Magic monsters and me, p.37
Magic, Monsters, and Me, page 37
Oh.
My.
God.
The darkness, hurting Austin to feel better. Dad. Grandma Smith. Why did I think it was Mom who taught me that?
My mind raced back to Grandma picking me up from John Muir after Jose Mazariegos, another of my bullies, pulled a knife on me at school and threatened to kill me if I didn’t give him my lunch money.
“He has a knife. How do I fight back?” I had told her as I slid into the passenger seat of her maroon Toyota.
Grandma gripped the steering wheel. “You get him where it hurts. Humiliate that piece of crap. And when you do, you sit back and you enjoy every moment of that because it feels good to hurt people.” She added, “Hurting people is real power; you know that, Elijah?”
I opened my eyes. “Mom,” I said, “can I tell you something?”
The light from the lamp on the bedside table shone around her, making her glimmer. “I am so ashamed of being who I am. I came out and now I don’t know who I am anymore. And loving Austin the way I do. Dad is hard but I’m soft. I can’t be soft to be a man like him.”
“Elijah!” Mom’s voice rose, and she brushed her hair off her shoulders. “God, Elijah,” Mom said. “Don’t listen to him.” Mom was angry. “I knew you being around him was a bad idea.”
“Mom, I don’t know how to be a man…”
“Elijah, your father doesn’t love anyone but himself. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Elijah, there is nothing wrong with loving someone such as Austin. There are many ways to be a man. You can be like Uncle George or Grandpa or Austin Sr. You can be whoever you want to be. Do you understand?
“You can be like my best friend, Sweetie. He is out and proud and fronting a hugely popular heavy metal band. He has legions of fans all over the world, and he is happily married. He is soft and hard. You can be both.”
“I can?”
“Yes. Elijah, when you love someone and you stand beside them that is the definition of being a man. Staying true to your commitments.”
“You mean, Dad’s not a man then?” I asked. Mom shook her head.
“He’s a broken man,” Mom said. “He’s not someone who can tell you what you want to know. He’s a lost soul, Elijah.”
“Am I a lost soul?”
“You are found and loved,” Mom said, squeezing my hand and smiling lovingly at me.
“Mom,” I said after a moment, “I miss having magic. My powers to protect myself.”
“You do have powers. Maybe not magic but powers nonetheless.”
I looked at her. “What do you mean?”
Mom made a fist with her left hand. “This.”
“Oh, I defended myself from Orville!”
Mom grinned. “That’s what you needed to do. Look, violence isn’t always the answer but standing up for yourself is.”
“Nunma in Viacadeimo, Great-Great Grandpa Dirk always said.” I looked over at the painting of Dirk, flying through clouds on a white unicorn and battling Malloupus. Dirk in the painting must have grown tired of the horse and had summoned a unicorn to ride into battle.
My eyes were heavy. The darkness danced around the edges of my brain. I fell asleep. I dreamed that I was walking with Austin. He was so excited. Talking nonstop. And he was so happy. I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alone, in my Head
I WORE A tank top, shorts, and my sunglasses to the annual BHS Festival. Rides were set up on the field, booths for playing toss the coin, whack-a-mole, a shooting gallery. A typical LA day, it was eighty-five degrees with the sky a silvery gray from the air pollution. I came to the festival alone, wandering over on my skateboard. Since I had the flu, Mom had suspended my schedule. It was weird to have an entire Saturday to myself.
I wondered if Austin was here. I hadn’t said much to him the past two weeks. I was mad for breaking up with Austin and for not knowing how to fix us. The darkness was still inside my head, even after Mom tried to pour some light in, using spells she found in the Bona Bonimenta from Aunt Christine’s library. It was so hard to fight the darkness, though I tried every night, when it crawled out from under the bed and into the gap between the doors to my closet, then flowed quietly along the floor and up the sides of my bed to reach for me.
Ocho and I closed our eyes and kept saying “Exo néaur!” That was the Old Language way to say “get out, darkness!” We failed. We had no magic to save us anymore.
I stopped to get a corndog and a cola. That stung, remembering rule number one between Austin and me: cola was our favorite soda. I wandered around looking at the booths. Lots of couples strolled around, their hands in each other’s back pockets. Straight, of course. I wondered why I came here. To feel miserable? Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Blair with her friends—the mean ones, the pretty, stuck-up blonde girls who were her clones. Her bodyguards, I guess.
“Elijah!!” She ran up to hug me and kiss me on the cheek. She would never accept that I was gay. “Let’s go on the spinner together.”
“I’ll puke all over you, Blair.”
She laughed, causing the iridescent-metal bangles on her wrists to chime fitfully. “Let’s go, lover boy,” she said, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me over to the spinner, which was flashing red, white, and blue neon lights. As I sat down, I wanted to puke, but I stopped myself. I shouldn’t have had a corndog before I rode the ride with her.
Soon, we were strapped into these seats, facing the rest of the people strapped in across from us.
“This is going to be so fun, babe!”
“I’ll puke on you, Blair.”
“You’d never do that to me; you’re beloved.”
“Blair, you’re crazy. You know that?”
“So, I’m told,” she said, adding, “Birds of a feather flock together, honey bunny.”
Afterward, she held my hand, parading around all proud. I wanted to break free of her, but for some reason, I couldn’t.
“Well, look who has a girlfriend?” I heard a familiar voice say behind me. I whirled around, spotting Dad with his wife, Florence, a chain-smoking woman with black , tightly curled poodle hair, small beady eyes, and a mole on her chin. He literally left Mom for this unattractive woman.
“Why are you here, Dad?” I asked.
Blair’s eyes grew big. “This is Mr. Delomary?”
“Smith,” I corrected her. “Mom changed my name back to her maiden name when they got divorced.”
Florence stood there blowing smoke toward me.
“Well, it is a great name,” Blair said. “Delomary, that is.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Dad said, staring at Blair—particularly at her chest. He was such a pig.
“I’m Blair Winchester. I’m sure you’ve heard of my family.”
“They built that university in the west side?”
Blair shot me a look. “Um, no, that was his family,” she said.
He shrugged. “Well, you are very pretty, young lady,” he said, and then he high-fived me. Or he high-fived me, but I didn’t reciprocate so he looked foolish, high-fiving the air.
Blair clutched my arm. “Your son is so amazing. We’re going to get married someday.”
“Well you let him sow his oats first.” Dad winked at me. I wanted to die.
“Oh, I will,” she said. “He can do whatever as long as he crawls into our wedding bed someday.”
Puxhàredo. Could I have messed up my life any further? I was spending a Saturday with Dad and Florence and Blair. I missed Austin. I was such a fool. My life could have changed, I could have changed. Made better decisions. I could have chosen Austin. Instead, I decided I needed to learn to be a man from my dad.
Stupid me. Stupid me.
Why did I do this to myself? Because maybe I didn’t know any other way to be. Just a boy with a brand, not my plan. Not my brand or plan—someone else’s idea of what my life should be. I guessed I would never change. That hurt.
Dad and Florence walked away from us and headed toward the booths selling deep-fried Snickers and kettle corn.
A band started playing “Stand by Me” from the stage set up near the Ferris wheel. I finally had the strength to let go of Blair’s hand and wandered over to watch the band.
“Come back when you’re done, babe,” she called to me.
“Blair, go hang out with your friends.”
“What do you mean?” she said, sounding mad.
“Accept I’m gay. Please.”
“Elijah!”
“Blair.” I turned around to face her. “Let this fantasy of us go. I’ll never love you.”
“Elijah…”
“Blair, accept me for who I am.”
“Have you?” she said sharply.
I winced. “Shit, Blair,” I responded.
She shrugged.
“Blair, please, for me,” I said. “Can you try to accept me?”
Blair’s eyes searched my face. Her blue eyes, the color of the ocean, softened.
“Oh, Elijah,” she said, reaching for my arm. Tears welled up in my eyes. Austin. I missed Austin.
“Elijah,” Blair said, rubbing my arm with her soft fingers. “Take care of yourself.” She smiled weakly and disappeared into the crowd. The band was playing “Boys Don’t Cry” by the Cure. The smell of popcorn, corndogs, and funnel cakes drifted through the air. I looked up, spotting Kevin and April on the Ferris wheel, lips locked, and glowing with this yellow light: love. They loved each other. For them it was easy: fall in love. Period. For me, it wasn’t easy due to who I was expected to be. Add to it my confusion over who I was, a boy turning into a man and conflicted over what that meant. Who was I?
Dad said that being a man was being logical, emotionless, not someone who loved. Mom said Dad’s idea of being a man was called toxic masculinity. A man, she explained, was being whomever I wanted. I chose what it meant to be a man. Dad said men didn’t love other men. Mom said Austin and I had true love. They were like those masks representing the theatre—comedy and tragedy. Which mask did I pick? I picked tragedy, because of course I did. I listened to stupid Dad and broke up with Austin because men didn’t date men. Jesus. Mom tried so hard to prevent this from happening, and yet I became exactly like Dad. A loser. And that really hurt. Because I was sixteen, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I should, because I was a Delomary. We were a family of problem solvers. Ha. Right. I was still a boy. I was becoming a man but I think I was regressing. I was just back to being only a boy. The only gay boy in the world without Austin. Like the lyrics to that tragic song they always played at Conglomo-Mart, when I was working, implored that if I failed I should remember I almost had it all. I almost had the most perfect boyfriend ever. I almost had love, and maybe Mom’s plan worked. I was exactly like her, not Dad. Unlucky in love. Dad didn’t want love; Mom lived to love. And when she lost love, she gave up on love. She let the darkness destroy the love in her. And so did I. I was, unmistakably, my mother’s son.
I stood around as the band played “With or Without You,” my heart breaking. I was without you, again. I had come full circle to the default of my life. Alone. The sun slipped below the Santa Monica Mountains in the west. Lights bloomed on the rides and booths. I wandered out to the parking lot and skated home. I found Sunny in the security office. “Can I borrow a car?”
“You driving somewhere?”
“To clear my mind.”
“You need an adult with you.”
“Just up into the hills.”
“Take the Prius.” Sunny tossed me the keys. “Drive safe, please.”
“Twenty miles an hour,” I said. “You know I’m scared to drive.”
Sunny smiled. “Good.”
I got into the Prius, started the engine, and turned on “Under the Bridge,” then left it on infinite replay on Spotify as the car followed the twists and turns of the narrow fire roads that ringed Homer’s Glen State Park. I made it to the Castaway Restaurant, stopping the car at the far end of the parking lot. I walked to the edge of the asphalt taking in the panorama of lights that sparkled in the grid of the Valley below.
Who was I? Who was I becoming? If only LA could tell me.
Eventually, I made my way home, left the car with security at the gatehouse, and walked to the mansion, which sat empty. Mom and Aunt Christine and George, the twins, and Barn had gone to a party with the Kangs. I wandered from one elaborately decorated room to another on the first floor, surveying the expensive chandeliers covered in sparkling Swarovski crystals, the expensive antique furniture and priceless art on the paneled walls, the thick imported rugs on the floor, the heavy silk drapes on the windows. Dirk had spared no expense to build Evangeline a palace of her own where they were king and queen. Outside, the world was dangerous and scary, but inside the walls of the mansion, a bubble of grandeur enveloped them and kept them safe. I had hated the mansion last summer. Now, I was comforted by being inside the bubble. I ended up laid out on my back on the white tile floor in the solarium. I stared up at the spreading boughs of the cinnamon, mango, and orange trees overhead. I watched the red and green parrots as they flew up toward the glass ceiling and called out, “Elijah, he’s a mess. Elijah, he’s a mess.”
“Don’t be mean!” I shouted up at them.
“Not being mean,” they retorted in their high-pitched voices. “Telling the truth.”
“I think you’re right,” I called back.
“You can fix it, fix it!” they replied and circled down from the ceiling, through the crown of the trees, then alighting on branches over me, their feathers now changed to blue and purple.
“How?” I asked.
The birds’ feathers then changed to pink and red. “Where the streets have no name!” they chanted.
“What?” I said, sitting up on my elbows.
“Tear down the walls that hold you inside, Elijah,” the parrots chirped, their feathers changing back to red and green.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
Before they could answer, Karina walked in from the glass doors leading to the family room. “Dinner is ready, Master Delomary.” I scrambled to my feet, following Karina to the kitchen, where I ate alone at the counter, while Mrs. Singh talked to the kitchen staff about tomorrow’s meals, and I watched cat videos on TikTok. What had the parrots meant about tearing down the walls?
*
I WOKE UP early the next morning and stared at the cherubs with their harps in one hand and garlands of fruit held up in their other chubby hands on the tray ceiling over my bed. They smiled down at me. They must have known I was better.
“Good Morning, Master Delomary!” The cherubs laughed and giggled. “We have a song to play for you!” They began strumming the melody to “Where the Streets Have No Name.”
“Did the parrots tell you to play that song?” I asked, sitting up in my bed and craning my neck as they danced around the edges of the ceiling.
“Our secret!” They laughed and giggled.
“Great, I don’t need secrets,” I complained. “Maybe you can take your harps and fly to Austin’s house and shoot him in the heart so he loves me.”
“You don’t need us to do that!” They laughed.
“I do,” I pleaded. “And to tell him I’m sorry and to forgive me and my struggles with my dad and my mom and plans and brands and being a loser.”
“Tear down the walls, Elijah!” the cherubs said one last time before falling silent on the ceiling, holding their garlands of fruits and harps, smiling down at me.
Sunlight streamed through the sheer white curtains covering the windows that looked out over the gardens. I glanced at the clock. 6:45 AM. I could lie in bed and feel miserable or get up and do something.
I showered and pulled on my blue T-shirt with the gold monogram and white shorts and running shoes and snuck down the back stairs. Mrs. Singh was barking orders at the kitchen staff. She reminded me of Gordon Ramsay from that old show Mom liked to watch to relax, called Hell’s Kitchen. Yelling and screaming and being dramatic. Only Mrs. Singh shouted to the kitchen staff in Cantonese, not English.
Mom had some big breakfast meeting with the board of the Delomary Corporation in an hour. I had heard Mom telling Aunt Christine, when they returned from the Kang’s house, that sales were flagging in our coffee division. Something about weather, a fungus. The board was mad at Mom. Some of our cousins wanted a change in leadership—oust Mom and put themselves in charge.
Aunt Christine had fumed. “Screw them all,” she said. “I can pull out my Malac Malactańena.”
“No Black Magic!” Mom said. “Look what a mess I created when I dabbled in the black arts.”
Christine had laughed. “Yeah, you certainly did mess up, Sis.” She softened. “How about I sit in? Back you up.”
“You’d do that?”
“I mean I only hate you half the time.” Christine had laughed. “We are sisters at the end of the day. Blood is thicker than water. Besides, no one can bad mouth you. That’s my job.”
“Thanks,” Mom said. “I think.”
Mrs. Singh shouted at me, tossing me a bottle of water and a bag with a BBQ pork roll and some grapes. “You look ready to get out of here, smart boy,” she said. “This kitchen is going to be crazy. Got to impress shareholders! Now, get out of here.”
Outside, I stared up at the Verdugo Mountains towering over the house and Burbank. With all the rain we’d had this year, the mountains were a deep shade of emerald green rather than the usual brown.
My phone vibrated. I desperately hoped it was Austin. Instead, Karla was texting to remind me I was going to be at the Teen Choice Awards. I was going to present something. Be the boy next door.
“I’ll be by around five to dress you. Be showered and ready,” Karla wrote, adding a clock emoji.
“Okay, see you then, Karla.” I tapped out quickly.
I turned on “Alive” by Pearl Jam on Spotify on my phone. The Santa Anas kicked up, causing the palm trees beside the mansion to bow and move back and forth. I stared up at the long, tall and thin beige trunks. How did they keep from snapping in two from the powerful force of the wind? I began jogging down the long driveway, out the side gates, and up Magnolia Boulevard to the entrance of Homer’s Glen State Park.
