Page 75 of My Own Kind of Person

“I’ll be there.” She stands. “I feel like we should be celebrating.”

I laugh. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“But you have!” She looks from side to side. “I haven’t gone out in a while. I feel like I need to start getting ready if I want to make it in time.”

“Let’s get dressed and go sleep outside of the club,” I joke.

She heads to her room. “Should I wear a ball gown?”

“Wear a tux!”

I can’t help but smile. Then I remember Elijah is on his way, and I start doing push-ups. I get all the way up to five.

Mom comes in carrying a spray bottle and reading from her phone. “They have a fried clam platter. Yum.” She sprays the end tables and the coffee table. Her voice is high and her words come out fast. “Fried pickles? What do you think those are?”

“My guess is fried pickles.”

She wipes the tables with an old T-shirt. “Can I bring a friend? Oh, and can I record it? And what is it—that comedian is gonna be there?”

I’m reminded of how she gets like this sometimes: excited, happy, like the opposite of zoning out. Not unlike how I’m feeling. Though it can become too much. Once she got into running and she ran for so many miles that she broke a foot and couldn’t walk on it for six weeks. Once she came home with a Lexus and tried to return it the next day but wasn’t allowed to.

“It’s not sold out, so you can bring anyone you’d like, you can probably record it, and we’re not sure if Joe Johnson will be there.” I should be helping to clean, I decide, and it’s possible Elijah will come to the door, so I pick up some socks and a bin of winter clothes and a very small screwdriver and carry them into my room. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”

I take three T-shirts off my floor and bring them to the bathroom to see which is the most clean and least wrinkled.

“He’ll be there,” Mom calls, “I know it.” She plays Billy Joel from her phone and starts going through the junk in the hall closet. “So, how does it work? Do you just have funny thoughts all day?”

“Not at all.” I scrutinize my face in the mirror. “I think I don’t know how to wash properly.”

“Huh?” She comes in carrying a cowboy boot.

“What the hell is that?”

“Is it yours?”

“Is that cowboy boot mine? No.”

She holds it higher. “I have never seen this before in my life.”

We both burst out laughing.

Her phone lets out a loud sound of birds chirping, interrupting Billy Joel. It’s time for her to leave to do deliveries. She lets out a long exhale. The birds keep chirping.

“All right, all right,” she groans, and turns the alarm off. She goes to the front door and shoves her feet into her boots and stomps until they go over her heels. “I really don’t feel like working right now.”

I watch out the window for Elijah’s car. “You can do it!”

“Oh!” She claps her hands. “Do you want to come keep me company?”

Her eyes are wide, like a child, energetic and needy. When she zones out, I can make a joke to wake her up. When she spins out like this, though, I’ve never known what to do. Stay home so I can watch her?

“I have plans tonight,” my voice says. The guilt is immediate. The worry is overwhelming. But I continue: “With my new friend. Who is also my boyfriend.”

“Wait. Is Christy—”

“We broke up. This is someone else. Elijah.”

“Elijah.” She says it like an idea she never considered. “Did I know you were gay?”