Atlas
Pa shuffles the stack of papers, filing it in the cabinet for later use. He stands, groaning, while theatrically stretching his arms and legs. I roll my eyes, sheltered behind the motel’s front desk and the wall space that separates me from him. He slams his briefcase shut (which, for the record, he doesn’t need) and zips it closed. Loudly. As I clack my nails over the granite desktop, I feel his sudden presence loom over me.
“Alright, hijo," he says, having picked up the term of endearment from ma long ago. "I’m going home. Here are the keys to lock up shop,” he says.
For real?
“No fair. Why do I have to stay? We haveguests,” I say emphatically.
He makes that small grunt of disapproval he doesn’t think anyone can hear, but that we can all hear regardless.
“Because you’re my son and I asked you to. Our guests have plenty enough distractions to entertain themselves while you’re gone.”
“What’s so important you need to go home for and abandon your only son?”
“Mamá and I are going to watchHousewives. The new season just came out,” he says in the most nonchalant way possible.
I groan, then keep groaning until all the air has traveled out of my lungs. Pa slaps me playfully on the shoulder and laughs boisterously. (I’ll get you, old man. Nowhere will be safe. Perks of teleportation.) He rounds the desk, hooks his finger under my chin, and lifts it so we look at each other face-to-face. Pa has a bright, red beard he brags about because he was in the habit of excessively shaving for the longest time (looking at you, BYU), and the sparks of fiery red hair that are as vibrant as ever, though now balding, and frayed.
Please don’t let me go bald like he is. I must retain my gorgeous, luscious locks for as long as I’m alive.
“How are you holding up, hijo?”
“It’s only a matter of time before Ambrosia and Matt show up. So, I guess I’m alright. I’ll miss Ezra and Conin, though. They’re good guys.”
Pa smiles. His hand lingers but finds my shoulder, where he squeezes it gently. Reassuringly.
“You always did carry your heart out on a silver platter,” he whispers before saying goodbye and strolling out of the motel like he didn’t just shatter my entire world with those . . . eleven words.
WHAT DOES HE MEAN!
I’m not instantaneously in love with the first pair of nice boys that come my way. There are plenty of decent people at school (some dicks, too), but he’s never commented about them thatway. Or maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I’m too bottled up—too on edge to think straight (yes, pun absolutely intended).
It’s math test after math test afterward. My tutoring has helped improve some students’ scores, but the rest continue to fall short. Why do I torture myself with this? I don’t need the experience, I don’t need the pay, and I sure as hell don’t need the credit because when high school is over, I’ll be stuck in this small, shitty town for the rest of my cruel existence.
Why the hell did I have to be born this way?
Perhaps Ezra would listen to me if he knew how I truly felt.
A bell dings overhead. My attention is drawn to a couple: a white man with disheveled hair as bad as mine and a cocky, hungry grin, followed by a Black woman sporting a buzzcut. Her piercing eyes tell me she does not want to be here. I wouldn’t want to be here with this man, either. There’s just something about him that screamsNO.
“A bedroom for two, please,” the man says. Meanwhile, the woman leans against the table with the coffee decanters and sugar packets. She’s unimpressed, watching the vacant road outside.
“Okay. I’ll need a few things from you first,” I say, pulling out several forms. I’ve been asking Pa to go digital for years.
The man presents me his ID and fills out the form until his phone rings, loud and clear. The woman breaks from her daze, casting a furious glance at the man. He shrugs, gesturing with his hands for her to finish the check-in process, and stomps out the door.
“Let me just grab your key,” I say.
I fumble for it in the key box. She stares blankly into my soul when I finally present it to her. I gulp back the urge to tell her to stop looking at me like that. When our hands graze, an unpleasant jolt of electricity shimmers through me. The womanmumbles a “thank you” and leaves without another word. I gape, left wondering what just happened, when it hits.
Ambrosia better answer, otherwise, I’ll be pissed.
“Hi, I have to take care of something in my room. Please don’t interrupt, okay bye,” I blurt when I enter the house.
“Mijo!” Ma yells.
“I can’t right now. I need to contact Ambrosia.”
