“You didn’t miss much,” I said. He’d actually missed pork chops, corn on the cob, and—his favorite—fried okra, but his life sucked enough without me making it worse.
“Stayed late grading papers.” Dad idly twisted his wedding band on his finger. “Listen, once your mom and I work out this house stuff, I’ll get my own place. You and Warren can live with me.”
By “house stuff” Dad meant my parents needed to sell the house without losing money, which seemed unlikely. Despite their marriage being deader than the cat I’d dissected in tenth grade, fate and a shitty housing market had forced them to continue living together. I was also pretty certain “grading papers” meant getting drunk and bitching about Mom to his friends.
“I get it,” I said. I’d tried my best to play Delaware in the Pinkerton civil war, but Dad had always understood me best. I may have taken after my mother in the looks department, but that was about the only way in which we were alike. Warren, an unapologetic mama’s boy, had surprised no one by siding with Mom.
My phone buzzed again; I silenced it. Lua would wait.
“At least you can sleep in a real bed once Renny leaves,” I said.
Dad bobbed his head. “Maybe.”
“It’s your house too.” I waited for Dad to agree, to stand up for himself, but my father avoided conflict like a fatal allergy. I jingled my keys. “I should go. Lua waits for no man.”
“Hold up,” Dad said. “You send in your college applications?”
“NYU, BU, UC Boulder, Amherst, U-Dub Seattle, Oberlin.” I ticked the names off on my fingers and could practically hear Dad calculating the cost of my continued education. Because I didn’t want to drive the man to start day-drinking, I added, “UF and New College, but maybe I’ll kick around Cloud Lake. Take classes at the community college for a couple of semesters.” I figured he’d like the idea, seeing as he taught there and I’d qualify for reduced tuition.
Dad tilted to the right and ripped one. “Sorry,” he said, but he wasn’t. “You’re really considering community college? I assumed with everything you’ve gone through you’d want to flee Cloud Lake the day after graduation.”
Everything I’d gone through meant Tommy and the plane crash and my parents’ divorce, even if Dad refused to outright say so.
“It’s only one idea. Why waste the money on an expensive school when I have no idea what I want to study?”
“That’s what college is for. I started as a sociology major before I fell in love with literature.” Dad furrowed his brow. “There’s no shame in feeling uncertain about your future. I have faith you’ll find your path.”
“Whatever.” My phone vibrated, and I imagined Lua yelling at the screen. “I’ll be fine. It’s Renny you should worry about. He’ll be lucky to make it out of basic training with his fingers and toes intact.”
Dad’s head slumped forward. He stared at his hairy belly. “I worry about both my boys,” he said. “Why do you think I’m bald?”
? ? ?
Lua Novak had crawled out of her mother’s womb ass first and already a rock star. We met in sixth grade after she moved to Cloud Lake from Phoenix, AZ. She was bossy, foul-mouthed, a part-time kleptomaniac, and she’d fit in perfectly with me, Tommy, and Dustin.
Back then, Lua was “she” full-time. In ninth grade Lua began occasionally dressing like a boy. She informed us we should use whatever pronoun felt most appropriate for how she’d dressed that day. I’d understood the change wasn’t a phase and had worried how others would treat her, but most people rationalized her behavior as the eccentricities of a future rock star.
I pulled up in front of Lua’s house. He ran down the driveway, opened the back passenger door of my lime-green Chevy hatchback, and threw his bag and guitar across the seat.
“What are you wearing?” I asked.
Lua slammed the back door, opened the front, and slid into the passenger seat. “You don’t like it?”
“It” consisted of a rumpled pin-striped brown suit, a blue dress shirt, and a brown tie. Usually when Lua wore masculine clothes, he bound his chest. But his boobs were practically busting out of his suit.
“Come on,” I said. “We need to hurry if we’re going to stop for coffee.”
Lua buckled his seat belt. Without asking, he jacked his phone into the stereo. “Discovered this band last night. French new wave punk. With violins. You’ll love them.”
I hated them. Aside from not understanding a single word—mostly because I didn’t speak French, but also because the band, Genoux Sanglants, didn’t sing so much as scream—their voices and instruments bled together and sounded like an army of sadistic dental drills and someone vomiting. In French.
We hit up Dixie Cream Donuts—whose donuts, oddly enough, sucked—and waited in the drive-thru after placing our order. I turned down the stereo and watched Lua air drum on the dashboard until he realized I’d killed the music.
“What the hell, Ozzie?”
“Question: You’re wearing a suit, but you didn’t bind your chest? Are you more boy than girl today or more girl than boy?”
It was none of my business, but Lua and I talked about everything. At least, we had before Tommy disappeared.
“A little bit of both,” Lua said.
I rolled forward, paid the cashier, and took the two Styrofoam cups she handed me, passing one to Lua.
Lua waited until I’d pulled onto Heron Road before peeling back the plastic tab on his coffee, inhaling the steam that rose from the surface, and gulping it down. Lua’s tongue was made of heat-dispelling ceramic or something. My own coffee consisted of as much cream and sugar as actual coffee, and I had to let it cool before I could drink it, which usually meant slamming all twelve ounces while walking to first period, because Mr. Blakemore strictly enforced a no-food-or-drink-in-class policy.
“It’s just . . . I want to be supportive. You’ve got it hard enough dealing with Trent and Cody and D’arcy.”
“Like I give a steaming corn-filled pile what those inbred sociopaths say about me, Ozzie. People like them are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.” Once the first caffeine rush hit Lua, he sipped the rest of his coffee. “But, listen: I’m not going to freak out if you call me ‘she’ when I’m feeling more ‘he.’?”
“I guess,” I said. “But I want you to know I’m here for you.” I didn’t add that I wished my friends had been as accommodating after Tommy disappeared.
“Hey,” Lua said. “Speaking of being there for me. You’re coming to the show at a/s/l Friday night, right?”
“Because you need a ride?”
“For emotional support.” Lua grinned. “But if you’re offering to drive, I accept.”
“I’m working.”
Lua frowned. “The bookstore closes at nine. The show doesn’t start until ten thirty.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Why can’t you use your mom’s car?”
“Dinah? Home on a Friday night?” Lua rolled his eyes. “Get real, Ozzie.”
“Just asking.”