I fish a trash bag from under the sink and head to the garage, which feels relatively cavernous these days now that it’s empty of furniture. I mean, it’s still stuffed with plastic boxes, and cardboard boxes, and all the old bikes I’ve ever owned (that Yasmín might grow into someday), and miscellaneous tools scattered around the floor, and books and magazines piled up and slowly disintegrating in the grimy humidity. But there’s room to walk now, which makes all the difference.
I sort through a cardboard box of mostly broken Christmas decorations. The HAPPY HOLIDAYS sign that doesn’t light up anymore goes straight into the trash bag along with the cracked cookie jar and the nativity scene that’s missing so many pieces it’s basically just a model farm.
Dad joins me right at the end of my second hour. I quickly shove my phone back into my pocket and return to the box in front of me, one that has a bunch of my old Barbies and my archaeology kit.
“Hey.” Dad smiles as he perches on a stack of newspapers next to me. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, it’s a blast. You should have been here when I was hauling trash bags.”
He smiles. He’s got his long-day face on, like he always does lately. “But hey, it’s a good workout for quidditch, right? Build those muscles? I hear you’re running tonight.”
“Yeah, Melissa’s trying to make it a daily thing.” I wonder if we’re leading up to a lecture. Dad’s small talk seems too pointed to actually be casual. But his frown lines are smooth, and he doesn’t stay silent.
“That’s good,” he says. “It’s good that you’re getting to be more active. I can run with you anytime you want, you know.” He picks up my Little Chemist crystal-growing kit. “This looks fun.”
“Do you think that would still work?” I ask. “Yasmín could have it, and we could do it together.”
“You know that I—that we—Connie and I love you very much,” Dad blurts, and I stop drooling over the crystals to blink at him.
“Huh?”
It’s not like we’re one of those families that never says we love each other, but this doesn’t sound like a normal expression of affection. This is a proclamation. Are they sending me to military school? Getting a divorce? My eyes fall on Dad’s T-shirt, printed, like mine, with a large pink ribbon. Is someone dying?
Before I can work myself into too much of a panic, Dad continues, “And . . . and we will always support you, and love you, no matter what—no matter who you, um, find yourself attracted to. And you can tell us . . . anything about that. You know that, don’t you?”
Oh my freaking goodness. My skull is not large enough to contain my violent eye roll.
“Dad. What did Connie tell you?”
Dad lets out a big breath, a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. “She said you all but declared you didn’t want to date boys. And, uh, she mentioned how you’re resistant to fashion . . .”
I tap my feet against the concrete floor and sigh. “I was just saying that if I did want to date a girl, it shouldn’t be any different. And my gender, uh, gender presentation has nothing to do with this because orientation is different from—”
“Well, she said you got upset and defensive, and you seemed to be taking it personally . . .”
“Because it’s a matter of basic respect and decency?” I clench my fists, accidentally denting the edge of the cardboard box in my lap. It is personal, and not just because Connie had to throw in the fashion jab. I’m thinking of Xiumiao, of course, and Alex, and probably Karey, and a whole rainbow host of internet and school acquaintances who have helped me understand all the nuances of queerness that Dad and Connie are just bulldozing. But I shouldn’t have to out my friends or name gay people I care about to justify caring!
“Okay, okay.” Dad holds up his hands in surrender. “Well, we thought it was better safe than sorry. What I said stands, you know.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” I shrug. Even though I know it comes from a nice place, the whole “We’ll love you even if . . .” is suspect at best. Like, do you want a cookie for not threatening to disown me? It’s hard to get into that sort of thing with Dad, though. He considers himself “progressive” but then he seems so clueless about what that means and so uninterested in learning. “And you know,” I add, “I would love either of you if you decided that you might be attracted to a different type of—”
“All right, Ellen, no need to be ridiculous,” Dad cuts me off.
Not so progressive after all.
“Okay,” Dad says after a few minutes of silence. “So we’ve established that your passionate defense of the LGBTQ community doesn’t stem from hiding your identity?”
“Uh . . .” We haven’t established that, actually, but I think Dad just wants me to say I’m not into girls, so I hold up Olympic Figure Skater Barbie, waggling the doll toward Dad. “Don’t worry,” I squeak, “target suitably heteronormalized.”
The look Dad gives me conveys a sentiment that probably involves some ableist language.
“Well.” He shrugs. “I have to admit that I’m relieved.”
“Um . . .”
“I just think it would be really hard, you know? I pity the parents who have to deal with that . . .”
The Barbie drops into my lap as I shrink away from Dad’s words. All that “we’ll love you no matter what” doesn’t carry much weight when you then actively celebrate having a supposedly straight kid.
I’m a total hypocrite, because I jumped down Connie’s throat for saying more or less the same thing, but I don’t want to fight with Dad.
Besides, Melissa and Karey will be here any minute to run. So I shrug and let Dad hug me and follow him back inside.
I try to ignore the nagging feeling of disappointment at my own cowardice.
* * *
• • •
I hate running. I hate running. I. Hate. Running.
It’s not the most motivational chant, but it’s the one I repeat as my feet scrape against the gravel of the bike path. I. Hate. This.
I keep going, though, a few steps behind Melissa, following the pace Karey sets. Sweat drips down my face and my legs drag, and why is this so much harder than running during a game?
The best time to run in Houston is well after dark, but at least at five the sun has taken its intensity down a notch and we can be outside without sunscreen. Following the gravel bike path through the shaded suburban forest is almost bearable, except for the running.
When we reach the tiny neighborhood park, we grab drinks from the dull silver fountain.