Happy Families (6 page)

Mom looks at the hot-pink suitcase with the flame decals all over it and shakes her head. “I said you could do glass, but you’re going to be doing a lot of other things, Ysabel. You’re not going to have time to work; there’s no reason for you to lug all of that with you.”

“It’s
my
arm.”

My mother leans closer. “It’s
my
concern that you’re going to bring all of that stuff and just hole up in your room like you do at home.”

I give her a toothy smile. “Well, if I were staying home, you could make sure …”

My mother rolls her eyes. “Try and have a good week, Ysabel.”

She kisses me and kisses Justin, and after a brief prayer for
our safety, she hugs me and hugs Justin. When she puts her arms around both of us and hugs us again, Justin actually snaps out of wherever his brain has gone lately to exchange a wide-eyed look at me.

Mom’s
not
the huggy one in our family. That’s Dad. My mother is more likely to show her love by ranting at me when I get hurt and scare her or by shooting at me with the little purple rubber bands that come on the green onions. She’s not the one who shows love by cradling my head in her hands and leaning her forehead against mine, but that’s what she’s doing this morning.

“Um, Mom, we’re not going that far,” I say finally, and her stricken expression makes me wish I had kept my mouth closed. She tries to smile, and I see the tension in her face.

“Stacey.” And there’s Dad, putting down his bag and wrapping her up in the kind of hug that used to make her squeak, then whack him on the shoulder and demand to be let go. But today she just stands there and buries her face in his collar.

Dad kisses her hair and whispers to her, and people look on curiously as we stand there, apprehensive and completely out of place at this tiny commuter airport with our luggage and our parents, who are obviously having a Moment. Finally Mom pulls back, smiling, as if we’re supposed to be reassured by her fake happy face when her eyes are red-rimmed and glazed with tears and her nose is shiny.

“Have a good week, guys,” she says thickly, and I know with utter certainty we won’t.

As soon as I hear the knock, I cut my Internet connection and shove my phone under the pillow. I turn over, my back to the door. I doubt he’ll open it if I don’t answer. I’ve been ignoring him since we got on the plane this morning. I’ve learned that most of the time, people leave you alone if you seriously convince them that you want to be. Like in debate, it’s all in the right delivery. I’ve had lots of practice.

We got here about noon, and Dad showed us around his bland little town house—kitchen, dining room, living room, and master bedroom upstairs; rooms for Ysabel and me, a bathroom,
and a laundry room downstairs. He pulled out bags of chips and some stuff for hoagies and told us we could settle in, then come upstairs and have some lunch and get him caught up with what we’ve been doing for the last few months. To which I thought,
Yeah, right
, and proceeded to throw down my bag and stretch out on the bed.

Dad knocks again, and I tune out the sound. I lie still and concentrate on a silent message:
Go away
. I lie still for so long that I actually start to doze off.

My eyes fly open and my heart slams against my ribs when something touches my shoulder. At my wild look, my sister takes a big step back, oh so casually putting herself out of arm’s reach.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, pretending I don’t notice her reaction.

“What?” My voice is harsher than I intended.

“Dad’s been asking if we want to go eat.” Ysabel looks tense, waiting. Yawning, I rub my face, wondering how long I was asleep. The light coming through the window is leaving bright squares on the wall. I must have slept through lunch.

“You can get out now,” I invite her, then raise my brows as Ysabel gives me a look that is equal parts hurt and irritation. It doesn’t take a special twin vibe to know she’s pissed.

“What?”

She shrugs stiffly. “Nothing. Just … you kind of stayed in here and left me with Dad.”

I give her an incredulous look. “I didn’t leave you with anyone. I took a nap. You could have done that, too.”

Ysabel leans against the wall and shrugs. “I guess. But we were supposed to
talk
and all. Figure stuff out, like he said.”

I yawn and slip my phone from under the pillow into my pocket. “Not interested. You go ahead, though.”

“Jus
tin
.” Ysabel sighs.

“Wh
at
?” I imitate her whine, shoving down the flicker of guilt I feel.

“Fine. Screw it.” She flings open the door.

“Okay, okay.” I put on my shoes. “Where are we supposed to have dinner?”

“How should I know? Hurry it up,” Ysabel says, and slams my door.

I wince, but instead of following her, I pull out my phone and reconnect to the Internet. I squint at the Kids of Trans Web page, sign in with my username, JustC, and look at my post on the message wall. I’ve been lurking on the site since Dad left, reading conversations between people and finding out about their personal experiences. It always feels a little like I’m snooping, like I’m sneaking around in people’s private lives, but today I realize that my private life is a lot like theirs.

Frowning down at the tiny screen, I take a breath and do something I’ve never done before. I post a message.

To my surprise, I get almost instant replies.

A kick at the door rattles me into snapping my phone closed before I can reply. Ysabel glares at me from the hallway, and I silently follow her upstairs, wrapped in my own thoughts.

Happy?
Viking means well, but seriously—I’m not seeing cause for celebration. And is Dad really the same person? Isn’t the point of this whole thing to say that he’s not?

It’s awkward in the car. Dad makes small talk while Ysabel glowers at me, still pissed at having had all of Dad’s attention this afternoon. It’s a relief to park the car and join the trickle of foot traffic out onto the sidewalk past the Road Closed signs to the street lined with stalls for the farmer’s market.

The smell of popcorn hits me, and my stomach growls.

There are far more people than I expect: kids in face paint running around screaming, a DJ playing tunes for an impromptu dance party on the sidewalk, and booths for political candidates. The crowd noise is a dizzying assault, but I ignore my urge to run away and dive in, putting my head down and pushing, getting further from Dad and closer to the madness. Near the center of the action, I smell hot sugar, and my mouth waters. Ysabel appears beside me, and we exchange a look. Street-fair food. Funnel cake.
Dinner
. Suddenly there seems to be something worthwhile to the day. I pick up the pace and join a line a little way ahead of us. I don’t care what they’re selling. It smells like sugar and grease, and I know I want some.

Dad hesitates in the midst of the crowd, obviously torn between staying with me and keeping up with Ysabel, who has drifted toward a fast-moving line for some kind of pastries. In minutes, she’s digging in her pocket for cash and threading her way purposefully across the road to meet me.

Impatient minutes later I meet her halfway, clutching a grease-spotted plate of crispy-hot funnel cake, covered with drifts of powdered sugar. Ys is juggling a paper container of something cinnamon-sprinkled and deep-fried. Dad, meanwhile, is approaching with a bottle of water and an expression that’s half amused and half squeamish. I ignore him and take another bite of my cake.

“Whatcha got?” I mumble around a mouthful of sweetness.

Ysabel sucks in air to soothe her scalded tongue. “Gravenstein apple fritter,” she says, and chews rapidly, her mouth open to sip in cooling air. “Apples, sliced, battered, and deep-fried.” Ysabel dances in place and puts her hand over her mouth. “Hot!”

“Good?”

She nods emphatically, bouncing on her toes, and I roll my eyes. I envy my sister; like Mom, it seems she can section off her brain and be totally happy in a moment of food bliss, no matter what else is going on. Unfortunately, I’m too aware of my father hovering in the background to enjoy my funnel cake, which is a waste of really good fried dough.

“I don’t know how you two can eat like that,” Dad says, shuddering as Ysabel snitches a bite of my funnel cake, and I eat the last of her apple fritter. My father digs out his wallet and flips it open. “I’ll make a contribution to the cause, but I hope you eat something that resembles real food instead of that sugar and grease.”

“Don’t need money.” Even though I could use the twenty he’s holding, I resist taking it from between his fingers, feeling my stomach clench at the idea of accepting anything of his.

“We don’t need real food, either,” Ysabel adds, licking her
fingers as she shrugs and Dad puts his wallet away. “We need nachos, and peach rings, and lemonade.”

“I don’t see nachos,” I say, scanning the row of booths. “There’s chili dogs, though.”

“No.” Ysabel frowns. “They’ve gotta have nachos. You can’t have a street fair without orange liquid cheese squirted on tortilla chips. It’s just not possible.”

“You make it sound disgusting,” I tell her. “And the peach rings? Are foul.”

“Nobody asked you to eat them.”

“Look, why don’t we split up?” Dad begins, moving so he can see both of us at once. “I’ll go pick up some produce, and if I see nachos, I’ll text one of you. That way—” He breaks off with a grin, waving at someone. I turn to see a tall blond woman making her way through the crowd toward us. I begin to back away.

She’s very tall.

“I’ll find the nachos,” I announce, feeling dread tighten around my throat.

She’s too tall. I know women can be tall, but she’s as tall as Dad. Is she a transperson? I’m not ready for this
.

“Wait, Justin. Let me introduce—”

“Justin!” Ysabel hisses, her expression indignant, but panic is driving me.

“Be right back,” I promise, and dive into the crowd.

Over my shoulder I see the woman shaking Ysabel’s hand, probably giving her that “Your dad has told me so much about you” line. As I escape, Dad’s eyes meet mine.

I know that look. It’s Dad’s “I’m disappointed in you” face. Yeah, well, too bad. In the last six months, there’s been a lot of
disappointment to go around in the Nicholas family. Unfortunately for my father, I’m immune to that face now.

Mostly.

I wander through the crowd for endless minutes, not really seeing anything. I feel like a stupid little kid, running from a strange woman. What was I so afraid of? And it wasn’t cool to ditch Ysabel like that; she’s already pissed at me for leaving her with Dad before.

This is Dad’s fault. I already told him: I don’t need to meet anyone. Why can’t he just listen to me, one time?

I only stumble across the nachos by accident, and then I have to wait in a line that stretches back about fifteen people or so. Just as I take my place at the end, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I dig it out, expecting a message from Ysabel. Instead, it’s from Dad, and a moment later, my phone starts singing whatever stupid pop song Ysabel programmed in the last time she stole my phone. Nervously, I answer and blurt the first thing I can think of to defend myself.

“I found the nachos.”

A pause. “All right. You in line?”

“Yeah. About ten people in front of me.”

“Okay. So, head back this way as soon as you can. We’ll eat near the gazebo. Think you can find it?”

“Yeah.” I pause a beat, listening to the babble of voices and music on his end of the line. My fingers itch to hang up, but I know my father. He’s waiting, like he always does when I owe him an apology. I try to wait him out, feeling my stomach tensing up in the silence.

“Look, about your friend, I told you I—” I begin defensively.

“Justin, do you know I love you?” he interrupts.

“What?”
I look around as if others can hear our conversation. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Do you know I love you?” my father persists. “Do you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say hastily, not wanting him to say it again. “I know.”

“Good,” Dad says. “Make sure you get enough nachos for all of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say into the silence, then I frown. “Dad?”

No reply. I put the phone away with the strange feeling that I’ve somehow been tricked, and Dad’s scored points off of me … but what’s the game?

The Myers-Briggs personality tests we took in Future and Family class say that I’m ENFJ: extroverted, intuitive, feeling, and judging. Based on that list, I’m supposed to be a leader, totally goal-oriented, decisive, and good at reading people. Justin’s test was, of course, the total opposite. He’s all about rules and order, figuring out what makes things tick, and making everything work.

We might have shared space before birth, but we’re nothing alike.

Even the way we deal with stress is way different. It’s 11:42 p.m., and Justin is sprawled bonelessly on the floor next
to my bed, dead to the world. I’m sitting under the window at a table filled with a mess of glass rods, my torchwork case propped open at my feet, trying—badly—to make beads. There’s no fan, but with the windows thrown open and the torch going, it’s not that hot. This table is cramped, though, and the light isn’t right. My mandrel was too cool, and the glass didn’t stick for my first bead. The second one I took off the heat too soon. The one I’m working on now is … average. I was all excited about making some twisty rods for jewelry, spirals of colored glass around a core of clear. I was going to try and use them for some earrings I saw, but I can’t even get started right.