Hybrid: “That Boy Don’t Act Right” by Haley Fedor

That Boy Don’t Act Right

The asshole on the motorcycle was back. Every few days this guy drove by, staring and giving the house the middle finger. He wore a helmet and face mask every time, making him impossible to identify, but we could tell it was the same guy. His beer belly and the motorcycle’s maroon paint were dead giveaways. Some nights he’d stop in front of the house, revving his engine, and stare at the house for a solid minute. Despite the darkened visor, the weight of his look was enough; it was as though he dared us to come outside. Joyce was too scared. I almost stormed out to confront him, but she made me promise not to. If any neighbors came outside and walked in his direction with purpose, then he would rev his engine and book it. It was infuriating. It was bullshit. Whoever he was, he was determined to intimidate us. 

Joyce thought he might be one of her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s work buddies, or somebody from his club. Mark belonged to one of the social clubs in town, she knew. I didn’t want to be paranoid, but it had to be somebody who knew Mark. Who else had enough of a grudge against our house? We didn’t even have any pride flags outside—nothing that would advertise to casual bigots that this was a house of lesbians living in sin together. 

“God Almighty,” Joyce says loudly from the sunroom. I walk in and see her peeking around the curtain, wrapping the edge of the blue fabric around her wrist nervously.

“I should go out there and yell at him.”

“Honey, you’re five foot six, and he looks like he has a hundred pounds on you, easy,” Joyce tells me.

“Seriously though, this is bullshit,” I say.

Joyce stops curling the curtain around her arm like a magician about to do a caped flourish before she gives me a stern look.

“Sorry,” I say automatically. I was trying to be better at watching my language in the house. Really, I was.

In my defense, her youngest, Evan, wasn’t even downstairs. Before Joyce moved in with Evan and Lindsay, I didn’t have to watch my language when I got home from work—so I didn’t. That used to be the case, at least. It was hard enough to avoid letting out a ‘fucking hell’ when one of my middle schoolers spilled paint in my art room. Since Joyce’s son was twelve and picking up bad habits, he didn’t need any more from me.

When I walk closer to the window—not bothering to hide behind a curtain—I see that the biker is stopped right at the edge of our driveway. He’s still sitting there, revving his engine like an asshole.

“Moooooom!” 

The cry comes from upstairs. Evan was just as annoyed; both of the kids were sick of this guy, too.

“I know, sweetie, just ignore him!” Joyce calls back. We hear a loud, beleaguered groan from the second-floor hallway, followed by a thump, like Evan dropped something heavy in protest.

She looks over at me. “Maybe we should call the cops.”

“What could they possibly do?” I ask. “How can we prove that this guy is messing with us? They’ll say anyone has a right to drive on the road. For all we know, he might be a cop, too. He looks like a pig.”

She snorts. Sometimes her suburban mom impulses won out, though never for long. I hear the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs, filling the room. Evan’s descent downstairs, plus the motorcycle revving, leaves me wincing at the cacophony.

“Mom, who is this guy?” Joyce’s son demands. Evan’s brown hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s got a freshly-picked scab on his face that’s shining with new blood.

“I don’t know, sweetie.”

“My mic is picking it up, and my friends can hear him when we’re in the middle of a raid! It’s giving interference!”

This was Evan’s joyous hour of his first-person shooter game with his middle school friends. They saw each other at school every day, but this was their time together, so long as he did his homework first.

“No clue who he is,” I tell him. “If this keeps up, though, I’m going to set up traps.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it,” I say. “I’m going to set up Home Alone-style traps in the front yard. Or, you cover me and a rake with leaves, and if he shows up, I jump out and jab him with the rake.”

“What if he doesn’t show up?” The twelve-year-old is skeptical.

“Then I get leaves and dirt and worms all over me, and I make Lindsay hug me goodnight,” I tell him.

That gets a laugh and a half-smile out of him. “That’s gross.”

“I’m gross.” I stick my tongue out at him.

Finally, the jackass on the bike decides it’s time to leave. He revs the engine one last time before he takes off down the street. I see some of the neighbors are starting to peer out their windows. The ugly rumble grows more distant as he rounds the bend and out of sight.

“Ugh, finally,” Evan says, making a sour face in the direction of the street. “Why does he keep doing it? It’s so stupid…”

“I don’t know, sweetie,” Joyce says, giving him a sympathetic smile. She steps away from the curtain and reaches out like she’s going to ruffle Evan’s still-damp hair, but he dodges her expertly.

“Can I get a snack before my next raid starts?” Evan asks.

“Only if you use a bowl,” Joyce replies, giving him a faux-stern look. “Don’t just bring a bag of something up there. Other people in the house like them, too.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

He bemoans his fate and leaves, but soon enough I hear the telltale clinking and wobbling of an oviform bowl against the countertop. I hear a crunching noise. Then another. I have to stifle a giggle as I hear Evan’s furious munching while he pours himself a bowl of (probably) cheese puffs. He’s not allowed to use a mixing bowl to put snacks in here, unlike at his dad’s place, so Evan had a habit of shoving a handful or two (or three) into his mouth along with whatever went into the bowl. Joyce never forbade him from having food, but that kid was a vacuum. Family-sized bags of chips and things lasted two days in this house, if that.

“Should I text Lindsay?” Joyce asks.

“About what? The motorcycle jerk?” I’m confused.

“No, the plan for tomorrow afternoon… remember? It’s Saturday…?” 

I nod, and after a moment, frantically trying to remember, I hold up my hands and shrug. What was the plan for tomorrow? I draw a complete blank.

“The state fair, Cal,” Joyce says with a chuckle.

“Shi—oot.” I catch myself.

I’d forgotten all about it; Joyce wanted to bring the kids to the state fair for an afternoon. It was here every spring, when the weather got better but before school let out for summer. The fair that showed up mid-summer was, ironically, a smaller outfit. Lindsay had a friend in the cheer and dance competition there this year, and going to the fair together was a family tradition. At least, it was when Joyce had been married to Mark. Now, Joyce wanted us all to go together, to keep up the tradition and to give the kids a sense of normalcy.

“State fair tomorrow, right. I’ll be ready,” I promise. “Buying them all the junk food and ruining their appetites, trying to knock over enough bottles to win Lindsay a stuffed animal bigger than a truck tire, the whole shebang.”

“Oh, yeah?” Joyce gets a sly look on her face as she sidles up to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “What about winning something for me?”

“I have two arms.” I pull her closer into an embrace, and tense my arm muscles for emphasis. She fits snugly here, and she’s so close I can feel the rub of the stiff denim from her jeans against my shirt and belly. 

There’s a noise behind us, before I hear, “Ew, gross.”

When I turn my head, I see Evan scrunching his nose, tongue sticking out, as he drifts by with a bowl. It’s full of corn puffs shedding bright orange cheese dust.

“Don’t you have a raid to get to?” I ask, grinning.

He doesn’t reply as he drifts by, but his steps are more hurried as he goes back upstairs. The door slams, and I hear him loudly announce his return to his friends.

“No slamming the door, Evan!” Joyce calls.

“Geez, sorry!” comes the cry.

“Every time…” she sighs. 

When I look back at her, I see Joyce’s cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. This isn’t the first time he’s caught us in closeness, though thankfully he’s never knocked at our bedroom door in the middle of anything. I pull her into a kiss to forget about it. Joy’s lips are the softest I’ve ever kissed. When we pull away, the worry lines at her mouth are gone, and she’s wearing a shy smile instead.

“I know it’s been a long day,” I say, “but let me try and distract you, later, after the kids are in bed…”

For my boldness, I’m rewarded when her cheeks get very pink. It makes me so happy; I love it when she does her best impression of a cherry. Joy had never had an orgasm before we started dating, and it was honestly criminal. Mark failed to measure up in a lot of ways, but I was flabbergasted that someone could be so disinterested and lazy. Joyce had married her high school sweetheart, and he’d never found a reason to try and do better. We were neighbors down the street who’d gotten close during my breakup with a disaster lesbian poet. When Joyce confessed to having feelings for me, they’d already been separated and she’d asked for a divorce.

She cried after our first time together. I remember holding her close and pushing back hair that stuck to her face with her tears. Twenty-four years of marriage, and that man couldn’t find the clitoris to save his life.

“NO! Get him!” The cry comes from upstairs. There’s a pause, then, “Look at this boosted idiot! Moron!”

The moment is over, and Joyce loosens her arms and steps away. She sighs. “That game is going to make him deaf, I swear, and he listens to screaming music when he’s not playing games…”

“That’s just called Screamo… just don’t let him go without earplugs to his concerts, and he’ll thank you one day,” I say, squeezing her hip. “That’s why I’m already going deaf in my thirties; too many un-plugged concerts.”

“That’s not funny,” she replies, frowning a little. “That’s sad, Callie…”

“If he wants to listen to it loudly, you can’t protect his eardrums.” I lean up and kiss her cheek. “You’re just going to come off as overprotective, especially if his dad lets him listen to whatever he wants, however loud he wants.”

“You’re right.” Joyce sighs.

With a triumphant cry from Evan upstairs, I could tell he was busy and engaged with his friends again. Lindsay was over at a friend's house studying, and we were alone again—for the moment.

I wrap my arms around Joyce and lean up to kiss her sweetly. The way her body melts into mine is a comfort, and she sighs into my mouth with all of the relief of a bra getting whipped off. Our lives are so much busier now, with the snarls of her divorce, the kids’ schedules, and two dogs, but we make do.

When she pulls away, Joyce is beet red again. She looks down at me and I see that her eyes are wet and shining.

“Joy?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing, I’m just…” she trails off for a moment. “...happy.” 

Joyce leans her head on my shoulder, and I give her a tight squeeze in the embrace. I hear—and feel—her let out a long, shuddering sigh. There’s a wet noise, before she sniffles.

“I’m really happy, I swear,” Joyce cries.

“Hey, it’s okay…”

This wasn’t the first time, but it’s always surprising when it does happen. Pressing a kiss to her cheek, her hair, I hold her close. I don’t even care that my shirt’s getting damp.

“I love you,” I tell her, in a voice as thin as a whisker. Now I was getting choked up, too. Almost a year of dating, and I can’t imagine a life without her in it. She cried when I told her I loved her the first time, too.

There is no hesitation, just emotion, when Joyce replies, “I-I love you, too.”

Joyce starts crying in earnest, though still in that soft, reserved way like she’s used to being quiet. Realizing this is going to take a minute, I try to do an awkward, half-stumbling crab walk backwards. Somehow, I make it into the armchair, guiding her with me so she can sit in my lap and let me comfort her.

*

The tinny echo of zydeco music is heard even before we step onto the fairgrounds. I haven’t been to a state fair in years, but the vision of carnival rides and smells of fried foods bring back visceral memories—the times I went with my parents as a kid, or when I was old enough to go with my pack of (closeted) queer friends in high school. Once I started teaching, I avoided these kinds of things like the plague, because inevitably I ran into the parents of some of my students.

The big purple stand that advertised “Fried Dough” in huge neon lights wasn’t even pretending to offer anything remotely healthy. Beneath it, text in all caps read: COLD DRINKS! OREO COOKIES! FUNNEL CAKES!

In the distance, people screamed on a ride that only anchored their booths by a top railing, so each pair of seats flipped upside down and around.

I point over to it and say, “That one better be called ‘The Vomit Comet’.”

Joyce wrinkles her nose and gives me a look. “Cal, don’t be gross.”

“I am so gross,” I declare. “Five bucks says I can eat a bunch of cotton candy and then ride it without puking.”

She simply rolls her eyes. I can tell from the hint of a smile on her lips that she’s not actually upset, but she has to put on a bit of a show in front of Lindsay and Evan.

“What do you say?” I ask Evan. “Five bucks, we both eat a mound of cotton candy, and then ride that thing?”

He looks half-tempted, but shakes his head before looking at his phone again.

“I’m going to go find Jen and Savannah before Savannah’s cheer stuff starts,” Lindsay says. 

She fiddles with her thin, strappy purse before pulling out her phone. Lindsay starts texting someone, her thumbs tapping in a flurry.

Joyce’s daughter had been in the upstairs bathroom putting on makeup for an hour before we left, and she was clearly dressed to impress in her blouse and ruched skirt. At home, Joyce had worried about how short the skirt was, but I’d put a stop to that real quick. I’d pulled Joy into the bedroom, told her she was being overprotective again, and kissed that impulse right out of her. Sure, Joyce had needed to go fix her makeup afterwards, but it was worth it; she didn’t complain to Lindsay or fuss at all after that.

“Okay, we’ll meet you over there before it starts,” Joyce says, pulling out her wallet. She hands out a crisp twenty-dollar bill to her daughter, who grins and stuffs it in her pocket immediately.

“Have fun with Jennifer and the gang—”

“Thanks, Mom,” Lindsay says, immediately turning to leave. Her long brown hair bounces with movement. “I’ll see you guys later—!” 

“We’ll see you over by the stage entrance when it’s time!” Joyce calls.

Lindsay merely waves, already booking it. She’s clearly on a mission, and I wonder again who she’s dressing up for. There weren’t any guys—or girls—in the picture, as far as I knew. Joyce had a hunch there might be somebody, but so far, Lindsay hadn’t said anything to her—or to me.

“Where’s mine?” Evan asks, frowning. He watches his sister leave, before he turns back to us. “I want to go play some games.”

“Oh, I thought we were going to do that together.” Joyce looks a little deflated.

“Cody and Sean’s parents are letting them hang out together,” he says, showing a shining, pouty lower lip. “I was gonna go meet up with them.”

That’s all it takes. Joyce sighs, nods, and pulls out another twenty for her son. Evan snatches it up eagerly and crams it into his pocket.

“We’re going to meet up at 2:30 for the competition, so you have an hour and… forty minutes, it looks like.” Joyce looks at her watch for emphasis. “If you don’t meet us near the entrance to the bleachers, then we’ll have them call your name on the loudspeakers like you’re a lost child.”

Evan groans. “Fine, fine… Jeez.”

“I know it’s a cheerleading thing, but we’re going to be there and support Savannah, and Sean and Cody are going to be there with their parents; I checked with them.”

Evan looks like the most mortified twelve-year-old in existence. “Mom!” 

“They’re all going to meet up around the same time, and I don’t want you wandering around the fairgrounds alone,” Joyce says, giving him a no-nonsense look. 

When he looks at me, I give him my best, most serious teacher stare.

“Them’s the rules, kiddo.”

“Ugh, okay…” Evan pulls out his phone and starts texting someone. He’s quiet until his friends show up a few minutes later, parents in tow. Joyce talks with Cody’s parents for a second, presumably to confirm that their daughter Savannah was still performing. Sean’s father gives me an awkward smile and half-wave.

I knew most of these parents when I was teaching their kids, but now they knew me not as “Miss Rakovic, the polite art teacher,” but as “Callie, the interloper.” Some parents thought that I was a homewrecker, but I couldn’t wreck what was already long over.

I wait politely nearby, and exchange another sympathetic smile with Sean’s father. He starts walking over, and I panic.

“Hey, I feel like we’ve met before, but I wanted to introduce myself,” he says. “I’m Dave, Sean’s dad. You look very familiar…”

He holds out a big, meaty hand for me to shake, and I do. 

“Callie Rakovic,” I say. “Your daughter was in my art class two years ago. I think we met when she entered the community art contest. There was a ceremony…?”

“Oh, right!” he says, grinning. “That’s right; you were Eva’s favorite art teacher. We framed that painting she did. Hung it up in the hallway to the guest room.”

“That’s very nice,” I say mildly.

The fairground music and the screams of riders seem to swell a bit, flooding over me, and I look at Joyce. She’s finished talking with Cody’s mother. I can tell because she’s tucking her hair behind her ear and giving me a look that clearly says she wants to be somewhere else with me.

“Well, it was good seeing you,” I say again, loudly, holding my hand out. Dave takes a half-step forward and shakes my hand. He has a firm grip but I’m a determined dyke and do my best impression of solidity, just smiling away. I can be a block of granite. I nod over to Cody’s mother before looking at Joyce.

“I think we’re about set, right?” I ask Joyce. “We should check out the swings while we have a chance…”

“Yes, right,” she says, brightening. “We’ll see you all around the stage about fifteen minutes before it starts?”

Cody’s mother nods and smiles; her teeth are a little too white. When she looks at me, that smile dissipates a bit.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” I say politely. 

“Likewise,” Dave says. His smile seems genuine. “We’ll see you later.”

We head off in a different direction, and Joyce takes my hand as we go. Feeling a bit off, I look behind us and see Cody’s mother staring. I know that look pretty well. It’s like someone who saw a big, awful bug in their vicinity while trying to enjoy the outdoors.

“C’mon,” I say, squeezing Joy’s hand as we walk. “Let’s get a funnel cake so I can wipe powdered sugar off my tits.”

“Callie…” Her eyes are darting around like we might be too close to other people she might know.

“Then,” I tell her, continuing as though she didn’t say anything, “I can work my magic on some of these games. I promised you a stuffed animal.”

I lift my arm and flex, giving her a goofy expression. Joyce’s blush is worth it. She follows my lead over to the food stands, and we get at the back of the line that snakes its way towards the goldfish game’s stall. I always felt bad for those poor things. Even though I’m not the praying type, I send out a silent wish that only the gentle kids win them today.

“I suppose funnel cake is less terrible than deep fried Oreos,” she muses, looking at the distant speck of the food stand’s menu board.

“Do not think about calories today,” I reply, holding up a finger in warning. “I want you to eat whatever you want, guilt-free. No tiny Mark in the back of your brain, telling you that you should pick the salad. I am so serious, Joy.”

Joyce turns bright red and nods sheepishly. Maybe I was being indelicate, but I was cutting through at least six layers of guilt that she worked through when making food choices, and I was sparing her a lot of time and mental gymnastics.

This was the most unforgivable thing Mark did, in my opinion. Joyce had a complex about eating anything with fat in it, and I was pushing for her to go to a nutritionist like my friend over in Morgantown, who would set her straight. Well, straight about this.

We spent most of the time just wandering through the fair, watching the performers stationed in random places throughout the fairgrounds, and cooing over the little piglets wearing cowboy hats in the petting zoo. After that, we rode the swings and got some ice cream.

I didn’t knock over a can with an old softball, but I did win her a prize on the squirt gun horse races. You had to aim a stream of water and hit the target that made the tin racehorse gallop stutteringly across a field to the finish line. Sure, most of my opponents were kids, but Joyce still cheered me on.

When we leave the booth, she’s carrying a medium-sized stuffed cardinal and wearing a bright smile. A gaggle of teenagers take our places; they’re loudly debating the merits of the LED bubble jet machine or the giant stuffed shark as prizes. Some of them stare when Joyce takes my hand, but that was normal.

We walk away from the booth before I ask, “Will you come into the Hall of Mirrors with me, so I can make out with you like we’re silly teenagers?”

That provokes a response, and Joyce does her best impression of a tomato. Mark could never have made her happy. I want to give her decades of love to make up for twenty-four years with him. I want to give her more. She follows me shyly, and I am full of glee and a savage superiority.

Soon enough, Joyce’s alarm goes off, signaling that it’s time to meet up for the cheer competition. It was fifteen minutes before we told the kids to show up, though, so I stop us along the way for popcorn and drinks, plus a blue slushie for me.

“Your mouth is going to be completely blue, Cal,” Joyce says. Her lip quivers a bit, and I know she’s not actually being fussy.

“You mean your mouth is also going to be blue.” I suck on the top of the slushie mound, then blow her a kiss through blue-ringed lips.

Joyce chuckles and sighs, and before she can protest, I close the gap between us and plant a kiss right on her lips. She sputters at first, but leans into it for the briefest moment before pulling back.

“Callie, we’re in public,” she says, blushing furiously. She wipes at her lips and goes to fix her hair to pretend to mask what she was doing. There’s already a faint tint of blue on her lips, and I’m smug when I realize there will be more than that on her lips later.

“Yeah, yeah…”

Normally, I’m hyper-aware of the people around us, but today I just don’t care. We were going to watch Lindsay’s friend Savannah kick ass in the cheer competition, eat popcorn, get something else fried with the kids for not-quite-dinner, and then be too full to do anything but snack for the rest of the night.

Cody’s parents show up, followed by Sean’s dad, and we chat and linger near the entrance. I notice Cody’s mother says nothing to me. Joyce has eagle eyes, and she’s on the lookout for Evan or Lindsay. I’m looking too, if only to avoid talking too much. I slurp the slushie until my lips smart with that oppressive, sugary tang.

Soon enough, Lindsay and her friend Jennifer show up. They smile and say ‘hello’ to the other parents, before going to start claiming some seats. Cody’s father follows, after his wife tells him to save her a seat as though he might forget.

The minutes tick by, and I can tell Joyce is tired of idle chatter while we wait for the boys.

“I texted them,” Dave says finally, squinting at his phone. “Sean has his phone on him.”

“So does Cody,” his mother adds, giving a pinched look at her phone as she pulls it out, too. She hits the call button and frowns when, after a few long rings, no one picks up.

“I can go look for them,” I offer.

“I don’t know…” Joyce trails off, also juggling her phone alongside the drink carrier.

“Evan’s not answering either?” Maura asks.

“Maybe they’re on a ride,” I say. “Let me go look for them, and you keep trying. I’ll be back in a few.”

I hand off the bag of popcorn to Joyce but keep hold of my deteriorating slushie; if Evan wanted, I’d grab one for him quickly before the competition got started.

“If they show up before you do, I’ll call you,” Joyce says. She smiles, and I can tell she’s grateful for the help.

With a wave, I set off through the well-trodden grass and dirt paths. Maneuvering through the crowds is an art, but I’m not great at it. An older bald guy turns and almost elbows me in the throat, but instead it bounces hard off my shoulder. I barely get a gruff ‘sorry’ before I’m off again. Being short wasn’t great in crowds. 

I’m walking around the fried food stands when I see a flash of a black helmet. I stop. There’s a middle-aged guy carrying a motorcycle helmet under his arm, and immediately I think of our stalker. He had the same build, and was talking to a man with sandy brown hair. Before I’m caught gawking, I hurry over to the side of one booth, half-tucked in the space between a funnel cake stand and a place that makes corn dogs.

Before I finish chastising myself—this couldn’t be the same guy, there were a million mid-life crisis dudes with motorcycles out there—I see the other man turn, and my heart skips a beat. He was wearing sunglasses, but it was clearly, obviously, Mark. Callie’s ex-husband.

“Fuck,” I say to no one. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I snap a few quick pictures of them. Then, when the motorcycle guy turns in my direction, I turn around and hurry down the narrow space between stalls.

“Fuck, my mom’s calling again.”

I hear a familiar boy’s voice. I squeeze through the (narrowing) space between stalls. When I look out, I see a trio of preteen boys walking towards a dart game booth.

“God, they’re not going to leave us alone until we go to the fucking cheer thing,” Evan says. I recognize his black t-shirt with a burping cartoon character on it as he half-turns away. His left shoe is untied, laces trailing. They stop to let him bend over and tie it.

“I don’t want to go to that shit, it’s so lame,” Cody—I think it was Cody, at least—says.

“At least you don’t have to sit between my mom and the fucking art teacher.”

“She’s fucking the art teacher, you mean!”

I had been walking over to them, but at that I stop, and, looking around wildly, duck in-between another pair of stalls.

Cody and Sean are laughing at him, saying something I can’t quite make out. Evan is loud, though, and I can hear him perfectly.

“Shut up, that’s not my fault,” Evan complains. “I never asked for a step-dyke. It’s so fucking gross.”

The words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus.

“My dad said yours is gonna give you up, so you’ll have a dyke for a dad from now on,” Cody says with a laugh.

“Will not.” Evan pushes him and swears. “We just saw him, you ass. Even if they say I have to live with them all the time I won’t do it. My mom’s a fucking liar and she’ll manipulate shit like she always does, but I’ll run away to my dad’s.”

Sean says something I don’t catch, because I have to duck and hide when I see Evan turning in my direction. My heart is beating loudly in my ears, and I feel like it’s audible around me.

“They’re not going to get off our asses unless we show,” Cody says, silencing his phone.

“Yeah, yeah, we gotta go,” Evan says, sneering. He checks his phone again and types something back. “Wish we could just bail and hang with my dad, but then I’ll have two bitches barking at me.”

They all laugh. Evan stows his phone in his pocket and says, “Fuck it, let’s get this shitty carpet muncher show over.”

“Savannah’s halfway there,” Sean announces with a laugh. Cody punches him in the arm.

“Seriously, a bunch of fucking dykes throwing each other in the air,” Evan groans. “Who thinks this shit is fun?”

They pull out their phones again and type something as they walk, not looking back in my direction. When they’re gone, I straighten up and get out from between the stalls, swallowing thickly. People are looking at me like I’m a weirdo—and maybe I am.

I look down at the blue slushie in my hand, bright blue liquid coagulating on the sides of the paper cup in sloshed, melting foam. My tongue is blue, and I feel like a fucking idiot. The sounds of happy screams and tinny carnival music are overwhelming. I feel bile rise in the back of my throat, and panic. I cannot puke right now. Even if I avoid getting stomach acid and Blue No. 1 on myself, I won’t make it to the cheer competition, and it’ll ruin the day. What the fuck am I going to do?

I walk over to a trash can posted near a game booth, and just stand there for a few seconds, swallowing. A lump in the back of my throat won’t go away. The overwhelming smell of grease and fried bread assaults my nose.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” My voice cracks a bit, but I say it like a prayer. Forcefully, I crush the slushie cup, not even caring that it spills over the paper rim and all over my hands, and slam it into the trash can.

Immediately, I text Joyce: I don’t feel good and I need to go home. Calling an Uber.

The reply was immediate.

Joyce’s name (with the heart emoji next to it) appeared in her notifications, along with, What? Where are you?

Midway through a reply, my phone buzzed in my hands as it started ringing. “Hello?”

“Cal, where are you?” Joyce’s concern is audible despite the cheers and clapping in the background.

“I’m walking to the entrance,” I say, securing my purse while I cradle my phone to my ear. “I’m sorry, I, uh… don’t feel good.”

It was a half-truth.

“What’s wrong?”

“Joy, I can’t talk about it right now,” I say, painfully aware of familiar voices in the background. How am I going to look at Evan at home after overhearing that?

“Hold on—” Joyce’s voice is muffled for a second, talking to someone else. Then, I hear a huffy exhale into the mic. “Please don’t leave yet; you have the car keys.”

Fuck, that’s right. Patting my pocket, I hear the jangling response. Fuck.

“Listen,” Joyce says, “I’m coming towards the parking lot to get the keys, at least. Is it your stomach? What’s going on?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” I drift towards the parking lot. My vision blurs and I have to blink furiously to navigate and avoid walking into a garbage can.

Joyce finds me near the entrance, fiddling with the app and not even caring that it was going to be forty bucks for a ten-minute trip, tops.

“Callie?” Her expression is concerned, but also a bit scared. “What’s going on?”

When she puts her hand on my shoulder, I lose it. Sniffles turn into tears, and I wish I could just fall into the trash and disappear in refuse like fantasy movie quicksand. Stuttering and trying to figure out how to say it, Joyce wordlessly takes my hand and leads me out down a line of fencing, away from the crowded entrance. I tell her everything.

When I finish, her face is pale with fury.

“Oh, his butt is going to be grounded until he’s able to vote,” she says. Her voice is calm, and cool, but I can see her hands balled into tight fists. Joyce’s nostrils flare and for a moment she pivots and walks away, doing a frenetic circle. When she returns, she gives me a look. “When we get home, I am going to sit him down and tell him exactly why this is not okay, I—”

She stops, and for a moment Joyce just looks at me, before she throws her arms around me. “Callie, I am so, so sorry. This is unacceptable.”

“I-I thought we were finally getting along,” I say, feeling utterly wretched. “Joy, it was so awful…”

“Listen,” Joyce says, hugging me tighter. “It’s your house, your rules, but you don’t have to be there when I sit him down.”

“I dunno.”

“That’s okay, Cal.” When she pulls away, Joyce immediately starts texting someone.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Asking Cody’s parents if they mind letting Evan hang out with Cody until they’re ready to leave,” she replies, focused and intent on the screen. “Let me take you home, then I’ll come back to pick up the kids.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Joyce looks up at me, mouth set in a thin line. “I honestly don’t know if I can look at him right now.”

“That’s… that’s fair,” I reply.

Joyce takes the keys and insists on driving. She white-knuckles the steering wheel, and mutters to herself about parking jobs and the bad drivers coming and going from the fair. When we stop at a red light, she jiggles and taps her fingers against the wheel with nervous energy. The car is dead silent, but I don’t have the guts to try to fiddle with the radio. Not right now.

The house is a welcome sight. As we’re pulling into the driveway, Joyce says, “I’m so sorry, Callie.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry for all of… this.” Joyce unbuckles with a huff, and she shifts closer to me over the slithering whine of retracting seatbelt. “For Mark’s nonsense, and now this behavior from Evan… You didn’t sign up for any of this.”

“Joy…”

Her eyes are bright and shining with tears. “I don’t want t-to ask too much from you, or be a burden, but—”

I cup her face in my hands and kiss her. I don’t even care that we’re in my driveway in the middle of the afternoon; I’m going to kiss her until she can’t remember the rest of that thought.

About Haley Fedor

Haley Fedor is a queer author from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize, their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Still: The Journal, Storm Cellar Quarterly, Literary Orphans, the anthology Dispatches from Lesbian America (Bedazzled Ink Press), and Unbroken Circle: Stories of Diversity in the South (Bottom Dog Press). They are a Fulbright Scholarship recipient and a recipient of the Lambda Literary Fellowship and writer’s residency through Sundress Academy for the Arts. Haley received their Ph.D. from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where their doctoral work centered on queer narratives and histories. They live and teach in Appalachia.