Rhodes

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE:

            I’ve never had a strong relationship with my biological parents. And the reason I say biological is because my step parents are pretty cool as far as step parents go. My parents divorced when I was thirteen, freshly into seventh grade. And both of them got remarried during my sophomore year of high school. It was a strange experience, all in all; you never think you’d be at both of your parents’ wedding and watch them hold hands with anyone but each other.

            My dad married the vibrant and daring, Lydia Josephina. Her Hispanic blood reeled my dad in, but her undying passion for architecture art made him stay. She has a thick, Spanish accent, but her English is really spot-on. Lydia used to always lend me a hand when I took two years of Spanish, even when I kept resenting her for it. In the end, my average B was thanks to her reluctance and stubbornness.

            My mom, on the other hand, “married” Beatrice Valois. I put quotations around “married”, because they aren’t legally married, considering they are both women and the United States is run by close-minded Christians. I don’t know, I’m no politician, but I’m able to see inequality when it’s present. Nevertheless, my mom was a closet lesbian for a long time (long enough to have me), but after she and my dad had a falling out, she decided to come out after a session with a motivational speaker and a therapist. The therapist, was, Beatrice, and kind of weird when I think about it.

            Beatrice, unlike Lydia, is more serious, but hilariously cynical. She’s pessimistic, which is ironic for a therapist. When I’d bring a bad grade home and my mom would scold me, she’d take a sip of her black coffee and shrug; “Hey, he could be doing drugs, like this one kid I see every Thursday…” And then she proceeded to tell us about the latest messed up kid she’d been listening to. To be honest, that’s supposed to be classified information, but Beatrice is kind of apathetic about rules.

            But unlike my step parents, my real parents aren’t as “cool” or “exotic”. They’re just… mom and dad. The minute I told them I didn’t plan to go to college, the disappointment just flushed out all the color in their faces. They didn’t speak to me for a whole week, but I would occasionally hear them talk about the inevitability of my life’s failure. They were never easy-going, they never tried to understand my side of the story; they always just told me what to do and expected me to do it.

            Which is why I haven’t seen them in over a year and I was not, for whatever reason, about to call them to tell them about California, no matter how many times Lloyd told me I should.

            “I got ditched by my parents and you’re choosing to ignore yours? That’s a load of bull,” Lloyd always told me. I understood where he was coming from, considering his parents nearly disowned him the minute they found out he was gay, but that didn’t make me feel any better either. I felt it was just a pathetic jab for pity instead of trying to actually help.

            Mallory came over later that same week. She “claimed she was here to retrieve her coin collection and nothing else” when I asked her why she had come back. After a couple minutes of rummaging through our belongings for her coins, we just ended up with dust on our finger prints. Lloyd stayed as far away from Mallory as possible, leaning against door frames and taking steps backwards whenever she seemed to head his direction. I found the whole thing unbearably amusing.

            “You should call your parents, Rhodes,” Mallory agreed, looking behind our brown sofa. We all knew she didn’t have a coin collection, or at least, none that she would bring over when hanging out at our place. But we played along with her charade, probably because Lloyd and I get so bored sometimes, we need something off-color. A red head was usually the exact color we needed.

            “Uh, nope,” I answered bluntly, shaking my head.

            Lloyd, standing behind the kitchen counter, shook his own head in disappointment. I shrugged it off, as I do to most things.

            “Hasn’t it been like, months since you last talked to your parents?” Mallory asked as she straightened up from hunching over our couch.

            “A year, exactly,” Lloyd corrected, glaring at me with precise judgment.

            “Gaylord,” I spat.

            “If only,” He smiled.

            “Well, whatever, if you really don’t want to talk to your parents, then don’t,” Mallory chimed in. I nodded, content that she was finally committing to some common sense. Of course, though, Lloyd suddenly emerged from the kitchen to the spot beside me. He scoffed in disbelief.

            “She’s only saying that because I said you should call your parents. She just wants to disagree with everything I say, which is a total bitch move.”

            Mallory gasped and her eyes widened in size. She took several steps toward Lloyd, causing him to take several back. I watched carefully, observing them both in their natural habitat.

            “I will fucking obliterate you, Lloyd. You and your goddamn gay pride parade. Hell, even Christian—“

            “How do you know about—“

            “You hear me? O-blit-er-ate.”

            An awkward silence followed afterwards as Mallory clenched and unclenched her fists. Lloyd just stood there, turning slightly crimson and wondering how Mallory could have possibly found out about Christian. I glanced between the two of them, suddenly bored with the anti-climatic one-sided fight.

            “… Anyways, do you guys want some pizza?”

            Lloyd looked up and after a few seconds of disquietude, nodded.

            “Okay,” I said, turning my head toward Mallory, “do you have money?”

            We didn’t get pizza, but I did get Lloyd off my back about my parents. Only, that very night, as I was thinking on my mattress (which, is missing a bed frame), I began fantasizing on what would happen if I did decide to call my parents. What would they say? What would they do? What would I say? What would I do? I thought up a variety of scenarios, but none seemed to end pleasantly enough to persuade me to call them.

            It was nice, though, picturing my parents’ voice telling me how much they missed me or giving me a surplus of reasons why they never called. Good reasons, too. I even sprinkled on some dialogue on how proud they were that I had managed to carry my own weight, despite the fact I was currently unemployed and living off my “college money”. But in every scenario, we ended up in a fight or a misunderstanding or me just hanging up.

            “Hey, Lloyd, are you awake?” I asked, staring at the ceiling.

            “No,” Lloyd muttered from the mattress beside mine.

            “Would you still talk to your parents even after they kicked you outta their lives, like, if you had the chance?”

            There was a pregnant pause of silence. I got worried that Lloyd actually did fall asleep, but then I heard his body turn on his bed sheets. I also heard him exhale a deep breath.

            “Yeah,” Lloyd said, “I would.”

            “Okay.”

            “Rhodes?”

            “Yeah?”

            “If you don’t stop making noise and go to sleep,” He yawned, “I’ll sexually assault you.”

            I laughed, “Okay, Lloyd, okay.”

A/N: Rhodes will be on the road in no time. Don't worry.