What If It's Us(14)

I peek at my dad’s computer. “Is this a freelance thing?”

“Nah, just tinkering.” My dad’s a web developer. In Georgia, he was the kind of web developer who made money, until he got laid off the day before Christmas. So now he’s the kind who tinkers.

And here’s something you learn when you live in a sarcophagus: sound travels through walls. Which means, most nights, I get to hear my mom calling my dad out for half-assing his job search. Which usually gets my dad muttering about how hard it is to job hunt in Georgia while living in New York. Which always ends in my mom reminding him he’s welcome to head back home anytime.

Guess how totally not awkward that is.

“Hey, what do you think about Craigslist missed connections?” I blurt.

I don’t know why I do this. I definitely wasn’t planning on telling my parents the post office story. Just like I wasn’t planning on telling them about my sad crush on Cody Feinman from Hebrew school. Or my even sadder crush on Jessie’s very slightly younger brother. Or the fact that I’m gay in the first place. But sometimes things just slip out.

“You mean like a personal ad?”

“Well yeah, but not like must love dogs and long walks on the beach. It’s like . . .” I nod. “Okay, it’s kind of like a lost cat ad, except the cat’s actually a cute boy you met at the post office. But a human cute boy. Not a literal cat.”

“Got it,” Dad says. “So you want to put up an ad to find the post office boy.”

“No! I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Juliet and Namrata suggested it, yeah, but it’s a total long shot. I don’t even know if anyone reads those things.”

Dad nods slowly. “It’s definitely a long shot.”

“Right. Stupid idea. Okay—”

“It’s not a stupid idea. We should post one.”

“He’s not going to see it.”

“He might. It’s worth a try, right?” He opens a new search window.

“Okay, no. No no no. Craigslist is not a father-son bonding activity.”

But he’s already typing, and I can tell from the set of his jaw: he’s all in.

“Dad.”

The apartment door creaks open, and I hear the click of heels against hardwoods. A moment later, Mom’s in my doorway.

Dad doesn’t even glance up from the computer screen. “You’re home early,” he says.

“It’s six thirty.”

Suddenly, everyone’s quiet. And it’s not even the normal kind of silence. It’s one of those charged, atomic silences.

I dive into it headfirst. “We’re making a thing on Craigslist to find that guy from the post office.”

“Craigslist?” Mom narrows her eyes. “Arthur, absolutely not.”

“Why not? I mean, other than the fact that it’s pointless and there’s no way he’d ever see it . . .”

Dad rubs his beard. “Why do you think he won’t see it?”

“Because boys like that aren’t on Craigslist.”

“Boys like you aren’t on Craigslist,” says Mom. “I’m not letting you get killed by a machete murderer.”

I laugh shortly. “Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. Dick pics? Probably. Machete murderer—”

“Ooh. Yeah, as your mom, I’m going to go ahead and veto the dick pics, too.”

“It’s not like I’m asking for dick pics!”

“If you put an ad up on Craigslist, you’re asking for dick pics.”

Dad glances sidelong at Mom. “Mara, don’t you think you’re being a little bit—”

“What, Michael? What am I being?”

“You don’t think you’re overreacting? Just a bit?”

“Because I don’t want our sixteen-year-old son prowling around the underbelly of the internet—”

“I’m almost seventeen!”

“Craigslist?” Dad smiles. “You think Craigslist is the underbelly of the internet—”

“Well, you would know,” Mom snaps.

Dad looks confused. “What’s that supposed to mean—”

“Okay, please stop,” I cut in. “Obviously, I’m not doing this. I’m not wasting my time searching for some random guy I talked to for five seconds. Okay? Can we just chill?”

I look from Mom to Dad and back to Mom, but it’s like they don’t even see me. They’re too busy pointedly not looking at each other.

So I leave. Grab my laptop. Exit stage left.

My heart’s beating so fast, it’s almost stuttering. I hate this. It’s never been like this with them. Yeah, I’ve seen them get snippy with each other. We’re not robots. But they could always joke their way out of it. It’s just that these days, even the jokey moments feel like a temporary cease-fire.

I sink onto the living room couch and shut my eyes—but I swear I’m being watched. By horses. Specifically, by the giant oil painting hanging above the table, which I can only assume is an early portrait of BoJack Horseman painted by Leonardo da Vinci himself.

Mom’s voice drifts in from my bedroom. “. . . home early. Excuse me? I rescheduled two conference calls to be . . .”