When Everything Is Blue(64)
I chuckle like he made a joke, even though that’s not quite the tone of his voice. “Anyway, the competition is in a couple weeks. You should come check it out, see what I’ve been up to the past couple years.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He rubs his hand over the dashboard of the car. “I remember my first car—an ’84 Camaro, cherry red with pinstriping. Looked amazing, but it was only a four-cylinder. Didn’t have much get-up-and-go. I didn’t know much about cars then.”
I glance over to see him smiling sheepishly. I appreciate his honesty. My dad hardly ever admits when he was wrong, about anything. “Oops,” I tell him.
“Yeah, oops.” He chuckles at that, and it’s nice to see a more laid-back version of my dad. I bet he used to be a lot more fun before adulting got him so down.
When we arrive back at my house, I realize we’ve gone a whole twenty minutes without arguing, and it almost makes me feel hopeful that there might be a space we can both occupy amicably.
“I don’t know what to do with the Range Rover now,” Dad says when we’re both standing in the driveway. “I guess I’ll have to sell it.”
“Tabs still wants it. She’ll be getting her license soon, and I’d rather not have to share my car with her.” I don’t say this to him, but Tabs isn’t the best at sharing.
“You think she can handle it?”
I don’t know what he means by it, but I nod enthusiastically. “She’s got a few more months to practice, but she’ll be fine when the time comes.”
“Well, if you think so.” Dad stares at me, and I know I should just tell him—man up and get it over with. But do I really want to ruin this moment by coming out to him right now in my driveway? Maybe we should have a few more visits like this one, and then I can come out.
While I’m stalling, Dad’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, tells me it’s Susan and that he has to take it. He drifts over toward his Tahoe while their conversation veers into argument territory. My dad pinches the bridge of his nose and talks through his teeth. Been there, done that, I think. Makes me feel a little better that I’m not the only one who can provoke that reaction from him. Meanwhile I inspect the rims on my car, making sure Chris didn’t miss any grease spots.
Dad calls me over, his hand over the phone. “Was there anything else you needed, Theo?” The irritation is back in his voice, like he has a million patients in the waiting room and I’m taking up more than my allotted time.
“No, Dad, I’m good.”
“All right, then, see you soon.”
He walks over to the driver’s side while fussing into the phone. I watch his Tahoe pull away and round the corner, out of sight. I pull out my phone and think about texting him “I’m gay.” Just keep it as simple as that, but knowing how my dad feels about text apologies, that would probably be the worst way to come out to him.
Instead I text him the details of the Plan Z competition and tell him I hope he can make it.
Looks like I chickened out again.
Exit Asshole Dave
WHEN MY mom and sister get home that evening. I tell them, politely, to butt out.
“He’s waited sixteen years to hear about it,” I say. “He can wait a little longer.”
I also tell Chris about punking out with my dad. His response: “It’s cool. You’ll do it when you’re ready.”
Like, never.
Over the next few days, Chris and I prowl around town for prime skating terrain, spending a few hours at the skate park to appease him, but significantly more time in places like Tropical Smoothie and BOA and random drainage ditches, where I feel a little freer and more spontaneous, where I can try out crazy combinations without worrying I’ll look stupid in front of my colleagues. Chris films me with his phone and says he’s going to cut up the videos and upload them to YouTube in preparation for my big debut. I’m a little worried What’s in Wooten’s mouth will follow me to a YouTube channel, but there’s only so much I can stress about. My top priority for now is not looking like a total amateur at Plan Z.
“Homework assignment, Wooten,” Chris says to me Thursday night before we part. He’s heading out to Cali in the morning to visit his dad for a long weekend, leaving me to my own devices for a few days. “That two-story rail outside of BOA—I want you to be able to slide it any which way—front, back, nose, tail, and board.”
“Grinds are so basic.” I much prefer the aerial tricks, preferably over long flights of stairs. I like the “wow” factor.
“Grinds show off your technical ability, and judges love them. Plus, the skate park has a hell of a lot more rails than it does stairs. Curbs too. You should work on your mounts and dismounts. Transitions matter,” he says with emphasis, because I’m starting to nod and smile like I do whenever he goes into boss mode. “For the three-step flight of stairs, I’d practice your nollie laser flip. That’s a crowd pleaser. Save the nightmare flip for the finale.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“I want your no-comply’s so smooth it looks like you’re moonwalking.”
“Are you done?” I’d rather our goodbye kiss not be interrupted by Chris’s verbal diarrhea.
He smiles and cups my face in both hands, plants a big sloppy kiss on my mouth for fun, then comes in again for something softer and more meaningful. “Wish me luck,” he says.