Seven #3
“Yeah,” I say sarcastically. “If you die, you wouldn’t be able to go to your highly selective college in Atlanta and study pre-law and become a corporate lawyer, and that would be a huge bummer for everyone involved.”
“I’d be pretty upset about it.”
“Please. What seventeen-year-old actually wants to become a corporate lawyer? You obviously don’t.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t know anything about me or what I want.”
The gotcha journalist I’ve somehow turned into is pleased he hit a nerve.
“I’m starting to get a sense of who you are, or at least why you’re stuck with my family.
You don’t want to be here, but your parents sent you anyway, probably because of some messed-up family drama, or maybe you screwed up at your old school and this is your parents’ solution.
Like a cheaper version of boarding school or a less intense version of juvie. ”
Based on Aunt Liz’s and Dad’s cryptic hints about his parents, I’ve gathered that Garrett was sent here because of a parenting decision Aunt Liz and Dad disapprove of. By the stony expression on Garrett’s face, I can tell my guess isn’t too far off the mark.
“Fine,” Garrett says, lowering his voice and taking a step closer to me.
I catch a faint whiff of his deodorant, citrusy and soft.
“You want to get real about why I’m here?
Why not? When I was accepted as a Global Youth Ambassador, my parents expected me to be out of the country, so they planned this whole year like they finally got to be empty nesters.
Volunteered for extra work trips. Arranged a monthlong vacation in Portugal.
Organized a road trip to visit my uncle in Phoenix.
And then when GYA couldn’t find a placement in Italy for me, my parents didn’t want to give up their plans.
Sure, they felt guilty and everything, but not enough to back out on all their fun traveling.
So … here I am. I get why they did it, and maybe it was a little shitty.
But no, we don’t have hidden messed-up drama.
I didn’t fuck up at my old school. I’m just being babysat by your dad for a year so my parents can have a life.
” He moves past me, making sure his shoulder plows into mine.
“So if you’re done pretending you understand me, I’ll head to my useless government class. ”
“I think lawyers need to know about the government,” I say lamely to his retreating back, a paparazzo taking a last, desperate shot at the school’s crown prince.
He doesn’t respond.
That evening, I find Garrett in the living room watching Monday Night Football with Dad.
The two of them are sitting next to each other on the couch, yelling at the players.
Dad usually does this by himself, never having been able to get Emma or me to sit through more than five minutes of a game.
Dad takes his hat off, presses it against his face, and puts it back on, angry at something one of the players did.
But I can tell he’s happy to share this with someone.
The Raiders are playing. From her spot in an armchair, a book propped in her lap, Emma flicks her eyes from the screen to my face. An impish grin tugs at the corner of her lips. I can tell she’s trying to decide how to reveal that she found me snooping around the jersey in Garrett’s room.
No, I mouth.
“Enzo, isn’t your favorite player on this team?” she asks.
Dad glances away from the TV. “You have a favorite NFL player?”
“No,” I say.
“I thought you liked number ninety-four or something,” Emma says.
“Nassib?” Dad asks. “Isn’t he the gay one?”
“There’s a gay NFL player?”
“Gay people can play football, too,” Emma admonishes.
“I know they can,” I say. “I just didn’t know they do. Not in the NFL, at least.”
“Enz, you’re being homophobic,” Dad says.
“I can’t be homophobic,” I bluster. “I’m gay.”
“Are you?” Garrett asks. “Because you told me you’re not.”
“I never said that.”
“Enzo is gay,” Emma clarifies. “And gay people can be homophobic.”
“They can also be football players,” Dad adds.
“I know they can.”
“I’d hope so,” Emma says, “since your favorite player is gay.”
“Right,” I say, giving up. “I guess that’s why he’s my favorite.”
Garrett looks at me strangely for a second.
Then someone scores for the Raiders—a straight player, presumably, since it isn’t Nassib—and he and Dad are once again focused on the game.
Emma gives me a self-satisfied shrug and goes back to her book.
I don’t care how the game turns out, so I head upstairs to work on arranging a medley of James Horner soundtracks, because apparently I’m too homophobic for the NFL.
I reach the top floor and peer through Garrett’s open door. He hung the jersey of the NFL’s only gay football player on his wall. Maybe Nassib is a badass, the NFL’s version of John Williams or something.
Or maybe that jersey is Garrett’s version of a pride flag.
The thought sends a white-hot jolt of energy through my stomach. I’ve never met another gay guy in real life, and I wouldn’t know how to tell if I did, apart from asking him, which is exactly what Garrett did to me in our first five minutes alone together.
And then there was the comment he made about how, if they saw the people in Irontown, his friends would be worried about him being the victim of a hate crime.
At the time, I wondered what a straight white boy had to worry about in a small town, but now it seems obvious: Garrett isn’t actually straight.
Later that week, Garrett, Emma, and I settle in for a video call with Garrett’s parents.
GYA requires our two families to do these every so often to “foster open communication and understanding.” Aunt Liz joins us in place of Dad.
He used a concurrent Chamber of Commerce meeting as an excuse, but I bet he’s avoiding Garrett’s parents because he’s ashamed of how he went off on them on the phone.
Garrett’s parents appear on the laptop screen, minimizing our own blinking faces to a small box in the corner.
They introduce themselves as Brock and Gina, and I note the strong familial resemblance between them and their son.
Brock has the same square jaw, the same rust-colored hair as Garrett, but his hairline is receding and his eyes are a dull brown.
Gina has Garrett’s gray-blue eyes, with blond hair feathering away from her face in hair-sprayed layers, her skin too tan to be natural.
They ask the sort of pleasant, superficial questions that come from people who don’t expect to really get to know us—what grade Emma and I are in, what our hobbies are, what Aunt Liz does for work—and we answer them.
Brock’s voice holds a stronger accent than Garrett’s, and he talks slowly, like a man who knows everyone will listen to him no matter how long he speaks.
I’m reminded of a trombone solo no one wants to hear.
After a few minutes, Garrett interrupts the small talk. “Where are you guys?”
Gina and Brock sit in a bright room with tall ceilings and lace curtains. I’d assumed it was their bedroom.
“Church mission trip,” Brock says solemnly. “Jamaica. We’re right outside Kingston.”
“We’ve been helping build a new community center,” Gina says. “And I can’t tell you how difficult it is to see the conditions for the children here. Just heartbreaking. It’s been an honor getting to know them and understanding what their lives are like.”
“Where are you staying?” Garrett asks.
“A resort,” Brock says. “The church guesthouse doesn’t have air conditioning.”
“Sounds rough.” His tone is genuine enough to evoke a benevolent smile from his mother, yet salty enough to elicit a snort from Aunt Liz.
I glance at him. He sits in a relaxed slouch, but his fists, held up near his armpits, give him away.
His knuckles are white, as if each hand were holding on to shards of glass that he refused to let go of no matter how much pain they caused.
This is why he’s here, after all: so his parents can travel.
They forced him to go through with his placement even when GYA couldn’t send him abroad because they’d wanted to live their own lives.
Garrett has two brothers, seven and nine years older than him, and I find myself wondering about his position in his family—if his parents intended to have him or if he was an accident.
As the conversation nears its end, Brock holds up a paper. “Liz, I’ve got Garrett’s grades here. He’s at a B-plus in chemistry and an A-minus in calculus. That won’t fly. Would you mind making sure he gets those up?”
“I’m not great at either of those subjects myself,” Aunt Liz says diplomatically, “but I can try.”
“If not, we’d be happy to pay for extra tutoring,” Brock says. “His brothers never needed it, but if that’s what it takes to get his grades up, we can make it happen.”
Aunt Liz shifts in her chair. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“And we’re still waiting on Joe to give us a call about Garrett’s friends,” Brock says.
At Aunt Liz’s blank expression, Gina explains, “Garrett had a … rough year last year. Surrounded himself with a crowd that pressured him into bad situations. We’re hoping he’ll have more positive influences this year.”
Aunt Liz nods, and as the call ends, I glance at Garrett once more.
His expression remains passive, but a red flush has crept into his cheeks, and I resolve to never bring up this conversation again.
If I were him, I would hate to have my dad talk about me to people I barely know as if I weren’t in the room.
“They seem nice,” Emma says, closing the laptop.
Garrett nods and gives her a warm smile. “Yeah. They’re the greatest.”