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The voice of my mother outside my door calls me down for dinner. I barely noticed the sun being traded for the gloom of an early evening twilight through the window. After putting away my drawing, I head downstairs to join my parents at the table. My dad, a skinny, blond, mustached man who is always wearing his dress shirt, vest, and tie, even when lounging around the house or in the dead heat of a Texan summer, sits at the end of the table with a detached, pensive look on his face as he cuts a bite of steak with the precision of a surgeon. My mom doesn’t cook, so as usual, our meal was delivered from somewhere local she likely knows of. Also as per usual, she’s full of critical remarks with every bite. “Dry.” She tries something else. “Overdone.” A nibble of baked potato, then a shrug. “Not bad. A touch salty.”
“Have you made any friends, Donovan?”
The question comes from my dad. And I can already hear the implied expectation in his crisp tone. It isn’t so much a question as it is a demand for me to do my part in fulfilling his master plan for all of us here in Spruce. That I should finally find my place and flourish. That his lovely wife should work her way to the top of the socialite tree and make best friends with the wealthiest families. It is all so damned predictable, just like it was in every other city.
So I give a reasonable response: “It’s only been two days.”
“A lot can happen in two days,” he reasons back.
My mom clears her throat. And there is an ocean of judgment in that unassuming, miniscule noise. It’s a special talent of hers, to somehow bring up all the drama of my school day yesterday with a single, curt shifting of phlegm in her throat.
“You’ve barely touched your steak,” my dad notes.
I set down my knife. “I don’t like it here.”
My mom issues a nearly inaudible sigh of impatience as she picks up her glass for a sip of wine.
My dad’s mustache curls up with a smile as he chews. “Spruce may not be that big of a place, I know. It isn’t what you’re used to, but give it time. Your mother’s always spoken fondly of this town. Haven’t you noticed how gay-friendly they are here, too? Even the pastor at the church is gay. Or was that his son?” Before my mom can correct him, he shrugs it off. “I am certain you’ll find at least one or two acceptable young men to befriend here. Why don’t you invite one over for dinner sometime, Donovan?”
Another throaty noise from my mom, as if to discourage him from pushing that button.
He misses the hint, or deliberately ignores it. “I would like to see you make some friends here in Spruce. It’d be good for you. Healthy. We have all this space here, this big house your grandma left us. Wouldn’t it be nice to fill it with some friendly faces? Some life? Some joy? Just ask Mom. She hosted a graduation party here back in her day, didn’t you, dear?” He gives my tightlipped mother a pleasant smile as he cuts another bite of his steak, brings it to his lips, then chews with meticulous certainty, satisfied with himself.
My thoughts stray from the table as I imagine a completely different setting. What’s Toby’s day-to-day life like? What does he eat for dinner? Is he eating right now, seated at a table with his own stiff parents and mix of troubles and dissatisfactions? What does he do for hours before going to bed? I sure as hell know my life here so far is full of a lot of nothing. What does anyone do in a town like this to pass the time? Other than gossip, which I’ve already not only learned the hard way, but been a direct part of.
Or maybe Toby’s parents are super sweet. Maybe after that hard first day, his mom baked him a cake, and they all crowded around a tiny TV to watch movies and make him feel better. ‘Don’t let those bullies get you down,’ I could imagine his mother saying. ‘Just ignore their mean words. Sticks and stones, right, sweetheart?’
The thought has me smirking, amused.
“Why don’t you join an activity?” suggests my dad. “Perhaps an Arts program? Or an afterschool club? An enriching experience of some sort? Spruce High even has a Theatre Arts program.”
My mother clears her throat. Again.
“Yes,” my father decides, “that would be an excellent way to meet others. To work alongside your peers. To make friends.”
My parents are so convinced it will just take the right set of friends to mold me into who they need me to be: someone who’ll join my dad’s business endeavors someday, even if I still know next to nothing about what exactly he does. It has something to do with investing in businesses, traveling too much, and blaming my behavior whenever they have to relocate to a new city.
