I’m stressed. Enough so that my mother has noticed. “Peyton, mi amor, remember what Abuelita always says.” I look at her and recite the phrase, “La vida es similar a un rompecabezas, cada pieza tiene una razón, un lugar y un porqué, no insistas en colocar piezas donde no caben.” I’m not so sure what Abuelita would think about my current situation, though. It’s rather, well, controversial. “¿Por qué la cara larga, mijo?” My mom stares at me from behind the enormous stack of boxes on the floor. “Ya sabes.” She shrugs as she pushes up her sleeves, preparing to grab yet another box off of the floor. Then she gives me the least useful advice on the planet. “I’m sorry about Emily, but Peyton, Qué sera sera.”
“Really mom? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Okay, well I promise you that absolutely nothing will happen if you don’t tell anyone that you like James too.”
“I know that!”
“But you don’t want to tell anyone?”
“Precisely.” She sighs as she takes the stack of boxes out to the garage. They’ve been in the living room since May of last year though we’re just now getting to putting them away. In our defense, it’s been six years since we’ve actually stayed in one house for longer than a year. My parents work for this law firm that defends immigrants, but it constantly requires shipping them out to new cities where they’re needed. Their firm swore this would be the last big move, though I’m not sure I buy it.
“Are you going to come and put these on the shelf for me or not?” My mom’s voice echoes from the garage. “Right, coming.” Having a tall son has its perks if you're my mom; I can reach the top shelf without a step stool. “So how is James, anyways?” She asks as I take the boxes out of her hands. “Ah, James. The source of virtually all of my problems. He’s good, I guess,” I say. “He hasn’t been over in a while. Why don’t you invite him over on Saturday?”
“Isn’t that when you’re having a work dinner?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So you’re having people over for drinks and then going to a fancy restaurant, leaving me here, alone, and you want James to come over?”
“Casey will be here.”
“You want James to come over when you’re not home, and Casey, my 13-year-old sister, to supervise?” She picks more boxes up off of the floor and shrugs. “Why, what’s the worst that could happen? I thought you weren’t planning on telling anyone.” I roll my eyes, “You’re a true cynic. I’ll ask James to come over on Saturday, fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
“Finish putting these boxes up there.”
“UGH!” She smirks at me and then leaves me alone in the garage with the last of the crap from the living room.
James O’Connor is my best friend. We don’t have much in common, but I’ve come to realize that the most interesting friends are the ones who aren’t just like you. To say he’s an amazing artist would be an understatement, but more importantly he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I never found art to be that interesting until I met James, but all he’s done since I met him in August is show me how one bold stroke can change everything. And no matter how confusing I find it, I’ll always keep listening. Because, as we’ve established, I’m in love with him.
We met on a sunny day in August. Being two of three new kids in our grade, we were subject to all of the “New Kid Lunches!” and “New Kid Meet-and-Greets!” and “What-to-Expect-at-Your-New-School-Even-Though-You’ve-Been-in-High-School-for-Three-Years-Now!” meetings. All things said, they’re not the most useful meetings, but through them I made a lifelong group of friends. I could from the first words we exchanged that they will be the people I go to for the rest of my life. The charismatic student tour guide, Marina, spent the whole day talking our ears off as she showed us how to navigate the school. Emily, James and I just followed contently and laughed as she cracked awful jokes, and thus a friendship was born. One unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
I along with Emily and Marina right off the bat. Marina was sporty like me, and Emily was nerdy like me, but James was something of a different breed. You know that feeling, where you just look at someone and you just know. Meeting James was one of those moments. He sat there with his wavy blonde hair that was somewhat pushed over to the side, and big round glasses that accented his blue eyes. He smiled nervously and waved at me when I walked into the room, and from that moment I knew. Throughout all of our meetings, I couldn’t help but take him in through tiny glimpses and shared smiles.
I think the biggest reason I don’t want to deal with these feelings is that no one here knew me before August which means no one knows me. In the entire state of Pennsylvania, the only people who know I’m gay are my parents and my siblings. A grand total of four people. It’s harder than people realize, moving every year and having to come out to new people every time. I decided that for now it’s something I’ll just keep to myself for now. It feels impossible to be surrounded by a new group of people every other week and have to tell them all over again— to have to worry about how they’ll react all over again, biting my tongue as people stammer with confusion. “But you’re so tall!” “But you play baseball!” “But you’re Hispanic!” It’s simply exhausting.
“Peyton, ¿Qué estás haciendo?” My mom calls from somewhere in the house. “Sulking.”
“Well in that case, I have more chores for you. Wash the dishes, por favor.” I pretend to be annoyed, but secretly I’m glad that I have something to do. It helps keep my mind off of James, or rather my worries in general. He’s almost completely evaded my thoughts when my mother sighs, “You know, you’re going to have to tell him at some point.” God again? She’s relentless. “That I might be in love with him? No way.”
“Not that, but that you like boys. He’s your best friend don’t you want him to, like, be a part of your life?”
“I don’t know, but-”
“Listen, it’s your business and I don’t care who you tell, but you cannot keep sulking around the house being sad. It’s making me depressed and I don’t want to be depressed.”
“But-”
“Shhhhh!” She presses a finger to her lips and winks at me, her long dark ponytail swaying as she moves. “Fine. I’m going to do my physics homework.” I shove the last of the dishes into their places on the shelf. My mom doesn’t acknowledge that she heard me, and turns back towards the stove, humming as she cooks. That’s my mom for you, the stunning half-Mexican lawyer who’s almost always comforting.
I do not, in fact, do my homework, because I have to listen to my little sister Casey badly play the ukulele through the wee hours of the night. “Casey! ¡Por favor, callate!” She did not, in fact, stop. “Casey! I cannot concentrate, for the love of God, please shut up!” I was met with a couple of grunts before she started wailing a Taylor Swift song as loud as she could. Thirteen-year-olds are insufferable. As I’m staring at my physics homework and not doing it, I get a text from my brother. He lives in New York now for college, but I guess we’re still pretty close.
Mom says you're sad. What's up? He texts.
It's nothing really. Just, Emily told me and Marina that she likes James. That's all.
Psht. That doesn't mean anything!
That's the thing, though. I think he does like her.
Oh.
Yeah.
And now I’m thinking about James again.
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