That warm September morning when I told him I quit the team.
“So,” Dad says, the clippers humming near my ear, “what’s up?”
Cool metal teeth graze my skin. I need to keep it cool. One false move and I’m finished. There’s no way I’m walking into school with a jacked-up haircut.
I try to swallow the words in my throat, but they bubble back up. “The winter formal is coming up.”
“And?”
“And it’s a pretty big deal.” To my best friends and the whole effing junior class, I guess.
“Do you need money for a ticket? A suit?”
“No.” Being Dad’s assistant doesn’t pay much, but it covered the cost of tickets. Yes, plural. Two, for me and my future social media stalker if I let Aiko or Skyler have their way.
“Have you found a date?” Dad asks.
“Not exactly.”
“You don’t have to have one, you know.”
“Yeah.” But everyone seems to think it’s cooler if I do.
“You can go with friends.”
“Yep.”
Except I want a date. I want to tell Dad all about this amazing guy I haven’t met yet.
But Dad doesn’t even know I’m gay.
This is my big moment, right? The one in every teen coming-of-age where the main character comes out and there’s tears and singing and glitter. You know, where the main character experiences approximately thirty seconds of anxiety and fear before they’re swinging out of the closet on a chandelier.
Look at me! Out, proud, and loved!
Yeah, okay. Thanks, TV.
I’ve thought about coming out to Dad. A lot. But it hasn’t happened.
Dad’s not conservative or anything. But he also doesn’t pay attention to the news segments about LGBTQ rights and marriage equality. He doesn’t mention any queer friends or family members.
It’s just...not a big deal to him. It’s not a deal to him at all.
“I want...” My right leg bounces frantically. An ache burns behind my eyes. My palms are coated in sweat.
“Do you want a date?”
“Yeah?”
“So?”
“Well, I...”
The clippers quiet. I can feel Dad’s patient stare. My pulse breaks records in my ears. Whitney sings about wanting to dance with somebody. This is it. Where’s my glitter and parade and Big Moment?
This is a lifetime of anxiety suffocating me until Dad says, “There isn’t a boy you can ask at school? Or do they all have dates?”
And everything stops.
“What?” I choke.
The clippers buzz back to life. “Are you having a tough time finding a boy to ask?”
Wait, what the actual...
In true pre-puberty form, my voice hits an alarmingly high note when I ask, “You know? About me?”
I turn my head slightly to get a glimpse of him. Thankfully, he doesn’t slice off my ear.
Dad shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
It’s a big-effing-deal, Dad!
“I didn’t always know, but I knew,” Dad says nonchalantly. He’s killing the unbothered father game.
I cough harshly, eyes bitten by tears.
“I had to do some research first,” Dad continues. “Google is my friend.”
A laugh creeps up my throat, tickles the roof of my mouth. Darwin Stone, professional comedian.
“I wasn’t sure how you identified—gay, bisexual, ace, aromantic, greysexual...” Dad rubs his face, sighing. “I had to learn a lot of terms and what they meant. I had to make sure I knew who you were.”
I blink hard. Luckily, nothing warm and wet slides down my cheeks. But the pressure-before-the-break is there.
“Why didn’t you ask?” I say, my voice thick. “You’ve never talked about any of this.”
Dad frowns. “I wanted to make sure I knew how to make you comfortable and safe first.”
I nod. “Are you,” I stutter, heavy words weighing down my tongue, “Are you comfortable with it?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Dad,” I say in that tone he’s used with me at least four times today.
“I’m trying,” he confesses. We’re quiet. Too quiet. Then he says, “I am. I wasn’t raised to understand different sexualities. Everything was very black and white, and often unfair to the black.”
It’s a joke, sort of. But the truth behind it, how everyone is made to believe white is good, pure, a ray of light while black is bad, tainted, the ugliest darkness, is ridiculous.
Dad carefully turns my head to finish buzzing my sides. “I’m changing. For myself. For you too.”
We edge back into silence. The music of the clippers and that one Montell Jordan song played at every sports event fills the gaps.
“I can find you a date,” Dad finally offers. “I’ve joined a few online communities for parents of LGBTQ youth.”
A rush of blood burns my cheeks. “Dad, no.”
“What? There are so many amazingly supportive groups!”
A shudder tickles my spine, draws a smile to my lips. Dad talking to other parents about me, online? I can’t even imagine. I won’t be attending any local PFLAG meetings with him, but it’s kind of epic that he cares that much. That he’s trying.
He touches up my hairline with a razor, then swipes my skin with far too much alcohol. I hiss, tears hanging on my eyelashes. Dad smiles at me in the mirror, dusting off loose pieces of hair. He rips the cape away like a matador deflecting a bull and I hop down.
I whisper, “Thanks, Dad.”
I wonder if he knows what I’m thanking him for. What he means to me.
I quit the team for Dad. He’d never admit he needs an extra hand around the shop. To clean and schedule appointments and maintain the atmosphere his customers love. The other barbers don’t care enough to help.
This shop’s all Dad has besides me now.
I couldn’t watch him die slowly again like he did after Mom, so I lied. Said I was bored of running. I wanted to learn how to build a future.
Everyone says it’s a parent’s job to protect their child, but why can’t I protect him? Why are there roles when it comes to protecting the ones we love?
“I’m gonna finish up,” I say, grabbing the broom.
It’s nearly closing time. Exhaustion is weighing Dad’s shoulders down.
The silly jingle bell above the door rattles and in walks...
“Milo?”
Milo jumps, then shyly ducks his head. He’s still wearing his red apron. Black turtleneck. He plays with the zipper of his ocean-blue hoodie, ivy-green eyes moving from me to Dad in a slow, hypnotic motion.
He clears his throat. “Is it too late for a haircut?”
Dad sizes him up, then cocks his head at me. Something sparkles in his eyes. I don’t like it.
“You need a cut... Milo, is it?”
“Yes, sir.” Milo nods jerkily, sneaking another glance at me. Pink edges up his cheeks.
Dad laughs under his breath, leaning on his chair. “And you trust me with your hair?”
Milo raises an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Dad waves a hand around at all the framed photos on the wall—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Oprah. Langston Hughes. Dad’s forever crush, besides Mom: Michelle Obama.
“Oh!”
I chuckle into the crook of my arm at Milo’s wide eyes, embarrassingly squeaky response. Cute isn’t the right word for what this is.
Milo starts, “I mean...”
Dad briskly waves him off. “I’m kidding.” One heavy, calloused hand thumps his chair. “Sit. I’m a pro. I used to cut that Justin Timberlake’s hair, you know.”
Mortification has a death grip on my larynx as I squeal, “Dad!”
“What? Wrong Justin?
” Dad has a little too much amusement in his voice. “Is Bieber still the cool one?”
I want to die. But Milo cracks this smile that reminds me of the first clear inhale after completing a race. The adrenaline of first place. The pride of finishing anything. He shrugs off his hoodie, detangles from his apron. His thin fingers pull through his deep brown hair, messing it up some.
Dad makes small talk with Milo as he begins his usual pre-haircut routine. I kind of tune him out.
Milo Leone. Why haven’t I noticed him before?
Well, I’ve noticed him. Duh. But I haven’t noticed-noticed him. In an attractive way. A dateable way.
Our only shared class is world history. It’s the best class for a nap. Mr. Johnson constantly rambles about stories of the world from, you know, one perspective. Not one I can relate to. I always grab the most low-key desk—the one in the corner—next to Milo. He’s painfully shy in class, which is why he sits in the back. He freezes whenever Mr. Johnson calls on him.
He clearly doesn’t like the attention. I don’t know why. He has all my attention right now.
“What do you like to do outside of school?” Dad inquires.
It’s weird—Dad’s learned more about Milo in the last five minutes than I have an entire semester sitting next to him.
I feel bad about that.
Milo’s good at talking to his feet rather than making eye contact in the mirror. He rambles about tech stuff and online games. “And anything Star Wars.”
Damn it.
Thing is, Dad’s hard-core about Star Wars. The attends-national-conventions kind. Wins local trivia contests. As in I’m named after his favorite character—Luke Skywalker. But that’s confidential info. Since middle school, I’ve told everyone I’m named after Luke Cage, the comic book character.
“Milo!” Dad shouts. “Shut the front door.”
Milo startles, but he’s smiling, wide-eyed. A-freaking-dorable.
They geek out over Jedi stuff while Dad carefully trims Milo’s sides. Fanboy over General Leia. Analyze the latest films with laughter and enthusiasm. It’s the nerdiest thing ever. It’s also the first time Milo’s eyes meet Dad’s.
I sweep around the shop, my mind drifting. It’d be cool to bring a guy home to meet Dad. Someone who makes Dad laugh. That would listen to Dad’s endless stories with a smile and equal interest. Someone I could find the quietest moments with in the noise of the world.
A guy to attend winter formal with.
Someone like... Milo?
“Vader or Kylo Ren?” Dad asks.
“Vader, obviously.” Milo’s tiny, cocky smirk lights a flame in the darkest corners of my wishful thoughts. “But Ren is still cool.”
“More like whiny,” Dad corrects with a grin. He brushes stray hairs from Milo’s cheeks and temples, spinning him around. Then he gives two sharp nods at his work—the Darwin Stone stamp of approval.
I nod, too. Milo didn’t look bad before. He was this geektastic cloud of awkward-cuteness. But this haircut enhances his softness. His sides are clipped, and Dad’s swooped a section of hair over his brow. It sharpens his cheekbones. Emphasizes his wide shoulders.
Milo steps out of the chair, smiling at his feet. “Thanks.”
Dad pats his shoulder. “Looking sharp.”
If a new shade of red existed, it’d be called Milo Leone. It’s everywhere, from his nose to his big ears.
“Yeah,” I whisper. Clearly it wasn’t as quiet as I thought because Milo’s head jerks in my direction, our eyes meeting, a prickly wave of embarrassment scorching my skin.
“Uh...” My tongue malfunctions. Lips numb. Vocabulary decimated.
“Nice, right, Luke?” Dad says too suggestively.
Am I that transparent? That even Dad knows I’m into Milo?
“Sure,” I mumble, nose scrunched.
Milo’s eyes drop, but his smile doesn’t.
His smile is a hurricane, dangerous and relentless and inescapable.
Milo’s fumbling with his wallet, fishing out money, when Dad says, “No charge, son.”
“What? No, I couldn’t—”
Dad holds up a hand. “It’s on the house.”
“But—”
“No charge, Milo,” Dad says, firmly. “I couldn’t possibly charge a loyal member of the Rebellion.”
I snort. “Better take him up on that offer. Dad doesn’t do freebies.” A complimentary haircut from Darwin Stone is like finding a unicorn at a coffee shop. He doesn’t even do birthday haircuts. After all, he has a shop to pay for and all my cross-country gear wasn’t cheap—not that it’s earning him any money back hanging in my closet or stuffed under my bed.
Milo’s hand drops, but there’s a small lift to his mouth. A quiet thank you in his sagging shoulders.
Dad leans on the headrest of his chair, grinning a little too hard. “If you really want to repay me, maybe you could hang out with Luke sometime?”
Oh no.
“Go for coffee.”
He’s not...
“Dinner and a movie?”
This is happening.
“Dad,” I hiss, jaw tight.
Dad shrugs. “Just a suggestion.” Then he winks at Milo.
“I, uh...” Milo’s flustered again. Tangled words and twitching hands and skin burnt crimson.
A faint kind of ache hums in my chest. It’s for the way Milo looks at his hands, then at me, through thick eyelashes. We share equally embarrassed smiles. Our shoulders are wire-tight. Our feet shuffle like we’re learning a new, clumsy dance.
I can’t believe this.
Darwin Stone, certified wingman.
Except, Milo says, “I should go,” waving in a disjointed, clumsy way. At the door, he glances back at me. Blinks one too many times.
I smile a little, but not enough to make him stay.
How am I supposed to ask a boy to winter formal when I can’t properly flirt with one that’s ten feet from me?
Is that even what Milo wants? I don’t know his sexuality. I sit next to him all the time and only know he smells like gym sweat under a layer of mango-scented deodorant. That he has nice handwriting. That, sometimes, he looks at me with this tiny, unreadable light in his eyes.
Milo finally whispers, “See you around,” to Dad, promising to follow his Millennium Falcon blog. Then he disappears.
And I go back to sweeping. To wanting something I don’t have the guts to ask for.
“Luke Zion Stone,” Dad says, loud and annoyed, “is that how I raised you?”
“Huh?”
“You’re seriously going to just stand there?”
I tilt my head, eyebrows creased. “I’m doing my job, Dad.”
“No, you’re doing a terrible job of being a teenager.” He drags a hand down his face. He looks tired. No, agitated. “You’re not going to quit on this one. Run after him. Three years of cross-country should pay off for something.”
“Dad?”
“Milo. Go.” He points stiffly at the door. “Give this a chance.”
I shake my head, confused. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” All the wrinkles around Dad’s eyes can’t hide his pleading. “He obviously likes you.”
“Okay, joining a few online communities for parents of queer kids doesn’t make you an authority on whether a guy is into me or not.”
“It sure as hell doesn’t.” Dad laughs. “That’s decades of watching romcoms with your mom.”
I shut my eyes, but a laugh squeezes past my lips.
“It’s okay to take a risk,” says Dad, soft but earnest. “If it doesn’t work out, that’s fine. Life goes on.”
I lean on the broom, refusing to acknowledge the dizzying spin of my stomach. The thunderstorm of my heart behind my ribs.
“Luke,” Dad says, and I
finally open my eyes. Stare at him. A knowing grin crinkles his mouth. “Don’t quit before you start. You’ve done enough for everyone else. For me. Do something for you.”
It’s as clear as lightning in the dark. As loud as marching bands after a touchdown. Dad knows. Why I quit the team and why I’m always at the shop now. But a heaviness in his eyes, masqueraded by a warm smile tells me we’ll talk about that later. That Dad wants me to focus elsewhere instead.
“Go,” Dad demands, amusedly. “Or I’m firing your lazy ass.”
I run as if I’m breaking a new record.
As if I’m winning this race for Dad. For both of us.
* * *
“Wait!”
An aching heat roars in my lungs. My heart’s sinking in the acid of my stomach. Every muscle in my legs stings. I barely have the speed and focus to catch Milo under an orangey street lamp outside his car. It’s an old, greenish two-door compact with a Stormtrooper bobblehead on the dashboard.
Milo jumps when my fingers catch his elbow, squeezing a little too tightly.
“Wait,” I wheeze.
I’m distressingly out of breath. A few months off the team and I’m a winded rookie incapable of completing the 100m dash.
Milo stares at me with these wide eyes, partially concerned but slightly pleased. It centers me. Endorphins explode in my system. My heart’s suddenly a dormant volcano returning to life.
“I want to,” I pause, sucking in more air. Milo raises an eyebrow and courage leaps into my throat. “I want to go to the winter formal.”
“Yeah?” He’s almost laughing, nose wrinkled.
“With a boy.”
He nods slowly, nibbling that chapped lower lip.
“I want to take a boy to the formal.”
“I think I got that.”
Right. Here we are, standing under a tangerine street lamp. A pattern of fuzzy glowing stars swims in an endless gray-black sky. The moon is a broken halo. I haven’t thought any of this through. What to say. How to ask. Or the fact that it’s way past chilly outside and I’m standing in a pair of black running tights under loose basketball shorts with nothing but a red thermal to keep my chest and arms warm.
Not exactly Ask a Boy to Winter Formal apparel.
Out Now Page 10
