Chapter Matt Hernandez #9
“—Our families have known each other for years, so my parents are also like, his extended family. Sometimes it feels like they cheer more for him than they do for me. I swear, they own more of his merch than mine.”
That can’t be true. The Millers have never worn anything of Matt’s. Still, the audience laughs, so some of the pressure is taken off him.
Robert pats Matt’s knee—like physical comfort is a thing they still do—and asks for another question.
Matt is still a little lost when the event wraps up.
The last time the Millers talked to Matt, Robert threatened him. And punched him. Matt’s nose still aches, even though it’s been over a month. So why…?
“Sorry, I overstepped in there.” Robert sucks down his water bottle and emerges with a soft gasp. “You looked upset, so I just reacted.”
“Don’t apologize, I—thank you.” Matt picks at the skin around his thumb for something to do.
“No, it’s stupid. I don’t know why I even—I should’ve just said yes.
Or no. Nobody in there knows me, I could’ve just…
The problem is I always talk too much. I didn’t mean to even mention him, to draw attention to—Mama doesn’t like races. That’s enough.”
“How is your mother, by the way?”
“Um, good?”
Robert’s never asked before, despite how close he used to be to her.
Matt clears his throat. “Yeah, good. Thanks for asking.”
Robert nods politely. “Is she… still working?”
“God, no.” Matt needs to stop picking at his skin so he drops his hand and rubs the feeling out against his pants. “She has arthritis pretty bad, so she takes it easier now.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“It’s fine.” Talking about anything else helps, so Matt barrels on. “She has a gardening club she’s really excited about, with some women from the old neighborhood. They grow, like, vegetables? I guess. And tomatoes, though that’s not a vegetable. It grows similar though, I think.”
He’s oversharing, he can feel it, but once he gets going it’s hard to stop.
Robert doesn’t seem to mind. “They grow on vines, like grapes.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Matt laughs but it’s just his frustration bubbling to the surface.
“I’m so sorry about—about back there. You’d think I’d be over it now, right?
That I could just show up somewhere and say ‘hey, my dad is dead’ like everyone else.
I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to just—to be like everyone else. ”
Jesus, can’t he just shut up?
“How long has it been?” Robert asks, treading lightly as if Matt hasn’t just vomited up his entire life story.
“Nine years in July.”
“Oh. So…” It’s not hard to do the math.
“Yeah I, uh, lost my two favorite people in the same year. Ha.” It was a pretty dark time, actually. Loneliness like he never could’ve imagined. “I tried to call, but—”
“But I blocked you.” The empathetic voice disappears. Robert is steel again as he bites out a disdainful, “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Matt exhales and it’s shaky. He’s still worked up, but he needs to fix this. “Look, you probably don’t want to hear it, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about that night, and every single day I wish I could go back and—”
“You’re right, I don’t want to hear it.” Robert’s bottle is empty, and it crinkles when he squeezes. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s fine. I get it.” Robert makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and turns away. “Maybe you were right. Maybe Formation 1 wasn’t ready for gay drivers yet. For all we know, you could have saved our careers that night.”
“But what if it was ready?” Matt pushes. “Then what? What did I lose you for?”
“Let it go, Hernandez. Move on.” Robert sighs, but the plastic bottle cracks in his hands again. “I did.”
Mateo’s sexuality was less of an awakening and more of a slow realization built up over time.
It was difficult to separate his idolization for good drivers from the feeling he got when they whipped off their baklavas.
He felt the same butterflies from a good defensive maneuver that he got when a driver stood on the topmost platform, his hair sweaty, his mouth falling open as he gasped for breath, lips wet with sweat and saliva and sparkling grape juice.
When Bobby gave him that same feeling off the track, in their everyday life, that’s where the trouble began.
Bobby definitely wasn’t gay. His eyes always wandered towards the girls that hung around the track. He had a reputation for picking up other drivers’ older sisters, and enough charm to keep getting away with it.
On the nights Bobby didn’t come home, Mr. Miller switched to manager mode and talked fundraising strategy with Mateo.
“You’re in a little bit of a pickle, racing for the United States,” he said. “Mexican sponsors are huge and lucrative. They might give you a chance, but they want to see you carry the Mexican flag. Want to hear the Mexican anthem.”
Mateo only had an American passport. Despite his family’s history with Mexico, the rules stated he could only represent the US.
—Which is what he preferred, anyways. Mateo was born in America, raised in America, raced in America—he was an American citizen. But, if he couldn’t find the money to continue in the Formation series, what did it matter what flag he carried?
“What about American sponsors?” Surely one of the biggest countries in the world had a couple of companies willing to invest.
“There isn’t much of a viewer market in America for Form 1. For how expensive the sponsorships are, there isn’t enough return on investment if the American audience just isn’t watching. They’d rather sponsor FASCAR or Indie.”
“Yeah…”
It was nice of him not to mention that any American sponsor looking to break into the market would rather sponsor Bobby. Not only was he attractive, he was American racing royalty. Who was Mateo Hernandez in comparison?
“You can still race for the homegrown series,” Mr. Miller said. “I have some big connections who’d love to see you test. I just know you have your sights set on Form 1.”
“Yeah.” Mateo swallowed the lump in his throat. “I want to make Formation 1 happen, if possible.”
“Then we can find another avenue—something to set you apart from the competition. Maybe a Mexican-American mix? Like, an American tequila brand? Then again, maybe not until after you turn twenty-one…”
There was something else. Something that set Mateo apart from the boys he raced against. Something that made him unique—marketable, even.
“Um…” Mateo hadn’t told anyone. Not his mother, not his father. He took a deep breath and asked, “What about… are there any gay sponsors?”
“Gay?” Mr. Miller’s eyes widened, and Mateo's stomach dropped.
“Um, I mean—” Alarm bells rang out in his head. What other word sounded like gay—but wasn’t gay—but was still something that applied to him? “Guy?” Fuck, that was stupid. “Like, for boys?”
Stupid answer. Such a stupid answer. It was much rarer to see girls on the track than boys.
“Mateo,” Mr. Miller’s voice dropped, like someone might overhear them. “If I heard what I think I heard, you should keep that to yourself.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t say anything.”
“I know.” Mr. Miller’s expression turned intense. “On the track you’re surrounded by boys. It can be confusing. But the racing world is old fashioned. Very old fashioned. You’re already an immigrant racing for America. If you were—you know—you won’t stand a chance out there.”
“Yes, sir,” Mateo answered, quietly. He wasn’t an immigrant, but he should’ve known better. It just hurt to hear it from someone else—someone he respected so much.
“I think that’s enough for tonight.” Mr. Miller closed his laptop and slid it into his bag. He didn’t look at Mateo. It felt purposeful, somehow. “I’d like to leave at ten tomorrow. I’ll text Bobby, let him know to be here before then.”
At 10:30 a.m., Bobby stumbled back to the RV with a satisfied grin. “What’s wrong?” he asked, smile falling as soon as he spotted Mateo.
“Nothing,” he replied, wiping his eyes. They were irritated from crying all night. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Okay, so you point this way for snakes, and this way for rats.”
“Why would I choose either?” Robert crosses his arms in front of him to make a big ‘X’.
“I’ll choose both, then.” Matt has never had much of a problem with larger pests, it’s shit like cockroaches he can't handle. Especially the flying ones.
At least snakes and rats stick to the ground, for the most part.
The two drivers are closer than usual—nearly on top of each other so the editing team can fit text on either side of them for a vertical video. The crew probably wants them to break out into a fight for how much they’ll inadvertently smack into each other when they disagree.
“Coffee or tea?”
Both boys raise their right arms, pointing to the space roughly above Robert’s head.
Coffee? But Robert nearly vomited the first time he tasted it. Used to complain about the smell in the camper every single morning.
To Matt’s questioning look, Robert ducks his head down, towards his ear, and mumbles, “Well I can’t choose Red Boar now, can I? Not with VFIbr kickin’ our asses.”
“What’s funny?” the director asks.
Matt hadn’t realized he was laughing. “Oh, um… nothing.”
“I’m just talkin’ shit,” Robert explains, sitting back upright. “You’d have to cut it.”
“Let us be the judge of that, please.”
“Right. What’s next?”
The director fixes them with a glare one more time before reading, “For movies, this way for horror, this way for romance.”
They both choose horror and Robert scoffs.
“Yeah, right!” He forces Matt’s hand to point at romance. “You think I don’t know you’re a big baby?”
“Says the guy afraid of snakes?” Matt grabs Robert’s arm with his other hand before it can snap back to horror. “You can’t just choose horror because musicals aren’t an option.”
“There are horror musicals!”
“Oh yeah, many more horror musicals than romantic ones.” Matt tries to keep Robert’s arm above him while maneuvering his own to the other side. “I like speculative movies, that should count as horror.”