Ask The Passengers

by A.S. King

When I signed up for trig, I certainly thought it would be more exciting than the deep study of triangles. Seriously. Triangles. That’s all it’s about.

Mom, I love you even though you are a critical, unforgiving horror show. This casserole sucks, but I like the way you roasted the walnuts.

Because it’s true. Kristina is exactly the opposite of what she seems, and that’s a perfect representation of Unity Valley.

Dad hadn’t discovered pot yet. He was a late bloomer, I guess.

But it feels good to love a thing and not expect anything back. It feels good to not get an argument or any pushiness or any rumors or any bullshit. It’s love without strings. It’s ideal.

I realize this is what trig sounds like to me: “Hgdj gehuoidah zdkgj szhdgouij fhhhf ldldfuhd. Ujfrekuhjd fhdy. Ksdihfh. 54 46 34 23. Iuhfg.”

Same

If we have anything, we have Holocaust deniers. We have neo-Nazis. We have the Ku Klux Klan. They leave invitations in our mailbox every few years with mints—individually packaged melty mints with the KKK symbol on the wrapper. It’s 2011 and we still have them.

Depressing when this still applies in 2018. Probably even more so now.

But the two-hundred-fifty-year-old walls and floors are thin, and we hear the fight from our bedrooms. All the usual stuff. She can’t have fun because Gerry is a loser. Gerry doesn’t understand her needs. Gerry can’t even hold a steady job. Gerry never listens. Gerry cares more about “your fucking stapler than your wife.” Gerry is the perfect example of “quitters never win” because he quit law school.

Dad, I love you for saying what you said at dinner. I know it was hard because Mom has chopped off your balls and baked them in a testes casserole, but thank you for trying. It means a lot.

So far in my life, Dee is the only person who wants to totally ravish me. I have to stop her all the time. I swear she’d do it right here in the walk-in freezer if she could. Right now. Before six AM. With morning breath. Next to a box of frozen taquitos.

I look at the message again and wonder how many moms text their daughters’ best friends behind their backs like this. I wonder why she uses text-speak. It irks me so much that I almost want to reply. Hi Mom. Y r u being so creepy n txting my frnd?

Creepy af

I know he’s nervous because Jeff is always nervous. He’s a leg shaker—you know, the bouncy kind that rattles entire rooms and makes you want to toss up your lunch?

Is this me

I LOOK AROUND THE DANCE FLOOR and see other people who are good dancers, and then I see myself in the mirror, and I see I am a nervous dancer. A barely dancing dancer. A robot. I don’t move anything below my waist. I look like I’m about to do a defensive drill during basketball gym class.

Biker Lady, I love you for talking to me right now. Time is moving so much faster because you’re talking, and I need that because I just discovered I am a robot.

“Are you getting graded for learning this stuff?” Mom asks. “Because I can’t see how this will help you get a job.” Ah, there’s the Claire that was missing half an hour ago. I missed you, Claire.

“Hold on. You’re not an androgynous bookworm?” she asks, and pulls out her phone. “Shit. I need to update my files.”

So, I just send my love up. Away from here because love shouldn’t hang around confusion like this. It deserves a full commitment.

Dad just eats. I can’t believe no one else can smell the pot wafting from his core. At this point, I think we could scrape off his epidermis and smoke it for a buzz.

Here are the stats from dinner: LEG SQUEEZES: 21 COMPLIMENTS ON HOW I LOOK, WHISPERED TOO CLOSE TO MY EAR: 6 USES OF THE TERM BRO WHEN CONVERSING WITH JUSTIN: 13 ASS PINCHES (WHEN I GOT UP TO GO TO THE LADIES’ ROOM): 2 FRANK SOCRATES SIGHTINGS: 0 MINUTES I FELT GUILTY FOR LYING: approximately all 110 of them

And I am pretty sure I’m gay. I mean, not just by default because I am in love with Dee, but I feel like these people are my people or something.

I ask the passengers: Are you shaking your heads with disappointment? Are you yelling shit or get off the pot from your reclining first-class seats patterned in neutral-colored propellers and airplane silhouettes? Are you sick of hearing me say it?

I can’t even send my love to her, she’s that bad. Claire, I am not sending any love to you because you are a horrible person right now. Who made you eat bitch for lunch? Who poured you a tall bitch beer float? Who sprinkled bacon bitch on your salad?

My brain says: Ellis, you’re a great kid, and at the moment you are perfect. Enjoy it while it lasts and know that I love you, even though you can’t be trusted. One day you will know the truth, and then we’ll talk.

It’s been two weeks since I dropped trig, and I’m still aware of it every minute of fourth-period study hall in the auditorium. I stare into space and picture those poor students still stuck up there in room 230, learning about triangles.

Life was so much easier being an honest nerd who didn’t do anything.

Maybe it’s okay that people talk you into things. Maybe if they didn’t, you’d never go anywhere.

Note to self: Not all gay people will be cool. Not all straight people will be not cool. When did you get so us-and-them, Astrid?

It almost makes me want to draw a pink triangle and then measure the angles and sides and figure out the functions.

Ms. Steck, I know you sat in that faculty room and heard every stupid rumor. I love you because this discussion is exactly what I needed.

Ellis, I love you even though you are a complete idiot. It doesn’t work. Ellis, I love you even though you are brainwashed. Nope. Still doesn’t work. Ellis, I’m sorry. I tried to love you, but right now I wish you weren’t my sister, either.

Last night, Mrs. Hall and one other parent showed up at the school board meeting and complained that the Unity Valley School District has a “homosexual agenda” and made calls for three teachers to resign.

One of the teachers is Ms. Steck. They say: She’s not married. You know what that means. Another is Mr. Williams because he kicked some kid out of class for denying the Holocaust. How this fits into the “homosexual agenda” is beyond me.

I’m so glad I have Frank. I kinda miss Kristina this week, but I also kinda don’t. Either way, Frank is filling the void. I mean, as much as he can, considering he’s dead and in my head.

I don’t love anyone right now. Not even me.

Poor guy. It must suck to get to thirty thousand feet and realize that your pilot is a control freak nutjob.

Is love something that will always be available? Will it always be confined and untrustworthy like it feels today? Is there enough to go around? Am I wasting mine on strangers?

Jeff, I love you. Not in that way, so don’t even try it. But I love you since you’ve been standing here talking to me like a normal person for more than a minute. I hope Karen totally lets you in her pants, okay?

and I figure out what confuses people so much about other people being gay. They think it’s all about sex.

NO wins, twelve votes to ten. Ms. Steck doesn’t say anything. She just leaves the results on the board above the ugly homophobic signs, and all I can think of is what she called us: Unity Valley’s best and brightest. And we’re three votes short of equality.

Everybody’s always looking for the person they’re better than. In fourth grade, it’s the second graders. In ninth grade, it’s the eighth graders. Adults look at teenagers like we’re the stupidest creatures on the planet, when really we’re just lining up to take their jobs in T-minus five years. I am equal to a baby and to a hundred-year-old lady. I am equal to an airline pilot and a car mechanic. I am equal to you. You are equal to me. It’s that universal. Except that it’s not.

He nods. “So what’s your philosophy on shrimp?” I stare at the small case of it. “Shrimp is good.” “That’s it?” “Or shrimp is bad,” I say. Jorge looks at me like I must be high.

The first noticeable sign of Tolerance Day: They moved the no place for hate sign from in front of the guidance office fourteen feet to a spot in front of the main office. Very exciting stuff.

You mean to tell me that it’s 2011 and this guy gets paid to have remedial talks with high school students about how they shouldn’t hate other people? Isn’t this elementary? Shouldn’t it be automatic? What kind of species are we if we have to have people come talk to us about this crap? And how, if we’re that stupid, did we get to the moon and help build a space station?

And then I remember that Ross and his dad don’t even believe in the Holocaust. I don’t care how many babies we could put on a stage—there is nothing that will change people like this.

Wearing a toga to school is totally boss. Given free roam of the school in order to pick fights with anyone who looks willing is also totally boss.

I mean, I’m usually Astrid Jones, pacifist poet type who doesn’t usually pick fights outside of correcting your grammar. But now I’m Astrid Jones, recently out lesbian who just got back from being suspended for saying the F-word several times right in front of the vice principal.

“You still love me?” “More than a pilot loves air traffic control, baby. You still love me?” “More than I love to nap after eating too much turkey.”