Dad is home; he’s sitting in his easy chair, watching the Wild play the Vancouver Canucks. Sigh. Yet another reminder of Mats.
Clee, what a wonderful surprise. He gets up and gives me a crushing hug. Can we get you anything?
No, thanks. I’m stuffed from the party, I say.
Ah, yes. How was your mother’s big fête? he asks, with very little interest.
Boring as hell, says Jordan, who seemed to be having a good time every time I saw him. But Dad doesn’t like hearing about parties that were successful without his charming presence.
So, what’s new? How’s hockey going? Are you still the leading scorer on the team? asks my dad.
Yup. We wrapped up the regular season this weekend in first place. Playoffs start in a couple of weeks, if you still want to come to a game. I hate myself for asking again, but it’s automatic now.
Of course, of course. Just send me the schedule. He settles back into his chair and sips his can of beer. Maybe Jordan will come along with his old man.
Fat fucking chance, scoffs my brother. I’d never go to a hockey game at Monarch.
This is my big chance. Speaking of Monarch, I’d really like to know exactly what happened when you got kicked off the team.
Jordan looks at Dad for support, but he seems to be absorbed in the Minnesota power play.
I’ve already told you. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend?
Because he’s not my boyfriend anymore, I state simply.
Jordan’s eyes widen. Fuck yeah! You dumped his ass. Serves him right, I hope he’s miserable. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would have come to get you.
I shrug, trying to suppress how much breaking up still hurts. We didn’t break up because you wanted it to happen.
Whatever. Ace move, Clee. Jordan goes to the kitchen, and I hear the fridge open.
I perch on the edge of my dad’s chair. Well, Dad, you told me that Mats wouldn’t be welcome here, and now we’ve broken up. And I really cared about him. Are you happy?
His gaze shifts to me and he looks a little guilty. Ahh, Clee. I’m sorry I came down so hard on you. But it’s all for the best. You’ll find a much better boyfriend than him. Plenty of fish.
Jordan returns and slumps into the chair beside Dad’s, then raises his can of beer in salute. Yeah, screw that motherfucker. He should just go back where he came from.
What the fuck did he just say?
His words are a wake-up call. I feel nauseous, yet victorious. I was right; I knew once I saw Jordan in person I could get the truth. And here, where he’s completely relaxed, with his defences down, his truth is revealed. My beloved little brother is a fucking racist.
Still, I need to be completely sure. You mean Canada?
Naw. I mean China, Japan, wherever. Jordan is focused on the game, not paying total attention.
That’s a very racist thing to say. Mats is Canadian. And he’s at Monarch because Coach Norman recruited him. The Mustangs needed his hockey skills and leadership—things you didn’t have.
Jordan’s head jerks up in surprise. What the fuck? Has Mats brainwashed you too?
I face him, hands on hips and my voice indignant. No, you’re the only one who’s been brainwashing me. I vouched for you, Jordan. When Coach Norman asked me about that incident in high school with the Black player, I repeated the story you told me—which I now realize was total fucking bullshit.
I turn to my father, who is pretending to ignore our fight since he hates conflict. Dad, why are you just letting all Jordan’s racist shit slide?
Ahh, Clee. He’s young, and he’s had more than his share of bad breaks. Jordan’s not as mature as you, he replies.
What does maturity have to do with prejudice? The two of them relaxing comfortably here gives me a shattering insight into their lives. They sit here and complain about the unfairness of life, and how other people get all the breaks. Because blaming others is easier than looking at yourself and realizing you need to change. I pity their tiny lives, because they’re only going to shrink further.
And now I’m angry at myself for idealizing both of them for so long. I don’t want to be the mature, responsible one if it means cleaning up my brother’s messes anymore.
