Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(7)

“I’m not ashamed.” A vein in my left temple pulses. “If I was gay, I’d admit it.”

“Really? I’m not so sure. Or maybe you just don’t realize what’s so clear to the rest of us.”

“You know what? Keep the stupid ice pack.” I grab the remote control, shut off the television, and storm out of the family room.

The second I’m through the door, I am engulfed by our panting, whining dogs. I make my way through the living room, trying to pretend that I can’t hear Cathy hot on my heels.

Ingrid, our African gray parrot, squawks from her cage in the corner of the room. “I’m hung like a horse!”

“You’re a girl, Ingrid,” I snap. “You’re not even hung like a bird.”

“Take the pecker!” She jabs her beak at the air.

Two years ago, Ingrid was found in the home of some dead old guy who must have had nothing better to do with his time than teach her how to curse at people. Strangely enough, we haven’t been able to adopt her out.

“You like it birdie style!” she caws, grabbing the side of her cage with her claws and doing little thrusting motions with her body.

“You see?” Cathy laughs. “Even Ingrid knows.”

I ignore both of them and go to the kitchen. Yank open the freezer door and look inside to see if we have anything I can use as a substitute cold pack. Peas. A box of Fudgsicles. A whole salmon.

“I mean, Mom and Dad probably won’t understand,” I hear Cathy say from the doorway. “Being as uptight as they are. But they’d have to accept it eventually. With some counseling, they’d learn to love you again. And think about how much more interesting you’d be.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” I stare into the freezer, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of my full attention, even if it means I have to shout for her to hear me. “You can talk and talk all you want. It doesn’t matter. There is nothing you can say that is ever going to convince me to change how I feel about guys, okay? I know who I like and who I don’t. And frankly, what Mom and Dad think about my sexual tendencies doesn’t even enter the picture.”

Someone clears their throat behind me and I can tell immediately that it’s not Cathy.

I whip around to see my parents standing there, shopping bags dangling from their hands, their eyes wide. I scan the kitchen for my sister, but she’s nowhere to be found.

I shut the freezer door and clap my hand on my hickey-peppered neck. “Hi, guys.”

Mom’s eyes start to tear up. She glances at Dad, then back to me. “Is there . . . ? Is there something you’d like to tell us, hon?”

I blink, confused. Then it finally hits me. “Oh! No. No, there’s nothing. Cathy was just . . . She was trying to . . . Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Mom takes a deep breath, sniffling. “It’s okay, sweetie.” She uses her placating, everything’s-fine-here voice. The one she uses whenever Dixie — our lactose-intolerant beagle — accidentally soft-serves on the living-room carpet. She plops her bags on the kitchen table, then looks at Dad. “Believe it or not, your father and I have actually discussed this. We had a . . . a hunch that you might be . . . you know . . . and we are . . .” She swallows the jagged little pill. “We are okay with it. Aren’t we, honey?” She looks over at Dad again.

“Yes,” Dad says, sounding like his shorts just shrank three sizes. “As long as you’re absolutely sure. And you don’t want to, you know, maybe talk to Father Hurley about it first.”

“What? No! I don’t —”

“I’m sure there’s no need for that,” Mom says, coming to my rescue. “If he knows, he knows. It’s not going to make a difference.”

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” I say. “What you heard me say was . . . I was talking to Cathy and . . . Look, the point is, I like girls, okay? End of story. I’ve had a girlfriend. Tianna, remember? You met her.”

“You mean”— Mom scrunches up her face —“the girl who sort of looked like a boy?”

“What? She did not!”

Dad grimaces. “She kind of did, Sean. Like that actor. What’s his name? The one who played the hobbit.”

I smack my forehead. “Holy crap, are you serious?”

“Sean,” Mom scolds. “Language. Please. My goodness. And here I was under the impression that the gays were more refined.”

“You know what? Forget it. I’m just going to pretend we never had this discussion.” I storm out of the kitchen, the excited dogs swarming around me.

Mom calls after me, “We love you, Sean! All we want is for you to be happy. Whatever that means for you!”

As if this moment weren’t awful enough, just then my cell phone vibrates against my thigh. I don’t have to look at it to know who’s texting me. Evelyn’s been cell-stalking me from the moment I left the ice rink last night. Thirty-six texts and counting. I never should have given her my real number.

I reach into my pocket and blindly dismiss the text because I’m “at my grandmother’s today” and we don’t get any cell-phone service in the mountains.

Speaking of mountains, I wouldn’t mind escaping to them right now. Or to the 7-Eleven at the very least. I wade my way through the dog pack and head toward the front door. Just as I go for the doorknob, someone knocks.