The Music of What Happens(14)

My feet find the bottom of the pool. “Yeah.”

She raises one eyebrow. Her hair is starting to frizz. “When you’re done out here, come inside. I’m worried about you, mijo. Something’s not right.”

I go back to floating without answering her. Sometimes she can be a bit nosey, my mom. A little controlling. I hear her exit the water, and then the patio door slides shut and I look up at the sky. No clouds. Just royal blue as far as the eye can see. I wish I felt as clear as the sky.



The air-conditioning feels great when I go back inside. My mom’s reclined on the gray fabric couch, a glass of water in her hand, a towel under her. The TV is on that high-definition station that’s just a fireplace. Ever since she got our new 4K television, she’s all up on this fireplace thing, even though you could currently cook a chicken on our deck if you let it sit long enough.

“Oh good, we can warm up,” I say.

She laughs. “Damn right.”

“Should I throw another log in?”

She cackles and pantomimes throwing a log at our TV. “Boom!” she says, exploding her hands.

She taps the end of the couch with her feet and I put my towel down and sit there, facing the TV. I can feel her eyes on my profile.

“All weekend. You’re off your game, mijo.”

I make a big show of leaning my head back like I’m exasperated. “You’re hallucinating.”

“Yeah, right,” she says. “I’ve known you a little while.”

I turn toward her and give her my best, most dazzling smile. “See?” I say. “All good.”

She takes a sip from her water glass and raises her eyebrows at me. “That smile works with everyone else but me. C’mon. What’s going on?”

“Mom. Stop.”

“I know you like to say nothing, but something’s up. I know it. I feel it in here.” She points to her heart.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’s stupid stuff.” I flash her another smile.

She pulls an orange throw pillow onto her lap. “You know I’m not going to stop, so why not just get it over with and tell me? So I can stop worrying and go back to my fireplace.”

I exhale. It’s been a while since our last heart-to-heart. It was about a month after I told her I was gay, two years back. She was cool about it. Told me never to feel ashamed of who I am, and I was like, Yeah. I know. When she told Uncle Guillermo, our only relative in the States, he did the typical machismo thing for like a minute, until my mom reminded him that I play baseball and am bigger and stronger than him, and anyway to just cut that shit out. Which he did. She wanted to talk about sex and if I was dating, but I shut that down because, come on. She finally relented and said, “Just be careful, mijo. There’s lots of users and abusers out there.” And I nodded but I admit I was also like, Yeah. Not that worried. Nobody messes with me much. I don’t take a lot of shit because of my size, probably.

I take a deep breath. If ever there was a mom a person could talk to about whatever the fuck that was Friday night, it would be Rosa Gutierrez. She’s definitely cool. But something tells me not to.

“Just … boy stuff.”

“Like, ‘I lost my football’ boy stuff, or ‘I like a boy’ boy stuff?”

“The latter,” I say, omitting that I don’t actually like a boy. If only.

“Tell me, mijo.”

“Nah,” I say, and I sit up. “Thanks, Mom. But I’m okay.”

She raises one eyebrow at me. “You get this from your dad. He thinks talking is for girls too.”

“I can … talk,” I say.

She gives me that toothy mom smile. “You can, but you don’t,” she says.

And I can’t argue with her there. And anyway, I feel a bit better after our talk, even if I only said a little.



After dinner, I call my dad.

“Broseph!” he yells, picking up the phone. I don’t know why he thinks calling his son Broseph is funny, but that’s my dad for you. Oh well.

“Yo, what up,” I say.

“Chillaxin’. How’s school?”

“Over for the year.”

“Right on,” he says.

Dad’s name is Ryan Morrison. He likes beer, fast cars, and TV shows where people get hit in the balls. Mentally he’s about twelve. He’s basically everything my mom isn’t.

When I don’t say anything else, he says, “You gotta see this new club. Destroying. They fuckin’ love me. Those assholes at the Barn can eat my ass.”

My dad, the poet. “Yeah?” I ask.

“Got this new bit about throwing up in your mouth.”

“Sounds epic,” I say. “Sounds like you’re really making the world a better place.”

He laughs. I laugh. “How’d you get to be such a smart-ass?”

“Gee, Dad, no idea.”

He laughs some more.

When I get off the phone, I smile. I think about my mom and my dad, and wonder what in the world made them think they should be together. Did he change, or did she? Because once upon a time, they must have liked talking to each other. But now, I can hardly imagine that conversation. Not even a little bit.





Mom is in one of her good moods when I get home from the second day of just me and Max on the food truck on Monday afternoon.