Booker
“This is bullshit, Booker,”my little sister tells me as I race around my childhood bedroom, packing up the stuff I’ll take with me. My parents are at some fundraiser in D.C. today, so, since the coast was clear, I decided it was the perfect time to grab the stuff I don’t want to leave behind.
The people I’m leaving behind? I wish I could take them with me too.
“You’re not wrong, Em, but it’s just the way things are right now.”
“I know, but I still hate it,” she sniffs, turning away so I don’t see the tears lining her eyes. Even when she was really little, Em hated to cry. She’s tough as nails, always has been. She never shows any weakness, which drove Fallon and me crazy when we were kids.
Because I can, and because I’m not sure when I’ll see them both again, I wrap my youngest sister in a hug. She doesn’t back out of it, doesn’t roll her eyes, she just hugs me right back.
“All right, I think this is everything I want. But if I left something good behind, I’ll text, ok?”
We haul my duffle bag and two boxes downstairs where Fallon is sprawled out on the couch. She turns to Emersyn, signing, “What the hell? You were supposed to keep him up there. Don’t tell me you don’t have all the supplies necessary for a hostage situation because I know you do.”
“Hostage situation?” I laugh, signing. “I’m taking that plan as a compliment. A twisted, bizarre compliment. Look, I hate this as much as you do, but we’ll keep in touch, I promise.”
Fallon nods, signing, “We worry about you.”
It breaks my heart that they have to. “I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you will be, but your stupid boyfriend won’t.”
“Whoa, Em. Leave Ian alone. I mean it. I don’t need you landing in juvie, ok? I’ve got a busy week as it is.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “But I’m trolling him on QuikTok, and you can’t stop me.”
Fallon stands and reaches to hug me, but that’s when we hear the tell-tale sound of the garage doors opening.
“Shit,” Em mutters. “Go into the den, Book. We’ll distract them and get them out of here. Maybe I’ll tell them I won the spelling bee and I deserve ice cream. Yeah, they’ll buy that.”
“You won a spelling bee?”
“No,” she scoffs. “I don’t even think those are real. I’ve only ever seen them on T.V. But that doesn’t matter. Now, go. We’ll distract them so you can leave.”
“Thanks,” I tell my sisters, “but I’m done hiding.”
“Booker?” The worried tone in my mom’s voice melts the ice around my heart just a little. She texted last week, saying she loved me and that, in time, this would all blow over and we could go back to being a happy family again. There was so much wrong with that statement that I didn’t even know where to start, so I just told her I loved her and the girls, and left it at that.
But now she’s standing in front of me, tears streaming down a face that looks so much like mine. She wraps me in her arms, and despite how angry and hurt I am, I hug her back.
And then, as usual, my father comes in and ruins the moment.
“Finally come to your senses?” my dad asks, his tone condescending.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I did. I realized a couple months ago that suppressing who I am just to avoid your judgment isn’t any way to live.”
“But putting your hands all over another man—in public, no less—is?”
“Uh, yeah, actually. It’s called a public display of affection, and it feels pretty good.” I’m baiting my father, something I’ve never done in my twenty-one years of life. But, as Whit would say, I have no fucks left to give.
“So, this is it? You sneak home to pack up your things? Thought you could get in and out without having to confront me? Without having to own up to the shame you’ve brought upon your mother and me?”
Arguing with my father is futile, so I bite my tongue. But Emersyn doesn’t. “Shame?It’s the twenty-first century. People are gay. It’s a thing. If you feel shame, that’s on you.”
“Em, honey. I need you to get my purse in the car. I left it there by mistake.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
