It's a Whole Spiel

by It's a Whole Spiel- Love, Latkes

  I’m not saying it’s the reason that I’m generally shunned by the popular kids at school, but Briana Henderson did ask me what “don’t @ me” meant, and it occurred to me that I might spend more time on Tumblr and Twitter than most kids my age. And that’s slightly alarming.

  Mom honks, and I trip down the last few steps. “Davey! Come on!”

  “Coming!” calls Davey, and the way I know they’re still in middle school is none of their friends laugh at this. I haven’t said the word “coming” in a solid three years now. I slide into the passenger seat while they hop in behind me and shut the door.

  “Hi, sweethearts,” Mom says with a smile. “How was school?”

  “Awesome. I’m going to audition for the school play,” says Davey. I can see them in the mirror posing for a selfie. “It’s The Music Man.”

  Mom and I instantly begin singing “Gary, Indiana” while Mariah croons at us through the radio. I should definitely mention that neither Mom nor I can sing. Davey groans and pretends to hate it, but I can tell they secretly love it.

  “What part?” asks Mom.

  “Marian the librarian,” says Davey, surprising me. They clearly don’t miss the looks Mom and I shoot each other. “There’s no reason why that role has to be played by a cis girl in 2019.”

  “Go get ’em, sweetie,” Mom says. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your b’nai mitzvah practice, I’m all for this.”

  “It probably won’t,” says Davey vaguely, which means it definitely will. That’ll be a fun battle.

  I decide to come to their defense. “You let me skip a few lessons for cross-country.”

  “True,” Mom says thoughtfully.

  Davey kicks the back of my seat. I think it’s a thank-you. It better be a thank-you.

  “Did you look at the links I sent you?” Mom asks me.

  I looked at the email and just seeing Can’t wait to tour these colleges with you! made me want to puke. College-searching stress is really getting to me, and it feels like everything I do must be marketable to a college. Like my parents hate how much time I spend on Tumblr and this one fandom site called Milk & Honey, but I kid you not, this past spring, Dad was like, Hey, do you think you can call that creative writing?

  I mean, it is creative writing. (Why do people think only girls write fanfic? Why is it only okay for girls to write fanfic? Uh, I’ve got things to say about the canon too.) But if I put it in a college app, don’t I have to share it with the admissions counselors? No thanks. I don’t even let my nerd friends read my fic.

  “Helllloo? Gabe?” Mom waves her hand in front of my face without ever taking her eyes off the road.

  “What? Also, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to keep two hands on the wheel,” I tell her to deflect.

  “You can critique my driving when you manage to park a car without hitting a wall,” says Mom simply.

  “Ouch,” I mutter. But we’ve successfully dodged the college question.

  “Burn,” crows Davey from the back seat.

  I’m tempted to flip them off. The one time I happened to put the car in drive instead of reverse, there was a brick wall in front of me. That’s why Mom picks us up on Friday afternoons to go to synagogue for Shabbat services instead of Davey and me driving together straight from after-school clubs (me: lit mag; Davey: theater and music).

  We don’t live in a super-Jewish area, so we drive about forty-five minutes to the nearest synagogue for services and religious school. We always get Friendly’s before services, and today’s no exception. It’s kind of fun, in some ways, to drive to a new part of town. I see people in the Friendly’s and then at services I only see once a week. I don’t go to school with any of my temple classmates, and that division makes me feel a bit like Clark Kent.

  Plus, I think if Samantha Robinson and I went to school together, we’d have murdered each other by now.

  Wait, that’s not exactly right.

  She would have murdered me by now, and she would have been justified.

  But neither of us has figured out how to leave Judaism (can you?) or convince our parents to switch to a new congregation away from this one, which I think we both genuinely love, so we’re still subjected to each other’s presence every week.

  Sure enough, Mom parks behind Sam’s mom’s car.

  “Look who it is!” Mom says cheerfully. Like she hasn’t noticed that Sam and I don’t hang out anymore. She hands me the button-down shirt she brought for me, because I never remember to bring synagogue-ready clothes to school. (In my defense, it’s really early when I get up.)

  I cannot get out of the car fast enough. If I keep my head down, maybe we’ll be like ships in the night or whatever that saying is. We’ll just pretend we don’t see each other. We pretend so well, Sam and me.

  Mom slows down to chat with Sam’s mom, so Davey and I walk into Beth Israel right behind Sam and this other girl I’ve known my whole life, Bethany Elwin. The guard at the door nods to all of us, recognizing us, and we all smile back, quiet for a few steps before conversation starts up again. Beth’s dyed her hair a shocking shade of purple, and she’s telling Sam the entire process while Sam keeps saying, “But it’s so…bright.”

  “I know, right? The box didn’t lie!” sings Beth, tossing her hair.

  “A box dye? You’re doing so much damage to your hair,” Davey pipes up. “You should really make sure you’re washing with a color-safe conditioner that can help heal the follicles.”

  Beth turns. “How do you know that?”

  “I read,” Davey says cheerfully. “I follow a couple of people on Instagram. I can give you their names if you want. They have great hair tips.”

  “If I wanted tips from a—” Beth begins to say.

  “Think about where that’s ending,” I cut in smoothly.

  Beth’s mouth hangs open for a second, and then she shuts it and presses her lips together.

  I sling an arm around Davey’s shoulder. They don’t look the least bit rattled. Their resilience is incredible. “I don’t know how you follow so many Insta accounts and keep up with them.”

  “It’s easy,” Davey says, rolling their eyes. They look me up and down. “And you could use some help. I’ll send you some links.”

  “This is my best T-shirt,” I protest as I head toward the bathroom to change.

  “It’s atrocious, and it smells like a gym,” Davey calls back. They don’t need to change, because they dress well all day instead of just for two hours on Friday nights and Saturday mornings.

  Beth rolls her eyes and walks down the hall, and for a beat, Sam hangs back, a faint smile on her face. Then she seems to realize that she’s lurking outside the men’s room, and a flush runs up her cheeks. She ducks her head and hurries down the hall to catch up to Beth.

  It’s always like that. Every time I’ve seen her for the last year (which feels like forever), I know I should say something like Hi, how are you? or I’m sorry, but the words stick to the roof of my mouth.

  I don’t even know where to start. It replays in my head over and over and over again, constantly. It’s behind me everywhere I go. And that’s stupid—because I’m not the wronged party here. I’m the wronging party. I’m not even sure that’s a thing. But it feels like this black cloud that follows me everywhere. It’s been a year. It feels like too long ago to apologize now without seeming like a creep or a weirdo. I should just get over it, except I can’t. And obviously Sam can’t either.

  In the coat closet where I stash my T-shirt (and Davey’s right, it does smell a bit like a gym; I hope no one notices), I rub at my face and check my phone, a useless attempt in this dead zone to refresh Milk & Honey. (You know what it is, yeah? I mean, you’re here. How’d you find this without knowing? But just in case this is the first fic you’ve clicked on—you�
��ve made a mistake. Read something else. This is a whole site dedicated to reimagining every canon character as Jewish. It’s pretty fantastic, and I’m obsessed with it. Click my favorites if you want to see what I’m reading.) I joined basically as soon as it opened last year and I heard about it on Tumblr, and it’s basically saved my sanity.

  I posted a new chapter to my fic last night. I had a handful of new comments this morning, but I haven’t checked all day—no phones at school, and Davey uses so much of our family data plan that I usually don’t bother trying until I’m home and on Wi-Fi. But right now I really need a distraction, and the only escape I have, here and everywhere, is through fic and fandom.

  Then Davey comes around the corner, a little breathless. Services are about to start, and Mom wants to know why it’s taking me so long to change a shirt. I reluctantly follow them into the sanctuary, letting out a breath of relief when I see that Mom’s not sitting next to Sam’s family.

  I like being here, I remind myself, because I do. I swear I do. But every time I bow, I can feel guilt rolling around in my stomach like a cannonball.

  Endnotes: You probably don’t care about this part. But for once, I’ll give you the truth instead of the fiction. I’ll stop asking you to read between the lines, because you deserve more than that. You deserve the whole truth and nothing but it. You deserve the apology.

  And I swear it’s coming. But let me get through all of this first, okay?

  You can take this down when it’s done. I don’t mind. I know I’m probably violating the terms of service and a dozen rules.

  ***

  CHAPTER 2: MILK & HONEY AND HOME

  Author’s Note: n/a, see endnotes

  The first thing I do when I get home from school on Monday is dump my backpack by my desk and log on to Milk & Honey. I’ve got a half dozen new comments on my fanfic where I reimagined the X-Men as Maccabees.

  This is pretty awesome, dude. When’s the new chapter going up?

  Omg I love it. MOOORRREEE

  UM YOUR WRONG ABOUT ICEMAN—HE IS WAY TOO SENSITIVE FOR THIS. DELETE YOUR FIC.

  Please update soon? Also is it going to earn that M rating?

  *bookmarks*

  “And this isn’t what they expected. They expected it to be easier. They expected it to be harder. But they didn’t expect that the cold in the mountains, looking out over their city under occupation, would turn to steel in their veins. They did not expect to find a new camaraderie in the face of defeat. But they did.” <= MY FEELS. HOW DARE YOU.

  The “please update” comments make me laugh, because I just posted a chapter last night. How often do I need to update to make them happy? (Do not answer this.) According to the moderator and founder of M&H, and probably my best friend, but don’t tell them that, YaelLouder, you can’t make everyone happy, no matter what you write. Still, it’s hard to wrap my head around that in the moment when I’m scrolling through the comments. At least I don’t get harassed much on M&H. My handle is gender-neutral, but I’ve been clear on the forums and in my fic that I’m a cis guy, and I’m pretty sure that’s why.

  Sometimes, if I can’t sleep, I stay up on M&H’s forums and help Yael with the harassment that comes through. Yael—who always has third singular in their profile despite their gendered username—gave me moderator privileges so I can go through and issue public or private warnings, put people in time-out, or ban them. I’ve never had to ban someone, but I like helping Yael out.

  I’m still responding to comments when a chat message pops up on the site from Yael.

  YaelLouder: hey Mabface looks like people are enjoying your new fic!

  They call me Mab because it’s the shorthand for my handle: Make A Beat.

  Makeabeat02: hi yourself! How’s it going today? People are…apparently I need to update every hour?? Send help. I can’t do homework anymore. Just fic.

  YaelLouder: lol people are so demanding sometimes.

  Makeabeat02: haha I know, but it’s nice. I mean, that’s why I write it, right? For people to read it? Imagine how unbearable I’d be if no one read my fics.

  YaelLouder: I would probably have to go into invisible mode just to avoid you. You’re emo enough as it is.

  Makeabeat02: omg

  Makeabeat02: I am not emo

  Makeabeat02: take it back

  YaelLouder: have you even read your own fic?

  Makeabeat02: feeling v attacked right now tbqh

  Mom calls up the stairs, “Are you starting homework? If you haven’t done your homework, you can’t get on the computer!”

  “I need the computer for homework!” I call back.

  YaelLouder: the truth hurts

  Makeabeat02: blocking you

  YaelLouder: :p you would never

  Makeabeat02: haha yeah.

  Makeabeat02: that would be weird.

  Makeabeat02: also I don’t think I’d have any friends if it wasn’t for you

  YaelLouder: Somehow I doubt this

  Makeabeat02: no joke though. Anyways, how was your day?

  YaelLouder: don’t think I’m not circling back to that friend thing. My day was…meh.

  Makeabeat02: meh doesn’t sound good

  “Gabe!” calls my father, slamming the door behind him as he comes home. “Come down and help your mother with dinner!”

  “One second!” I yell back.

  I type to Yael, Hold that thought, okay? I’m sorry. Have to go do dinner with the fam. I’ll be back soon.

  I can see them replying, but I leave before I get sucked into more conversations and Dad has to call me a second time.

  After dinner, I go upstairs and log on to M&H right away.

  Makeabeat02: hey, I’m back

  YaelLouder: :)

  Makeabeat02: your day get any better?

  YaelLouder: Ugh. No? Not really. I had to block two people this morning for being asshats and violating their warnings, and I can’t stop thinking about this weird thing that happened this weekend and—I think one of my friends is homophobic. I mean, I knew that she was kind of uncomfortable with gay people but I think she’s straight up homophobic. I don’t know what to do about it.

  Makeabeat02: ugh that sucks. Can you talk to her about it?

  YaelLouder: I don’t know. Does it make me a bad person if I avoid it?

  Makeabeat02: I mean, I don’t think you are a bad person and I don’t think this makes you a bad person? But it’s not going to help her—or any gay people she runs into

  YaelLouder: What would you do?

  Makeabeat02: Hmm. First, I mean, it’s personal for me? A family member’s queer. That’s all I’m going to say because it’s not my story to bring online etc etc. It happens. But I guess the best thing I can do is be there for them and make sure people know they can’t turn to me with their bigoted bullshit, you know?

  YaelLouder: Yeah, I think that’s the part that I’m realizing hurts the most. The part where she thought she could be that person in front of me. She never should have felt like I had her back. Anyways, I have to figure out how to handle that. Thanks for listening.

  Makeabeat02: no problem <3

  Sometimes I wonder why it’s so easy for me to say all the right things online, when I’m typing, and say and do all the wrong things in real life.

  YaelLouder: what’s up with you?

  They aren’t subtle when they’re changing the topic, that’s for sure.

  Makeabeat02: I’m working on the next chapter of X-Maccabees and brainstorming the next fic. I think I’m going to write one-shot of Clint Barton taking Natasha Romanoff to Israel for the first time. Not on a mission. Obviously she’s been there on a mission.

  YaelLouder: obviously

  Makeabeat02: I can’t decide if it’s seri
ous or fluffy though

  YaelLouder: All of your Clintasha fic is kind of fluffy.

  Makeabeat02: what?!

  Makeabeat02: THEY BASICALLY ALMOST ALWAYS NEARLY DIE

  YaelLouder: it took me a few seconds to understand that sentence and yeah, near death experiences do not automatically make something not fluff. You always tag it hurt/comfort and it is not h/c. It’s fluff.

  Makeabeat02: wow. It’s like I don’t even know you. It’s like you don’t even know me.

  YaelLouder: I do know you. You’re one of my best friends. This year would have been impossible without you.

  Makeabeat02: it’s raining on my face

  Makeabeat02: alternatively my roof has a leak

  YaelLouder: take the compliment, Mab.

  Makeabeat02: here’s a new fact about me. I am allergic to kindness.

  YaelLouder: false. You love those gushing comments on your fic

  Makeabeat02: that’s about fic. This is about me. I have hives all over me. It’s really gross and itchy.

  YaelLouder: you are ridiculous

  After the conversation moves to the forums and troublemakers there, I eventually have to sign off to sleep. But my day feels made now. There’s something about M&H that makes me feel at home, but there’s something about Yael that makes me feel seen and heard and understood like I don’t get in my real life. We talk a lot about treating others like we want to be treated, but really, I think we ought to see others like we want to be seen.

  Endnotes: See? I can write fluff. Tempted to tag this h/c just to be that way.

  I’m getting there, by the way. I promise. I’m the worst, but I don’t break my promises. Even that one from a year ago.

  CHAPTER 3: SOME DAYS YOU’RE THE SIDEKICK;

  SOME DAYS YOU’RE THE SUPERHERO

  Author’s Note: God, this is getting to the part that’s hard to write, and I can feel myself looking for anything other than the truth. It’s this throbbing ache in my chest. I’ve written and deleted this chapter so many times. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard.