drove to the Quintanas’ house, and I have to say I was feeling proud of myself. Maybe I was feeling a little too proud of myself.
I managed to get the centerpiece out of the truck and kick the door closed, and I walked up the steps very carefully. All I could think of was the cookies I’d once dropped on the floor. I managed to ring the doorbell and, all of a sudden, I felt like an idiot.
Mr. Quintana answered the door.
“I brought you something.” I never knew when all that shyness living inside me was going to come out.
“I see that,” Mr. Quintana said. “And you wonder why I’m always telling you and Dante how sweet you are.”
“We don’t have to go there, do we, Mr. Quintana?”
He was grinning ear to ear. “You know, Ari, that’s an awfully adult thing you’re doing there.”
“Well, it happens to the best of us.”
He cocked his head. “Right this way.” He led me to the dining room table—which they never used. I placed the centerpiece in the middle of the table. “Soledad, come look at this.”
Mrs. Quintana was wearing an apron and she looked like she’d been in the kitchen for a while. “From you, Ari?”
I just sort of shrugged my shoulders.
She kissed me on the cheek. “Someday,” she said, and then she winked, “you’re going to make some man very happy.”
I didn’t know if I was supposed to laugh—but I did. And then I said, like an idiot, “That was supposed to be a joke, right?”
Her smile. I think the word for it was “radiant.” Maybe women who were about to have a baby had a halo around them. Somehow Mrs. Quintana’s pregnancy had brought out the girl in her. It was nice. But I hoped the other Mrs. Quintana would come back.
* * *
I watched my mother as she was baking her pies. She already had an apple pie and a pecan pie in the oven. She always made a cherry pie for my father—because he didn’t care for pumpkin pie. And everybody liked pecan pie. Me, I was all about pumpkin pie. I was all over it.
“How come you just don’t order them from a bakery?”
“When have I ordered anything from a bakery? I don’t even order birthday cakes from a bakery.”
“It’s a lot of work.”
“Not if you like to bake. It’s a part of the whole holiday thing.”
“It’s a thing?”
“Yes. A whole big thing. And you want to know who taught me how to bake the best pies?”
“Who? Your mom?”
“Nope.”
“Aunt Ophelia?”
“Your aunt Ophelia once burned a frozen apple pie. She burned more than one, actually.”
“Well, then who?”
“Mrs. Alvidrez.”
“Mrs. Alvidrez? Her?”
“Yes, her.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
* * *
Dinner wasn’t really dinner. We all gathered at the Quintanas’ at one in the afternoon. When we arrived at their front door, Mrs. Quintana said, “I’ve been having contractions.”
“Oh, no,” my mother said. “We should cancel the dinner.”
“Don’t be silly—it’s probably just false labor.” She didn’t look particularly worried. Then she had this pained look on her face and bent over a bit and took a deep breath, then another. My mother took her hand, then helped her into the living room and gently helped her sit down. And then Mrs. Quintana smiled. “It’s gone. Much better.”
“How long have you been having contractions?”
“Off and on most of the night. But they’re irregular. And I expect it’s not quite time.” Mr. Quintana poured my parents a glass of wine. He and Mrs. Ortega had already been enjoying their red wine.
“I really think you’re going to have that baby tonight.” Mrs. Ortega seemed concerned.
“Let’s enjoy our Thanksgiving,” Mrs. Quintana said.
“She’s bound and determined to have her Thanksgiving meal before she goes to the hospital. Dante and I have stopped trying to out-stubborn her.” Mr. Quintana shook his head. “Sometimes Dante likes to beat his head against the wall.”