Page 53 of Jacob Michaels is Dead

“You’ve been stayin’ away from the house from sun up to sun down the last few days.” Oma teased over her shoulder. “To me, that spells out that you’re sweet on some girl.”

I shrugged, though Oma couldn’t see it, as I sat at the table.

“You just gon’ be quiet about it?” Oma chuckled to herself. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a fifteen-year-old boy catchin’ sweet on a girl. All y’all go through it. Bunch of hormonal idiots just waiting for a chance to smooch…and do other things…with some willing girl.”

My cheeks were red, and I was staring down at the table. Oma talking to me about the birds and the bees—such as it was—was bad enough. The fact that I didn’t have a thing for any of the girls at school was another. Oma turned to me, her eyes locking onto mine.

“You’re going to be a heartbreaker, Robbie,” She sighed. “I mean, hell…just look atcha. Now that you’re growing into yourself. You make sure you’re bein’ a gentleman until they tell you it’s okay to act otherwise. Don’t you let me hear a single word about you treatin’ a girl wrong.”

“You won’t, Oma,” I mumbled.

“Good.”

She turned back to the stove.

“I don’t have any crushes on any girls anyway.” I found myself practically whispering.

“Well, that’s okay, too.” Oma nodded to herself. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ a late bloomer. Or never bloomin’ at all. Keep you out of trouble as long as we can.”

Oma laughed. I didn’t.

There’s a time in every young person’s life where they decide the person they want to be with their parents—or their parental figure. Do they want to show their most authentic self and risk that it won’t be good enough…or do they try on a persona so that they don’t have to find out if the person they truly are is good enough to be loved? My teenage self chose the former.

“There’s a boy I like, though.” I felt the truth slide from my mouth.

The “skritch-skritch” of the spoon in the skillet stopped, and Oma seemed to freeze at the stove. My teenage heart palpitated within my chest as I waited for whatever was to come to…come. Thick, heavy silence grew between us in the kitchen as bacon sizzled in the other skillet, creating a soundtrack comprised of delicious sounds and smells. Just when I thought that I might scream out just to break the tension, the “skritch-skritch” of the spoon in the skillet started up again. Oma let the spoon rest against the side of the skillet and turned to me again, her hands on her hips once more.

“You know they got one them ‘LGBT’ centers over in Toledo?”

I shook my head nervously.

“Well, they do.” She nodded. “I been thinkin’ about goin’ over there to volunteer while you was in school all week long. Help the boys and girls out. I guess that’s just what I’ll do.”

Then she turned back to the stove and started stirring the gravy again. I allowed myself to give a wary smile.

“Maybe you can go with me?” She suggested gently.

“Maybe…”

“Who’s this boy?” Oma didn’t let my hesitance overtake the conversation. “Do I know him? I should. I know everybody around here. Better not be one them Kelly boys. Ugly, Irish assholes.”

“Are you ever going to be nice to them?” I teased. “Besides, they’re all a lot older than me, Oma.”

“I’ll sit up in my coffin to spit at them if they show up at the funeral.” Oma waggled her head as she cooked. “Who’s the boy, damnit?”

“Luc-Lucas Barkley?” I stammered, suddenly very nervous.

Oma turned to me again, the spoon in her hand dripping gravy onto the floor. She didn’t notice.

“That Jackson Barkley’s grandson?” She asked quickly. “The one who plays football?”

I nodded jerkily.

Oma cackled and then noticed the gravy on the floor.

“Shit.” She admonished herself before retrieving a paper towel to clean up the mess she had made.

Oma bent down to wipe up the gravy.