Autoboyography

by Christina Lauren

  “Do you ski?” Judy asks.

  “A little. We usually go up to Snowbird or the Canyons at least once a year.”

  His mom jumps back in. “With your whole family?”

  I nod, reaching for a bowl of cheesy potatoes and scooping some onto my plate. “Yeah. There’s just the four of us; I have a younger sister, Hailey.”

  Sebastian’s mother hums. “Beautiful name.”

  “My parents are both pretty outdoorsy,” I tell them. “My dad loves to bike and my mom runs.”

  Sebastian’s dad swallows his food before asking, “What do they do, exactly? Sebastian said you moved here for your mom’s job?”

  That Sebastian has been chatty.

  I take a sip of ice water and set down my glass. “Yes, sir. She is the CTO for NextTech.”

  Various sounds of interest pass around the table.

  “When they opened a satellite office here, they wanted her to run it.” More pronounced sounds of interest. “She writes computer software. She’d worked for Google in California, and left to come here.”

  “Wow,” Dan says, impressed. “It must be quite a job for her to have left Google. I hear they’re very good to their employees.”

  “And his dad is a physician at Utah Valley,” Sebastian adds. I look over at him and grin. He sounds braggy, like he’s proud.

  Judy’s eyes go wide. “I volunteer there every Wednesday! What’s his name?”

  “Paul Scott. He’s a cardiac surgeon.”

  “I know exactly who he is! I don’t spend much time on that floor these days, but he is the nicest man. The Jewish cardiologist, right?” she asks, and I nod, surprised that she knows him but also that her identifier is that he’s Jewish. “So attentive, and the nurses love him.” She leans in and whispers dramatically, “And quite handsome, if I do say so.”

  “Grandma! Do you love Tanner’s dad?” little Faith asks, scandalized, and the entire table laughs.

  “Now, you know I only have eyes for your grandpa. But I’m not blind, either,” she says with a wink.

  Faith giggles into her cup of milk.

  “That’s right,” Abe says. “She saw me at a church dance and hasn’t looked away since.”

  “Mommy, you and Daddy met at a dance, too, right?” Faith asks.

  “We did.” Sebastian’s mom looks across the table at Dan. “I asked him to Sadie Hawkins.”

  The little girl shoves a bite of food in her mouth before asking a garbled, “What’s Sadie Hawkins?”

  His mom goes on to explain, but all I can think about is what she just said. When she’s finished, I turn to his dad. “You guys dated in high school?”

  “We did,” Dan says, nodding. “We met when we were seniors and married shortly after I came home from my mission.”

  My brain screeches to a halt. “You can do that?”

  “We’re told not to keep a girlfriend while we’re on our missions,” he says, smiling at his wife, “but there’s no rule against writing letters once a week.”

  “As if you could tell these two anything.” Judy looks at the younger children and adds, “Your dad won’t like me telling you this, but you should have seen the love notes he used to write your mom. He’d leave them in his pocket and I’d always find them in the wash. They were crazy about each other.”

  The rest of the conversation blurs around me. All the other complications aside, if we could keep in contact while he’s gone, that wouldn’t be so bad. Two years isn’t that long, and I’ll be at school anyway. Maybe by then the prophet will have had a revelation.

  It could work, couldn’t it?

  For just a moment, I feel hope.

  Dan pulls me out of my fog. “Tanner, does your family attend synagogue in Salt Lake?” He looks over to Abe. “I’m trying to remember where the closest one is.”

  This is awkward. I don’t even know where the closest synagogue is.

  “Well, let’s see now,” Abe says. “There’s Temple Har Shalom in Park City—”

  “Too far.” Dan shakes his head as if he’s decided himself it’s unsuitable for us.

  “Right, and the city has a handful—”

  I decide to nip this in the bud. “Actually, no, sir. Sirs,” I amend, to include Abe. “We don’t attend temple services. I would say my parents are more agnostic at this point. Mom was raised LDS, and Dad isn’t very Jewish anymore.”

  Oh my Jesus, what have I said?

  Silence swallows the table. I’m not sure which gaffe was more artless: that I admitted my mom is ex-LDS, or that I so casually referenced dropping a religious faith like a hot potato.

  Sebastian is the one to break into the quiet. “I didn’t know your mom was LDS.”

  “Yeah. She was raised in Salt Lake.”

  His brow is drawn, his mouth a gentle, wounded line.

  His mom jumps in brightly. “Well, that means you have family locally! Do you see them?”

  “My grandparents are in Spokane now,” I tell them. I have the foresight to not mention that I’ve never met them in my eighteen years, and mentally high-five myself. But it means my mouth is left unattended and is off running: “But my aunt Emily and her wife live in Salt Lake. We see them at least once a month.”

  The only sound at the table is the vague shifting of uncomfortable people in their chairs.

  Oh my Jesus, what have I said again?

  Sebastian kicks me under the table. When I look at him, I see that he’s struggling to not laugh. I barrel on: “My dad’s mother comes to stay with us a lot. He’s also got three siblings, so our family is pretty big.” I lift my water, fill my mouth with it so I’ll shut up. But once I swallow, one more bit of mania manages to escape: “Bubbe still attends synagogue weekly. She’s very involved. Very spiritual.”

  Sebastian’s heel lands on my shin again, and I’m sure he’s telling me to calm the hell down, maybe even that I don’t need to be connected to religion to be accepted. Who knows. But it certainly feels that way. Everyone here is so put together. They eat neatly, napkins in lap. They say “Please pass the . . .” and compliment their mother’s cooking. Table posture is across-the-board impressive. And, maybe more importantly, rather than asking me more about my parents’ backgrounds or about Emily, Sebastian’s grandparents deftly move away from my verbal diarrhea, asking about specific teachers and upcoming sports events. The parents offer gentle reminders to their kids to keep their elbows off the table (I swiftly pull mine back too), to go easy on the salt, to finish their vegetables before they ask for more bread.

  Everything stays so aboveboard, so safe.

  Our family seems almost savage in comparison. I mean, we aren’t knuckle-dragging, monosyllabic oafs, but Mom has been known on occasion to tell Hailey to “knock it the hell off” at the dinner table, and once or twice Dad has taken his meal into the living room to get away from the sound of Hailey and me bickering. But an even more noticeable difference is the closeness I have at home that I only really understand now that I’m here with this warm but docile group of strangers. Over spaghetti and meatballs, the Scott family has been known to have an in-depth conversation about what it means to be bisexual. Over Bubbe’s kugel, Hailey actually asked my parents if you can get AIDS from giving a blow job. It was horrifying to me, but they answered it without hesitation. Now that I’m thinking about it, if Sebastian came over for dinner, I’m pretty sure Mom would send him home with some bright, affirming bumper sticker.

  Maybe those kinds of dinner conversations—minus the blow job talk—happen here behind closed doors, but I don’t think so. Where my parents might dig a little deeper in an effort to understand Sebastian and his family, I’m not really surprised that nobody asks why my mom left the church or why Dad no longer goes to synagogue. Those conversations are hard, and I’m but a lost sheep passing through their obedient flock, most likely impermanent. And this is the bishop’s house. Happy, happy, joy, joy, remember? Everyone is on their best behavior, and nobody will pry or make me feel uncomfortable. It would
n’t be seen as polite. From my experience, Mormons are nothing if not polite. This is who Sebastian is.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mom and Dad are waiting up for me when I get home, mugs of tea that have grown cold in front of them and tight, expectant smiles in place.

  Of course I couldn’t lie to them on my way out the door about why I’d be eating elsewhere, but it wasn’t an easy exit, either. They’d stood on the porch and watched me drive off, wordless. I honestly felt like I’d been stealing something.

  “So?” Dad asks, patting the barstool beside him at the counter.

  The chair scrapes across the tile, and we wince. For some reason, I find the jarring cacophony hilarious, because it’s already a pretty loaded moment—me, home from dinner at the house of the bishop, whose son I’m sort of falling in love with, my parents disapproving vehemently—and the horrible screech seems to only lend more weight here.

  My parents have their own kind of secret language; an entire conversation happens in their single shared look. I work to swallow the hysteria bubbling up in my throat.

  “Sorry.” I sit down, slapping my hands on my thighs. “So. Dinner.”

  “Dinner,” Mom echoes.

  “It was good. I think?”

  They nod. They want more.

  “His family is super nice.” I widen my eyes meaningfully. “Super. Nice.”

  Mom laughs a little unkindly at this, but Dad still seems more concerned than anything.

  “But it wasn’t, like, a date,” I clarify. “I mean, obviously. This wasn’t me meeting the family. It was just dinner.”

  Mom nods. “They like knowing his friends, especially if they don’t know you from church.”

  I stare at her for a few beats. “That’s exactly what Sebastian said.”

  “Think about it,” she tells me. “Everyone they know goes to their church. Having your son—especially if you’re a bishop around here—spending time with someone who isn’t LDS? You want to make sure they’re okay.”

  “Except I’m not, at least not as far as they’re concerned.”

  I can tell Mom doesn’t like this answer, but she waves her hand, like she wants me to keep going. So I tell them about the evening and how his parents met in high school. I tell them about my gaffes about Emily, and Mom’s past. Mom makes a face—because these shouldn’t be gaffes at all. I tell them that we talked about his mission again, for only a second though, and they listen the entire time, rapt.

  Still, I can see the worry etched into tiny lines in their faces. They are so genuinely afraid I’m going to fall for him, and it will end in heartbreak for one or both of us.

  “So . . . you liked them?” Dad asks, ignoring the way Mom turns and stares at him like he’s a traitor.

  “Yeah. I mean, they didn’t feel like my tribe, but they were nice enough.”

  Now it’s Dad’s turn to make a face. Family is everything to my parents, but maybe especially to my father because, obviously, Mom’s parents aren’t in the picture. My dad’s family makes up for it in spades. His mother comes to live with us for three months every year and has since I was a newborn. Since my grandpa died six years ago, she doesn’t like being home alone, and Dad is happier when she’s here under his roof. After she’s with us, she goes and stays with his brother and sisters in Berkeley and Connecticut, respectively, taking turns with the grandchildren.

  If I could have Bubbe here year-round, I would. She is amazing, and witty, and brings a certain type of comfort into the house that we can’t seem to muster when it’s just the four of us. My parents are great—don’t get me wrong—but Bubbe makes things feel warmer somehow, and over the last two decades my parents have been married, Bubbe and Mom have grown very close. Dad wants a relationship like that with us when he’s older, and for us to have it with our in-laws, too. Honestly, it probably bothers him more than it bothers Mom that she doesn’t talk to her parents anymore.

  I can see these thoughts pass over Dad’s face as I’m talking, and I reach out, patting his shoulder. “You look stressed, Dad.”

  “I haven’t often seen you . . . invested in someone before,” he says carefully. “We worry this isn’t the ideal first choice.” His eyes move away, to the window.

  Taking a deep breath, I try to think of the best thing to say. Even if what he says is true, that truth feels like a sticker on the surface of my emotions: easy to peel off. I know Sebastian isn’t right for me. I know how likely it is that I’ll get hurt. I simply care more about trying than I do about protecting myself.

  So I tell him what I think he wants to hear: “It’s just a crush, Dad. He’s a nice guy, but I’m sure it will pass.”

  For a second, he lets himself believe this. Mom, too, stays notably silent. But when he hugs me good night, he holds me tight for three deep breaths.

  “Good night, guys,” I say, and jog upstairs to my room.

  It’s only eight on Friday night, and I know I won’t be tired for hours still. Autumn texts that she’s going over to Eric’s. I’m relieved that I won’t feel guilty for bailing on something with her yet again and send a long string of eggplant emojis to which she replies with a long string of bird flip emojis.

  I wonder if Sebastian updated his emoji keyboard and what he feels about having that crude gesture on his phone, whether he’s even noticed it, whether he’d ever use it.

  Everything, everything circles back to him.

  • • •

  Mom is on a run, Dad is at the hospital, and Hailey is stomping around the house, complaining that no one does any Saturday-morning laundry anymore.

  I point out that her hands aren’t broken.

  She punches me in the side.

  I put her in a headlock and she screams bloody murder, trying to reach up to claw at my face, screaming, “I hate you!” loud enough to shake the walls.

  The doorbell rings.

  “Good job, asswipe,” she says, shoving away from me. “The neighbors called the cops.”

  I reach forward, swinging the door open with my best she-did-it smile.

  My world stops spinning.

  I didn’t know what “bemused” meant until I looked it up last year. I always thought it meant something like “coyly amused,” but in fact it’s more like “bewildered,” which is exactly how Sebastian looks standing on my porch.

  “What the—?” My surprised grin spreads as far as it can, east to west.

  “Hey.” He lifts his hand to scratch the back of his head and his biceps pops, smooth and tan.

  I am goo.

  “Sorry.” I step back, gesturing him inside. “You walked in on a murder in progress.”

  He laughs, taking a step forward. “I was going to say . . .” Blinking up past me, he smiles. I can only assume Hailey is standing there, shooting death rays at my back. “Hi, Hailey.”

  “Hi. Who are you?”

  I want to shove her into the wall for being so rude but resist because with this one bitchy question she’s made it seem like I’m not walking around gushing about this guy constantly. “This is Sebastian.”

  “Oh. You’re right. He is hot.”

  And there it is. Turns out I do want to shove her into the wall.

  With a small laugh, he reaches out to shake her hand. To my horror, she stares at it for a breath before taking it. When she looks at me, I lift my eyebrows in an I’m-going-to-finish-killing-you-later gesture. If Mom or Dad were here, she would be nothing but manners. With just me, she’s prime asshole.

  “Want to come upstairs?” I ask him.

  He glances at Hailey, who has already stomped back down the hall to the laundry room, and nods. “Where are your parents?”

  “Mom’s on a run. Dad’s working.”

  I think he gets the subtext here. The air between us crackles.

  Beneath our feet, the wood stairs creak, and I’m hyperaware of Sebastian behind me. My bedroom is the last at the end of the hall, and we walk down there in silence; my blood feels like it’s bubbling up to the s
urface of my skin.

  We’re going to my room.

  He’ll be in my room.

  Sebastian walks in, looks around, and doesn’t seem to flinch when I gently click the door shut behind me—breaking Mom and Dad’s open-door policy. But hello: kissing might happen here, and Hailey is in beast mode. That door is getting s-h-u-t.

  “So this is your room,” he says, taking it in.

  “Yeah.” I follow his gaze, trying to see it through his eyes. There are a lot of books (none of them religious), there are a few trophies (most of them for academics), and a few pictures here and there (I’m not holding a Bible in any of them). For once I’m glad that Dad makes me keep my room clean. My bed is made; my laundry is contained in the basket. My desk is empty except for my laptop and . . .

  Oh shit.

  Sebastian wanders over, thumbing the stack of blue Post-it notes. It’s already too late to say anything. I know what the one on top says.

  WE LEAVE EACH OTHER

  CUTTING SHORT AT THE USUAL STALEMATE.

  I IMAGINE WHERE HE GOES THERE’S A QUIET DINNER

  SECRETS STUCK LIKE GUM BENEATH THE DINING TABLE.

  HE IMAGINES WHERE I GO THERE’S SOMETHING DIFFERENT.

  AT BEST: RIOTOUS LAUGHTER, GIDDY FREEDOM

  AT WORST: CURSING, VAGUE SIN.

  MAYBE I’M GIVEN SIPS OF WINE.

  BUT EVEN IF THIS IS WHAT HE THINKS

  HE ISN’T JUDGING ME

  I HOPE SOMEDAY HE LOVES ME

  GOOD NIGHT, HE SAYS

  I WANT TO KISS, AND KISS, AND KISS HIM.

  “What is this?”

  “Um.” I walk over, pulling it off the top to read it as if I’m not sure what it is. In fact, I couldn’t be more sure; I wrote it just last night. “Oh. It’s nothing.”

  I count to five, and five, and five again. The whole time, we’re just staring at the bright blue Post-it note in my hand.

  Finally, he takes it back. “Is this about me?”

  I nod without looking at him. Inside my chest, feet stomp and animals roar.

  His hand comes up my arm, from my wrist to my elbow, tugging gently so I’ll turn to look at him.