Chapter Text
“I’ll be right out, dad!”
My voice echoed through my room like the bass of a drum. I groaned, shifting out of my covers like I was a thief in the night and not a sixteen-year-old boy with a dentist appointment.
I fucking hate the dentist. It’s one of those things that seems mystical when you’re five and believe in the tooth fairy, but I’ve found everything starts to lose its magical appeal after a while.
I feel like a phoenix rising out of the ashes when I finally stand. Victorious, which I often am. I truly do hate to brag, but it’s part of my persona. It’s not like football is the most famous thing in San Francisco, but the star player is the star player.
Walking over to my mirror, I make a rather futile attempt to straighten my jumper. Its fleece knit itches my belly, but I pretend it doesn’t. It gives me the creepy-crawlies, sort of like Freddy Kreuger’s hands– but no one needs to know about that either.
I start to think about how many times Freddy trims his nails in a month. Maybe he doesn’t at all, to keep the scary effect. I bring my hands up to my face, inspecting my nails like I’m looking for a manicure. Trimmed to perfection. This is so gay.
Fuck.
“Logan!”
“I said I’m coming, Jesus!”
I look over at the clock on my wall. How has it been ten minutes already?
“Shit.”
I do get a little carried away sometimes. It’s nice to know there is a brain under that big hair of mine. I might be my biggest hater and fan, simultaneously.
I grab my shoes from under my shelf, yanking them on in record time. Taking a deep breath, I step out of my room and hobble down the stairs. The 5th one on the way down creaks with a melodic creeaak.
I love it.
“You take forever, kid.”
Dad walks over to me, smoothening my jumper over my shoulders in a way that makes me flinch. Fucking fleece. I force a smile.
Robert Shawinsky is a forty-two-year-old broker at some important company I don’t know the name of. He’s Jewish, five-foot-eleven, with a head full of brown fluff and a big nose. I love Robert.
I’d never admit this, but I’m so happy he’s my dad.
“I was thinking.”
Great rebuttal, Logan. I’m a fucking genius.
“About what?”
“Stupid shit. Don’t worry about it, Dad.”
For a second he looked like he might actually want to worry about it, but those thoughts seemed to dissipate because of whatever’s going on in that broker brain of his.
“If you say so.” He sighed.
“So.”
—
The dentists office smelt like toothpaste and metal.
The office was crowded, cluttered with kids of all ages, some even taller than me. I walked beside my dad with a profound sense of confidence.
I know who I am.
Dad tells me to sit while he goes up to the counter. I hate how he babies me sometimes. I think he still sees me as the five-year-old kid he rescued sometimes.
I almost flinch at the thought of being saved, but I keep my composure; it’s all I have at this point.
When I was five, Robert and Shannon fostered me after I got removed from my home. My biological dad, Emiliano Rodriguez was married to my biological mom, Monica Rodriguez. They got married two years before I was born at a really beautiful venue.
My mom was Swedish, but she’d grown up in Brooklyn for most of her life. My dad was a true Colombian, as strong as their coffee. He moved to the States when he was nineteen. He wanted to the American Dream.
I wonder if prison had been a part of his plan from the get-go.
I’m not sure when he started hitting her. Or me. When I try to think about it, it all comes out in Spanish.
I really shouldn’t think about it at all. I have parents now. Good ones. And a little sister, Donna Mae. She’s brunette and annoyingly cute.
I hope she never feels like the way I do.
“Logan! God, I’ve been saying your name for a minute now.”
I snap up, eyes focusing and distant. I did it again.
I hate myself sometimes.
My dad was standing over me, holding some pieces of paper I believe are documents I’m supposed to fill out but I’m sure he will.
He’s not mad. Robert Shawinsky doesn’t get mad. Maybe being a broker like, reset his brain or some shit.
I wouldn’t know. What do I know?
“Just replaying plays in my head. We’ve got the game against Mission High next week. Take a chill pill.”
If I’d been raised religious, I’d thank God for my quick replies.
“I’m chill. Chill as ice. Hell, I’m groovy. Just answer when I call you, okay.”
I really liked dad.
“Okay.” I mumbled.
“Great. Now let me fill out these forms, and they’ll call you right up.”
—
I fucking hate the dentist. I’m currently fidgeting on this weird contraption they call a bed, trying to find out if there’s any way to make it not itchy.
Spoiler alert: there isn’t.
“This is bogus,” I roll my eyes.
I could be at the library right now, head deep enough in a book no one would know it’s me. Not that people think I'm the type of guy who reads.
I’m not, really. I mean— I like maps. I really like maps. They’re represent the world we live in. That sounds obvious, but it’s not.
Like what if San Francisco wasn’t San Francisco?
It couldn’t be. Whoever named San Francisco knew it was this, not Orange County or Calabasas.
I want to know things that deeply.
The door opens. An old white guy with salt and pepper hair walks in. He has a long lab coat that drapes over his figure.
“You are Logan Shawinsky, correct?”
I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”
I have an urge to sit up straight and fix my hair and smooth over my scratchy jumper. I don’t do any of it. He walks over to me and starts adjusting random crap, changing the height of the bed/chair.
“My name is Dr. Nivens.”
I knew that already. It’s on his fucking coat.
My appointment drones on meaninglessly, proving to be a giant waste of my time. Perfect teeth, like always.
On the drive home I think about tomorrow. There’s school, obviously. I have a test in AP Biology, which I’m kind of excited for. I’m no where near being a dweeb, but I think biology’s cool. There’s practice for the big game on Friday.
Practice is… practice.
I love football, but Coach Jennings is a huge hard-ass. All the guys love me, but my homeboys are Randy and Steve. They play wide receiver. I’m QB.
I’ll probably have lunch with Lindsey tomorrow. We’ve been friends since like the seventh grade. Our friendships been smooth for years, but shit’s starting to change.
I think she has a crush on me.
Not that it would be a horrible thing. She’s super smart, and pretty, and rad. We’re both blonde and both our names start with an L.
I’m not sure what about that scares me.
—
It’s a family routine to watch the news before dinner. I think it’s stupid and a Godawful way to ruin the mood before some of mom’s spaghetti, but Donna Mae doesn’t seem to mind.
She’s in my lap on the floor and I’m brushing her hair. She loves when I brush it.
“Here we are today on September 5th, 1984, this is CBS Evening News with Dan Rather. Ronald Reagan is currently leading in approval ratings for the upcoming election. It’s seeming like we’ll have another four years Republican. Let’s see how things are going in Reagan’s home state, California.
In San Francisco, the AIDS crisis is at an all time high right now, with an estimation of almost 30 deaths just last month. It really calls into question whether it’s even medically safe to be gay right now.”
I didn’t need to hear the rest.
I’m not gay.
I love Lindsey, she’s one of my best friends. I just feel pity for the people who are sick right now, that’s all. I’m emphatic. And I’m normal.
I’m normal.